#right in front of my cereal? (filled with tears).

[mielmoto]

so when do yall pay reparations to the innocent bystanders of the emotional WAR being waged out here

[fingertipsmp3]

What in Christ am I even going to wear to work. Like.

[pedge-page]

Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife #10 : Snack Time

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Momma bird hungry for all the snacks in the world. Takes some time and frustration before Joel figures out the exact kind of snack you really want.

Warnings: Pregnant reader, Angry!Joel, oral M!receiving, face fucking, throat bulge, throat-pie, dumbification, junk food binge, eating meat, bossy reader as always

18+ ONLY

- - - -

Joel didn’t know he married the Hungry Hungry Hippo, Galactus the planet devourer, Garfield the tabby cat.

You’re on your phone texting while cuddling Joel. He’s more interested in the movie than you are, but that doesn’t stop him from tracing his finger along your arm, occasionally kissing the top of your head and nuzzling his nose. He loves the scent of your shampoo after a wash, damp and cold against his warm chest. Sometimes you protest how closely he wants to cuddle you, all smushed up on the couch. Your body temp skyrocketed with the baby changing everything. But since he’s keep the AC on full blast, your warm heavy body keeps him from being a popsicle.

The landlines chimes in from the kitchen.

He rolls his eyes. Of course, something to interrupt the comfort that took 40 minutes for you to settle into. "I'll get it,” He grumbles quickly and hoists himself up off the couch. He wants to make whoever the fuck is calling at such a late hour a quick convo. If it’s fucking Tommy needing bailed out again, he thinks begrudgingly, I’ll just hang up on him. 

He clears his throat and answers: “Hello, Miller Residents.”

"Can you get me a bowl of Cap'n crunch while you're up?"

He glances back over at you sitting up on the couch, your cell to your ear as you wave at him. you point to your belly mouthing I T S  F O R  T H E  B A B Y.

It’s for the baby, my ass. You’ve been a hungry hungry hippo who’s been snacking like crazy and ignoring the doctor’s warnings. 

But cranky Momma is way worse than a scolding doctor. 

He grits his teeth and slams the receiver a little too hard down on the desk.

You can hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, a clash of a bowl on the counter  and the jingle of overly processed cereal filling it up. 

He walks back into the living room. You’ve taken up the whole couch now, with no inclination to move over to let him back on.

You shove a fist into the bowl and pop a bunch of the crunchy orange squares into your mouth “f’anks” you mumble, eyes not once making contact with him as you stare ahead and much away. Crumbs fall onto your chest and down to the floor and sofa, as if Joel hadn’t just cleaned all of it this morning.

.

The next night, Joel's cooking some steaks. You weren’t really a meat-crazed person, having maybe one or two helpings of poultry or occasionally red beef a week, but normally ,you could go without it for a few meals without thinking about it. 

Pregnant momma? She was a fucking carnivore. He had barely set the sizzling steak down before you snatch one onto your plate. He turns around to slice into one, checking its temp before serving, only to see it was a bit too red and bloodied on the inside.

"Oh babe I gotta cook these a little longer; they're too rare--"

You were hacking away and tearing a large chunks of the red, near pulsing meat, juices pouring out your lips, a vampire gorged on a fat blood sucking meal. Despite its tenderness, you chew endlessly and stare off into the table like a Llama enjoying its food on the field. 

"Maybe...we should—slow down a bit,” he suggests with uncertainty. His fork and knife frozen in midair, still in each hand. He hasn’t shifted view or blinked, but clear worry (and maybe a tad bit of fear) stretch across his face.

"Uighgrrfmggmmdeeofxsw,” you reply with gargled cow remains sloshing in your wide open trap. 

 “Right. That."

You swallow what’s left. Joel’s does a double take: your steak is somehow gone, juice licked clean off the plate in front of you.

“Can I have yours???"

He had only sliced 4 cuts  for himself so far. But the hungry look in your pupils, licking your lips while watching his dinner, it’s clear you’ve answered for him. He sadly sets his cutlery down and slides his plate to you. 

Its even more interesting when you douse it in salt and throw a slab of butter on top of it, watching it melt before slicing a big chunk off.

"You gotta watch the salt intake—“

“—Can you make chicken? I want chicken now.”

“N-no,” he shakes his head, whiplash from the conversation. Maybe you’ve gone def AND blind AND lost your taste buds. “I made steak. You've had 2 steaks now. Why do you need chicken?”

“That second one was for the baby. The chicken is for me.”

“What about the fist one?”

“….We split that.”

“Awfully hungry baby,” he says with a dead tone, straight faced as he eats the one roll left in the basket that hasn’t been devoured by you. 

“Well she’s yours, isn’t she?” 

-

You wipe your face with a napkin, a fried chicken leg and wing now securely packed tight in your tum tum along with the famished baby.

"What's for dessert?" You chime eagerly.

Joel turns to wash the dishes, hiding his smirk. He’s got you now, no surprise cravings will catch him short on this one: He boasts proudly, “I bought you apple pie--"

"I want cupcakes. Whip cream icing. Chocolate.”

His grin quickly deflates into a frown. “No.” He says sternly, a little aggravated. “I bought you pie—“

"Did I say I want pie? L I S T E N,” you snap, slapping your palms together with each syllable. 

He puts his foot down with tense sudsy hands going to his hips. “No. I'm not going out again.”

You raise your eyebrows threateningly. One look.

30 minutes later Joel is shuffling into the house with a pack of 12 cupcakes he bought at the bakery.

-

You’ve managed to prop yourself up on the couch after some heaving. “Ha! The baby is making me workout get strong! Obviously that’s why I’m so hungry.” You shrug it off. “Oh! I want raw cookie dough.”

Joel was on his phone the entire time, but the second you said I want, his brain queued in and he quickly retorts, “No.”

He goes back to replaying the voicemail he missed, settled and focused on the opposite couch.

Of course he Doesn't realize you’ve somehow lumbered up past him and now waddling back with 4 chunks of raw cookies in your hand, popping them in your mouth one at a time.

His eyes dark up to watch you, transfixed on the screen as you bend your knees, hardly paying attention to the way you’re about to fall on the couch. He has half the mind to help, but what’s one lesson you need to learn the hard way?

Regretfully, you bounce down successfully and pull your legs up.

And then, as you dust your hands off from the chocolate stains melted on your palms, Joel’s lips part in a o as you reach behind you and pulling an entire gallon container of animal crackers. 

"Babe"

"Wha?” You don’t turn around to look at him, still shoveling them into your mouth. “Yuu wan wan?"

"You need to stop eating every damn thing in the house.”

You gasp incredulously, your hand over your heart in painful offense. “The baby is very hungry! She's related to you and that belly.”

He only remembers to stop himself from reminding you that your belly is much bigger than his now. 

"The baby—“ (that was the new thing now: the baby  this baby that. The baby is why I need this shirt in blue and green. The baby is why I need the ice cream layered horizontally not stacked vertically. The baby —)

"No. Not the baby,” he snaps. “You."

You start to cry. "I thought I AM your baby!!!" 

He gives you a “seriously” look and you stop the fake tears.

“So how about it?”

“I don’t want you getting salmonella.”

“ugh fine. You can bake them I guess.”

He’s about to protest the idea of any dough going into your body, cooked or raw, but knows its going to be a lost cause.

Joel makes you a platter of Assorted cookies: chocolate chip, fudge, triple chocolate, sugar, and oatmeal raisin.

You clap your hands as he carefully places the little plate atop your bump. Humored by the custom “mini” table you’ve got going on now. Maybe his baby doesn’t like her head being used as a countertop, but with the way you close your eyes and moan after biting into the chocolate chip, babygirl must be pleased too.

He goes to the bathroom quickly and then comes back only to glare down at you. You've taken exactly one bite out of every single cookie, leaving crescent shapes for him to scathe.

Every cookie, except oatmeal raisin. You clearly did take a bite ,but spit it out and put the lump back near the undesirable #1 cookie.

“These mine?” Joel asks bemused.

You nod happily. You felt very proud to have enough control and leave him some this time! 

-

It’s about 9:30 pm. You're acting drunk and woozy even tho you're just a new level of tired and achy

"Woopppoooooo!!! Paaartttaaayyy!" You shout with fists in the air, drinking down a shot glass of sugar water. 

“Alright party Momma. It’s bedtime.” 

"Ppfffttt! No old man! Dont steal my fun.”

Joel stands over the couch, blocking your view from the TV, his hands on his hips. “You're being difficult "

“YoU’rE bEiNg DifFicUlT,” you mock and wave him off. "Oop I need to pee. Help me up.”

Joel” grabs both your grabby hands and hoists you up to your feet. “Now up the stairs, you.”

You waddle towards the stairwell, one hand cupping your lower back. Joel is right at your heel. you up at the treaturous journey ahead, all 8 steps to the top floor. Cracking your neck side to side, you wave your arms over to the handrail and begin: “Left foot. Right foot. Left. Fuck. Fuck stairs. Who invented stairs. Left foot…”

Joel’s so sleepy that he nearly falls forward. And he knows you would not take too kindly to him ramming his face into your ass as you battle your worst enemy.

Finally to the top, you scurry over like a penguin to the bathroom. He fears the long night ahead, with all the sugar swirling in your system undoubtedly going to keep him up.

He rubs his wears eyes. Startled when a moment later you’re right next to him by your side of the bed, patiently waiting for him to help you up.

"Get in the covers,” he hums with exhaustion.

But you don’t move. “No"

"Now.”

"I want an orange.”

"No. You—you just had your snack."

"That was the baby's snack. I want MY snack”.

Dear Christ almighty, bless me with a boy next time so that I have a fighting chance against her and mini her. “If I get you an orange, will you go to bed?" He asks irritably, his voice enunciating each word to ensure the contract that he’s making with you right now is solidified on both ends of the bargain.

You think it over before nodding with a little innocent beam. 

You crawl into the covers just as Joel descends the stairs once again. It takes the entire time for him to grab some oranges, a peeler, and paper towel just for you to rotate your middle and sit your ass in bed.

You sit up against the headboard and clap your hands, so excited when he reappears with the goods. He puts the towel on your mini-table bump and plops one orange atop.

Joel sighs and begins to walk towards his side of the bed, but is haunted when you clear your throat for his attention.

“Yes?”

"Peel it.”

He tries not to visibly roll his eyes before he's opening the round orange with his large fingers and clubbed nails. Everything smells like nectarine now.

Picky as can be, you peel off the extra dried white veiny bits and suck on each pod of the orange.

You expect a sweet simpleness to squirt on your tongue, but instead, a sour, bitter, unripe taste floods your mouth. “Ugh these are gross, now I want—“

Joel closes his wardrobe drawer, his shirt off and only halfway down to his boxers. “NO. NO means fucking NO. I’M TIRED. YOU’RE TIRED. WE'RE GOING TO BED. NOW,” he barks sternly into the mirror. His shoulders huffing from such aggression without being able to look at you.

You throw the covers off, orange skin and slices flying everywhere.

“Fuck you! I want ice cream! I want bananas and steak and potatoes and tacos and—!" 

-

He bares his teeth in a snarl, deep angered eyes casting downward with each poignant rut. “You're so annoying, so goddamn spoiled,” he grunts. His huge hands are wrapped around the top of your head and  cupping your jaw and bulging cheek, keeping you in place as he pushes his length into your mouth over and over again. “You’re gonna do shit when I tell you, the first time I say—shit—fuck there we go—gonna listen—unnggghhfff—listen ta me from now on. Just be my good little silent. Slutty. Pregnant. Wife.”

Your teary eyes are fixed upward at his imposing figure. Feeling each time his tip nudges the back of your throat has you gagging but you can’t pull away to breathe—not that you want to.

“You get—what I give ya—and you be grateful bout it.”

You gargle a moan in agreement. His balls slap against your chin with brutal punches. by this time tomorrow, there will be Joel-finger prints bruising your face and neck.

You love it. You love it when Joel forces you out of the hormonal phase of bossing him around, the endless need to want more and more, no end in sight to your greedy gluttonous desires, until he’s blowing up and blowing off steam using you instead. And it becomes very clear to you how much you just really wanted him this whole time. 

“That’s it—that’s it—you were hungry for my cock weren’t ya? Yeahhhh. Just begging me all night for it. Wanted all that meat for dinner, huh? Couldn’t just come out n’ say it? Your little brain didn’t know what ya truly needed. S’okay, Momma. I’m takin’ care of ya, aren’t I?”

The gluglugglug sounds mixed with strained pitchy whines echo in the master bedroom.

You grip his thighs with your hands to steady yourself, allowing him to abuse your throat. Maybe your knees hurt. Maybe the baby is settling uncomfortably against your lower back, and maybe it’s going to be really difficult to get up from this position in a few minutes. But each thick throb of his length filling your mouth over and over again, the spit slick strings dropping from your lips to your swollen tits, and the dent in your throat from his cock stretching to accomodate his size has your swollen pussy dripping into the carpet for more, more, more. 

It’s been at least a week since Joel drained himself. No wonder he’s been so on edge with each demand. Usually marveling how cute you are, but tonight he was at him limit. You were about to get a hefty, Joel Miller sized load filling your belly, and it’s going to be better than any cookie, steak, or orange in the entire world.

He feels the way your lips suction tighter. Your eyes are leaking tears, and he smirks as he brushes his thumb over to collect it. Briefly bringing it to his tongue and sucking on the salty taste before holding your head in place. 

“Shhh-shhhhhhhh. You gonna take it? Shit—shit—fuck yeah you are. Gonna fuckin take what I give ya, that’s right. My sweet wife. Bossing me around. Shit. Love when ya get like this. Known I’m gonna wreck that ass or that pussy or that mouth—all belongs to me. Fuck—fuck—fuuckk—“

His mouth drops into an o, brows drawn tightly together as slams his pulsing member balls deep into your mouth one final time. You choke, eyes wide as the tip of his cock breaches the deepest part of your throat, your nose suffocated by his pubic hairs and the fat of his lower belly surrounding your cheeks. His balls twitch against your lower lip, and you feel it coming. The travel of his seed from his sack, up his shaft along your tongue—a generous spurt of cum finally shooting from his tip and down your throat. You gag with each fat load that he pumps down your esophagus, too much to swallow at once yet having no other choice but to gulp it down quickly. Your face feels hot. He’s cumming endlessly, your mind blanking and eyes feeling blurry.

“Take it, take it, take it, that’s it,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

You nod just a little, hugging your arms around his thick thighs tighter. He grins, humming “That’s my good fucking wife, and throws his head as the last of his pleasure makes its way safely from his sated balls to your full womb.

Joel pulls you off his length gently. You sputter out cum and saliva onto his feet, sucking in air through your lungs like a newborn. 

Joel gets to one knee, his thumb pressed gently under your chin so you look directly at him. He’s got such softness in his eyes again, the ones that just switch on a dime the second he’s satisfied his aggress out on you. 

You’re completely wrecked: snot spit connecting to your nostrils and swollen lips, cheeks warm and eyes puffy and hazy with exhaustion and tears.

“That—mmffffgg!—was—definitely—my—snack,” you rasp with a hoarse voice. A lazy grin spread across your face only briefly as you continue to suck air.

Joel shakes his head before planting a long kiss atop your forehead. his hands glide along your body, and just in time as your knees give way and you’re falling into him. 

If you had half the mind right now, you’d curse him out for scooping you up and carrying you to bed like his once youthful bride, too concerned with the size and weight of your new body putting unnecessary stress on his aging knees and back. But Joel doesn’t protest once. Just watches you with loving eyes as he settles you into the soft bed. His tongue dips to your chest and breasts, kissing and sucking away any remnants of his rough face fucking. His cum, your spit, and fuvk it, even the little snot specks—all of it he cleans up before coming up to your lips. He kisses you softly with gentle pecks, enough to ensure you can still catch your breath. He sucks your lower lip into your mouth before wiping his own with his thumb. You’re calmer now, sated and drifting so close to sleep.

Joel clambers into bed next to you, wrapping his arm under your head and swaddling you close. You instinctively roll into his embrace. Kissing his peck and rubbing your face against him dreamily with soft breaths. “Tha hit ther spert juss rite. Ur da bess, Jol.”

“I know. So are you.” He waits for a reply, but nothing comes from you. “Are you goin’ into a food coma, baby?”

Your gentle snores answer him, along with the drool now pooling on his peck.

He chuckles and pulls your head into his face, inhaling your scent. Strong, secure, graceful hands caress your big belly. Your very very full belly, the one that he’s not going to envy when it gives you a the tummy ache tomorrow from stuffing it with so much junk food tonight. 

- - - -

Taglist:

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop

[aalixsturns]

Why are u staring?

Chris Sturniolo sat at the kitchen table, twirling a pencil between his fingers, pretending to focus on a puzzle book that lay open in front of him. But his attention kept drifting toward you—his girlfriend, who was in the kitchen making dinner. The soft clatter of pans and the sound of your humming filled the room, and Chris found himself smiling stupidly, unable to tear his gaze away from you.

You were effortlessly moving around, focused on your task, completely unaware of how he was looking at you like you were the center of his universe. The smell of sautéing onions and garlic filled the air, but to Chris, nothing compared to the warmth you brought just by being there.

You turned around, catching his stare, and raised an eyebrow. “What?” you asked with a playful smirk. “You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes.”

Chris blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… nothing,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Just… you’re cute.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly as you went back to chopping vegetables. “You’re a dork.”

Chris chuckled, leaning back in his chair, watching you in comfortable silence for a moment longer. “What are you making, anyway?”

“Your favorite,” you replied without looking up, your tone casual but full of affection. “Spaghetti carbonara. Figured it’s been a while since I made it.”

Chris’s heart swelled at the simple gesture. It wasn’t just the meal; it was how you always seemed to know exactly what would make him happy. “You’re seriously the best, you know that?” he said, his voice soft now, sincerity clear in his words.

You looked over your shoulder, smiling warmly at him. “Well, someone’s gotta take care of you, Christopher. You’d probably just live off cereal and microwave dinners if I wasn’t around.”

He laughed, a full, genuine sound that filled the kitchen. “Hey, don’t underestimate cereal! It’s versatile.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you finished up and wiped your hands on a towel. Walking over to him, you leaned down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yeah, well, I prefer seeing you eat something that isn’t just sugar and milk.”

Chris reached for your hand, catching it in his and pulling you closer so he could look up at you with that goofy grin that always melted your heart. “You know I’d be totally lost without you, right?”

You pretended to think about it for a moment, lips quirking up. “Yeah, I’m aware. But I’m okay with that.”

He laughed again, standing up and pulling you into a hug, resting his chin on your head as you both stood there, wrapped up in each other. For a moment, the world outside the kitchen faded away, and it was just the two of you, comfortable and content in the warmth of your little bubble.

Chris pulled back slightly, looking down at you with that familiar, lovestruck expression that made your heart skip a beat every time. “I love you, you know,” he said softly, his voice almost shy despite how many times he’d said those words before.

You smiled up at him, reaching up to brush a piece of hair from his face. “I love you too, Christopher.”

And as he kissed you softly, the smell of dinner forgotten for the moment, he couldn’t help but think that this—these little moments with you—were all he really needed.

It's my first story ahhhh!!!

Tags: @sophand4n4 @daysonend @chrisbabymomma

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[6:33 am]

(cw: parents!au, pregnant reader, "mommy" reader)

Jungwoo swears he can hear someone trying to wake him up, albeit quietly. He doesn’t hear anything for a minute and decided to nestle further into the warm sheets and fluffy pillows. Not even a minute later he feels something wet hit his cheek, then hit it again, and then, “Daddy.”

He blinks an eye open, flinching at the brightness of the dawn just creeping in. He catches sight of his daughter standing right in front of him, how he missed her face inches away from his own. She smiles all too brightly for the neon green time glowing on his night stand. She holds her pacifier in one hand, the obvious culprit for the wet feeling on his cheek. Now he had even more incentive to get rid of that damn pacifier. “My love, why are you awake?” He mumbles out, running a hand over her tangled bed head.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” she tells him.

He shushes her gently, “My love, it’s not breakfast time yet.”

She juts out her bottom lip as she lays her head beside Jungwoo’s, “Daddy, please. I’ll be quiet.”

Jungwoo sighs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and sits up. Knowing his daughter she won’t give up on this, she gets her food or she continues begging until all three- well, four- of you are awake. “Let’s go,” he tells her before he slowly slips out of bed, careful to not wake you up. You had been up late with the very toddler padding along behind Jungwoo with her blanket dragging along.

He sets her on the counter and places his hands on his hips, “Cereal?” She shakes her head, he tries again, “eggs?”

She shakes her head once more before she pulls the pacifier from her mouth, “Pancakes!”

“Baby, it’s too early for pancakes. Do you want some rice?” Jungwoo offers instead.

Your daughter pulls out the big moves, she pouts her lips and throws on her puppy dog eyes that are quickly filling with tears. Crocodile tears, Jungwoo knows, but he’s so weak to her. He curses internally, she must have inherited this look from you. He can recall countless times you pulled the very same look to get what you wanted and he fell for it every time. Now he was seeing the very same look and falling under the same spell.

He curses internally, then sighs with a finger pointed at her, “We have to be quiet.”

Her tears dry immediately as she nods fervently with a big smile. He pulled out the pancake mix and got to work. He mixed the batter, handing it off to your daughter as he turned to heat the pan. He poured the batter into the pan, quieting down his daughters excited giggles and kicks against the cabinets.

When the pancakes were all served up and cooled down, he carries his daughter to her high chair and straps her in. Her little plate of cut up pancakes was drizzled with syrup as she thanked Jungwoo and placed a wet kiss on his cheek as she tore into the food in front of her. Jungwoo couldn’t fight the amazed chuckle as he watched her eat. His daughter always ate like she was starving, which could not be further from the truth what with her protruding little belly and consistent second servings at every meal.

He slowly ate one of his own pancakes, feeling the tiredness of being up so early finally hit him again. He gets up and starts making coffee, keeping an eye on the toddler who hasn’t slowed down despite his many warnings for her to do so.

He just begins pouring himself a cup of coffee when he feels a hand on his back, “Smells good in here. Pancakes, this early?”

He pulls you into a hug, placing a hand on your barely there baby bump while he places a kiss on your temple, “Your daughter has resorted to violence when she’s hungry.”

You snort out a laugh before turning your playful glare to your daughter, “You little monster! Did you wake Daddy up for pancakes?” She laughs as you barrage her chubby cheeks with kisses in your cupped hands, “Did you hit Daddy this morning?” She shakes her head so you try again, this time she nods. You begin telling her that hitting people is not nice and explain other ways to wake Jungwoo up, “like this, you take your finger and you poke him right here!” His daughter’s laughs ring out again as you tickle her midsection as well as you can with the limited space in the high chair.

“Good morning Mama,” his daughter smiles, puckering her lips to place a big, wet kiss on your cheek. A very different wetness on your cheek compared to what Jungwoo got earlier which has him grumbling under his breath.

“Good morning my love, wanna say good morning to the baby?” You ask her after giving her her own kiss. She nods fervently again, much like the nod she gave Jungwoo earlier. You stand and pull your T-shirt over your belly and let the toddler whisper, though it’s really not a whisper, and kiss your belly as a greeting to her sibling.

A plate of pancakes slides in front of you, Jungwoo places a kiss on the crown of your head, “For Mommy and baby.”

[concretevampire]

Building Holes

Part One

mike schmidt x afab!reader ☆ 8.9k ☆ no use of y/n and no reader description ☆ meeting for the first time; people being humans; adult themes; no serious warnings

A/N: I’ve been a FNAF and Josh Hutcherson fan since I was in middle school so this feels necessary. updates for this story will be (mostly) regular. English is not my first language.

You can see the panic in his eyes before he probably even thinks about it.

You don’t know him. Of course you don’t, he’s just a guy who happened to be standing in front of you at the check-out line.

But you feel bad. Really bad.

The cashier: they look disgruntled. Annoyed too. You can hardly blame them though– crying children irritate people– but you can’t help but be irked. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously trying his best.

And what can you really do when something like this happens?

Some glittery, pink, thingamajig was right in the little girl’s line of sight and kids don’t like the word “no”. It didn’t help that he barely glanced at her when he told her off mundanely; quietly, eyes trained on the scan of item after item.

So, she’s throwing a fit. A torrential, hysterical, fit.

She can’t be older than nine, you think. And him, maybe a college student. An odd pair, but the world is filled with those. They’re so human it almost hurts; a gasp for air, a vase that’s older than you are; autumn leaves on concrete, the curve of a dandelion.

He’s processed his panic now, going pale as he spins to look between the girl and the cashier. Bag the groceries or calm her down?

The cashier looks more exasperated than anything else now. Impatience billows like drying laundry in their chest, wafting dew toward you.

A particularly pitiful sound shrieks from the girl and the thought that you want to go home enters your mind. It’s selfish, especially as you watch this guy bend down onto one knee, his thumbs wiping away the tears that muck the girl’s cheeks; muttering apologies and gentle pleas to quiet.

The fluorescent lighting of the store deepens the shadows underneath his eyes.

You decide then that your groceries aren’t really an emergency but the only thing you’ve got in the fridge is pickles and frozen pizza. You could make do but you don't want to.

“Do you want me to bag your groceries for you?” You ask, side-stepping past your cart and to The Guy, who’s precariously offering hushed solutions to the girl’s self-imposed grief.

He looks up; between you, his girl, the cashier, then the box of cereal on the counter that sits soundly.

Blue and unbothered.

Back to you. His eyes shine so brightly, you find yourself convinced he’s on the verge of tears. That’s just how he looks, you realize. Dark, dark eyes– condors and tarmac– and the twinkle of artificial light in them.

He nods weakly. “If you don’t mind.”

You shrug and walk past him, to the end of the cash register.

There’s Chef Boyardee, Donettes, Yummy Dino Buddies; they all get bagged– one by one– together. The Guy comes to stand next to you, now holding his girl; her ruddy, sobbing face tucked warmly into the crook of his neck. She’s clinging to his OMSI: Pacific Marine Camps t-shirt, snot getting on the printed Spicebush Swallowtail.

His dark eyes follow your hands as you set aside the eggs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you’re barely halfway done. He’s earnest about it though; gaze on your jaw as one of his warm palms rubs firm circles into the girl’s back.

You shake your head half-heartedly. “It’s okay,” you tell him.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I offered.”

He goes quiet, glancing towards the cashier a couple of times nervously. “Most people wouldn’t.”

“I dunno,” you set the eggs on top of the Donettes and whip open a new bag to place milk and Kraft Mac n’ Cheese in. “Stuff like this happens all the time.”

The little girl’s sobs have receded into hiccups and sniffles, still crying, but quiet.

The cashier picks at their nails.

When you finish bagging The Guy’s groceries, you give him a smile. Something that you hope is reassuring. Warm: the apple cider you had a week ago bubbling up on your cheeks.

Then, you return to your cart and the cashier begins scanning your items.

The Guy lingers.

A minute later he’s offering to pay for your groceries.

“You’re acting like you’re in debt,” you tease with a bewildered smile, borderline grimace.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

When you exit, he follows; pushing his cart with one hand, holding the girl up with the other. She’s not crying anymore.

The pair follow as you step over a mess of expired coupons that have been trodden into a fine paste over the parking lot’s concrete. Baby wipes: two for one.

“You’ve gotta let me repay you,” he implores.

You shrug a shoulder.

He opens and closes his mouth, struggling to find the right words. And there probably aren’t any, but you can’t tell him that. That’s something he’s gotta figure out on his own. You throw the back of your car open and shove groceries in.

He watches quietly.

“Thank you,” he then says, stubbornly. Like you’re a tornado; flightless fog and feathered ozone, a nightmare, something so earnestly destructive.

He has no clue how to approach it. You.

You turn to him fully, the air turning more yellow between the two of you as the evening deepens. The sun, a molten yolk melting and dipping into the bread of the Earth’s foundation.

He’s handsome— strong arms, broad shoulders, sharp jaw— and entirely constructed by hard-headed exhaustion.

Awfully young to be taking care of a girl like that, you think, but shit happens.

Shit always happens.

You close the trunk of your car.

“Good luck,” you tell The Guy, waving softly.

He’s quiet but he begins to step away, and the girl finally looks up– still clutching onto his shirt. Her dark, dark eyes glue stickily to yours: a gooey, feathered, glittery, arts n’ crafts project.

You smile at her, something you hope is reassuring. She sniffles.

“Thanks,” he says, moving further away, “you too.”

•---------•

“Happy Birthday.” You present the manilla folder lazily to David. He raises a brow.

“Those aren’t the divorce papers, are they?”

“Um,” you bring the folder back to your chest– an evil, rectangular teddy bear– and flip it open, “‘Complaint for Divorce’ in parentheses, ‘No Children’,” you look back at him. “I dunno, could be.”

He groans and reorganizes the staplers on his desk that have already been neatly placed at the corner. Twenty-degree angles on top of ninety-degree angles. All aligned in minimalist, careful, simplicity.

Perfect.

“I’m glad someone’s getting some amusement out of my divorce,” David groans, flipping drawers open and closed. Looking for something imaginary, something that will keep him busy. An object that will be an excuse in the future for his own failures.

“Our divorce,” you plea sarcastically, “You’re not gonna be my brother-in-law any more.” As if it ever mattered.

“Why are you here anyway?” He asks, finally straightening. One of his thick brows raises. “And not her assistant?”

“She wanted the personal touch.” You joke, setting the folder down on his desk. It feels incriminating when you hold it yourself as if you’re the one holding the gun up to their marriage, pulling the trigger. David eyes the folder warily. He reaches a skinny hand out, flipping through the papers tentatively.

His tendons swing and swell like frantic waves under his tan skin.

“I guess one nice thing about marrying a lawyer is that paperwork’s never a problem,” he mutters.

“And there are copies.”

“Oh, joy!” He exclaims, but then slumps in his chair, temples balanced in his palms. He’s awfully small like this. Crumpled at his desk. His blue and green argyle tie, a ruined knot at his neck. Gray suit, a poor stitch of used paper towels surrounding his frame.

Something about seeing a man so weak feels sacrilegous. Feels like a taunt. Feels like God is sitting on your shoulder and giggling.

It doesn’t help that his desk is so pristine. Neat where David is fucked. A nameplate sits perfectly in the center: DAVID CASTILLO VICE PRINCIPAL, it screams, confident.

“I should go,” you say when he doesn’t twitch from his hunched position for sixty seconds.

He nods, then shakes his head, then pinches the bridge of his nose as if a spider’s unfurled its legs in the cave of it. “No,” he starts, “No, um,” he glances at the divorce papers and looks away just as quickly. There’s a picture of him and your sister hanging on the wall to his left. He stares at the frame. “How about I take you out to dinner? Or something?”

“Sure,” you shrug.

“Okay.” David inhales deeply.

It’s quiet. A clock on his wall ticks, again and again, impending itself into your skin and his soul. “Do you want me to wait outside?” You ask, pointing a thumb at the door.

“Please,” he mutters.

The school is empty. The ‘Welcome Back to School!’ display is still up in the lobby, even though it’s mid-September and a chill is starting to ghost the air every few days. A janitor scoops up a leaking trash bag, throws it over his shoulder, and rolls the bin into the hallway.

You stroll past a wall absolutely littered with papers; drawings hung up like samara fruit in waxy colors. Lots of suns with smiley faces and brown, pea-bodied dogs. Theres a family of rainbow turtles and a wonky drawing of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. You recognize a dragon and a field of camels too. It’s endearing.

David wanted kids. Your sister didn’t.

That’s not the reason they’re getting a divorce but it’s one of those little microcosms that sums up why.

One little minute passed but it changed the hour. Changed the day too, maybe. Or the week. The month. For all you know, even the year. That’s what happened with them.

Just one minute. That’s all it takes.

You expect the cafeteria to be empty like everything else but it isn’t. There’s a woman sitting near the entrance with barrel hips and kinky, salt-and-pepper hair that's clipped back viciously in a bun. She smells warm, like peaches and laundry detergent; shea butter too.

A spice you only dream about.

The woman looks up at you from her book– something by Toni Morrison– and her brown and pink lips purse at you.

For a second she looks mean, but her hands seem so soft; so, so soft; the color of warm, brown egg shells. Her nails are lacquered in a hazy shade of lavender that reminds you of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the taste of milk with honey.

Sweet potato pie.

“Are you here for Abby Schmidt?” She asks, her voice low and smooth like the afterthought of a lullaby. Her eyes then turn to a girl sitting at one of the cafeteria tables. She sits alone, her dark hair hanging in rivulets around her ears and jaw, and she scribbles mindlessly with crayons on paper.

“No,” you tell her, adjusting your messenger bag a little. “I was just dropping something off for Mr. Castillo.”

The woman closes her book. Her eyebrows are thin. Neat stitches arched above wrinkles. “Are you a friend of David’s?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay,” she relents and opens her book again. You smile fractionally and nod, even though she doesn’t see.

Your footsteps echo against the linoleum as you walk deeper into the heart of the cafeteria. The girl doesn’t look up from her work, even as you approach, and you find yourself standing behind her. You’re looking over her shoulder at her art, arms clasped behind your back.

“I like your drawing,” you utter. The girl— Abby— turns to look up at you. Her eyes stick to yours.

“Thank you,” she says, trading a green crayon for a pink one. Then she looks back up, assessing you like you’re a division problem she hasn’t quite learned yet. “I like your jacket.” She settles.

“Thanks,” you say genuinely, shifting on your feet, “Can I sit with you?”

Abby nods and scoots over as you join her. She keeps coloring. Your eyes scan her drawing some more.

Two scribbled figures. Both with dark hair, and dark eyes, and smiles. One is taller than the other, and you can tell that the shorter one is herself: she’s wearing the red overalls in her drawing. The taller figure sports a green sweater— deep green.

Evergreens, ferns; huckleberries falling off the branch.

“Is that your dad?” You ask, hand waving towards the taller figure. She shakes her head.

“That’s Mike. He’s my brother.”

You nod. “Is that who you’re waiting for?”

“Mhm. But he’ll be here soon.” She checks the little purple watch on her wrist like she’s the president of the United States. “He’s usually late.” She turns to you. “Are you waiting for someone too?”

You guess you are. “Yeah.”

“Are they late?”

You shrug. “Sorta.”

Abby then narrows her eyes at your face. “I know you,” she says resolutely.

“Do you?” You ask, propping your head up with a palm as you rest your elbow on the cafeteria table.

“Yeah. You’re that lady who helped Mike at the grocery store.”

Your brows twitch upward, an interested leer wide on your lips. Abby looks suddenly familiar. Dark, dark eyes and fluorescents catching on them.

You’re surprised she remembers that at all; not only because it happened back during the tail-end of July, but because she was sobbing through the whole situation. She only saw your face for a solid five seconds and still recognized you as That Lady.

Smart girl.

“Yeah, that was me.”

She assesses you again; but more like a bird on a tree. “I’m Abby.”

“Nice to meet you, Abby.” You introduce yourself too. She beams and turns back to coloring. You watch and then ask, “Can I draw with you?” and Abby is quick to shove a paper and brown crayon in your hand.

She seems very pleased about the development.

Ten minutes later she’s frowning at your purple cow-dog-unicorn-thing and shaking her head. “I don’t think it looks like a cow.”

You look down at your work with her.

“Maybe if you squint? It’s abstract.” You narrow your eyes and bite the flesh of your cheek, doing what you think the high masters did when they made shit too.

She tries a squint and then frowns harder. “No.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe it’s my own animal.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Hmm. Wanna help me think of one?”

“Umm,” Abby tilts her head this way and that, the curls of her hair springing as she does. “I can’t think of anything.”

Before you can reply with something funny, someone runs into the cafeteria, panting. It’s The Guy. Mike. Her brother.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harris, I-“

The woman ignores him, flipping another page in her book. He sighs and swallows, turning towards Abby. Then he looks flatly at you.

Abby stares– unwavering– as he walks over, hands crossed neatly over one another on the table. Mike takes her scrutiny like it’s orange juice with pulp while glancing strangely between her face and yours.

“Mike,” she starts. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, I know, um,” he looks vaguely towards you. This feels like a routine and it feels like you're breaking it.

Abby introduces you. “This is the nice lady from the grocery store.” She supplies. His eyes widen momentarily, suddenly putting all the pieces of the past and the present together, a jigsaw falling into place. His eyes trace the slant of your nose, the curve of your eyes; linger on the pocket above your lips and the eve of your jaw.

Mike clears his throat and straightens his back. “I didn’t know you worked here?”

“I don’t,” you say, and look at your purple abomination. “A family member does.”

Mike nods and momentarily loses interest, walking around the table and grabbing Abby’s backpack. He slings it across his shoulder. It’s phenomenally tiny on his sback and you realize just how small Abby is. And the little pack is so bright against him too; shining in reds, and yellows, and deep blue cerulean against the gray-green of his jacket.

Abby stands, gathers her drawings (yours too), and grabs Mike’s hand when he offers it. There are bandaids on his thumb and pointer finger, bruises like nightshade crawling from underneath the torn brown.

But Abby doesn’t look away from you when Mike makes it for the exit. She makes an annoyed, high-pitched sound from the back of her throat and glues her eyes to yours desperately.

He stops, head knocking back to stare at the ceiling tiredly, before dropping to look at her. “What’s wrong?” He asks her gently.

“Wanna go to Sparky’s with us?” Abby asks you, with no regard towards Mike. Like he’s an imaginary presence. His eyes go wide though, catching the light like moths as he stares tight-lipped and in utter horror at the back of Abby’s head.

And then he comes to terms with it, frowning between you and her.

“Um,” you start, then scoot closer to Abby in your seat. Your eyes level with hers. “I think that’s something you need to ask Mike about,” you settle gently, hoping its the right thing to say.

She whips her head to look up at him. “Can they go to Sparky’s with us?”

Mike clears his throat; shifts his stance like it’ll suddenly root the words into his mind; adjusts the strap of Abby’s bag on his shoulder.

“Maybe later,” he decides.

“When?”

“Abby. C’mon.”

“When, Mike?”

You rise from your seat. “Are you free Friday?” You ask him, head tilting. He purses his lips at you, jaw working, and then seemingly gives up.

“After four, yeah.”

“Great. Me too.”

“Okay.”

“Friday at five then?” You beam down at Abby. “Sparky’s right?” Back at Mike. “That’s on 65th and Jefferson?”

“Yeah. Sure, sounds good.” He says, but you don’t believe him. He’s got this barely-there wince on his face like there’s a nail in his shoe.

He’s sorry, you realize. Sorry about Abby; sorry that he’s supposedly forced you into this. You shake your head at him with an easy smile.

It’s okay. But he doesn’t believe you either.

You feel like he’s the type of person who’s always on his own page. Not because he wants to be but because he’s worried that other people can’t read between the lines. Can’t look deeper, past the words and into the real meat of it all.

Or maybe Mike’s more comfortable ripping the book apart than letting anybody settle down into it with him.

He leaves.

Abby waves at you, a flutter of little fingers as she walks out the door too, trailing behind Mike.

David shows up five minutes later.

His tie is situated perfectly around his neck; firm and rigid into the confines of his freshly buttoned suit. He smiles at Mrs. Harris and she asks him how he is. David says he’s fine. You wish he didn’t have to lie but he waves you over like his life is a dream and you accept that this is the reality he wants. And that you’re, in some way, a part of it.

Dinner with him is a blur. The week is a blur.

On Friday, you almost forget that you’ve committed to go to Sparky’s but one of your coworkers mentions how her daughter has a ballet recital; and you’re suddenly reminded of Abby.

Reminded of the fact that there’s now apparently a child in your life that is affected by your actions.

You think for a moment to talk about Abby but remember suddenly that you don’t really know a thing about her. You don’t know whether she prefers apple juice or orange juice: what her favorite cartoon is: or if she’s still using kid’s toothpaste.

Abby’s not your kid or your little sister, and that fact doesn’t change even if you think she’s cute and funny.

You wonder what she’s drawn today.

Maybe she’ll show you. You think about how small she is and if her little eyes will stare into yours, hop-scotching across the strange adult sadness you can’t seem to shake off on warm, overcast days like today.

You drown out thoughts with the radio while you drive to Sparky’s.

It’s a hard place to miss.

It’s just outside the center of town, and the flat-topped building sits under a large neon sign that says “SPAKY’S GIL & DINR” because the owner can’t really afford to fix the letters that don’t light up anymore. The smiling, cartoon dog– Sparky— doesn’t light up anymore either.

He’s got bird shit on his left eye.

You’re five minutes early when you open the glass door to the diner. A bell tinkles, signaling your arrival.

Mike and Abby have already situated themselves in one of the gray laminate booths. They sit on one side together. Abby’s got her head down, already scribbling at a paper with a green, broken crayon. Mike’s looking out the window, an arm across the back of the booth behind her. Calm, reserved.

A little, yellow teddy bear is propped up between them.

Mike only turns your way when you sit down across from him. Abby looks up from her drawing immediately, her head jolting up. Her grin is palpable, like strawberry shortcake, when you say hi.

“You came!” She exclaims, grip tightening on the crayon. It might snap.

You smile. “Of course I did. I said I would, didn’t I?”

Abby nods and returns to drawing; her arm moving twice as fast as it was before you came.

Mike makes eye contact with you. His eyes then drop to linger on the collar of your shirt, reading the hem like an instruction manual, before raising again.

You’re not sure what he learned from the stitching.

Something by The Doors is droning on the speaker; fuzzy, blurry, like fog. Jim Morrison moans out “Let it roll, baby, roll~” and your foot taps along.

“Did you just get back from work?” You ask him, shrugging your jacket off.

“Yep.”

“What do you do?”

“Construction.” Something you could’ve guessed, judging by the Carhartt pants and steel-toed boots.

“Nice,” you say, authentically.

He nods, then says, “How about you?” like the words are gumming to his teeth.

“Boring stuff,” you wave Mike off and watch Abby trade for a blue crayon. She’s humming along to the music. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face and turn your head back to sit eye-to-eye. He raises a quizzical brow. “Seriously,” you implore.

“You don’t have a job,” He says simply. He’s not really bothered by the notion that you’re unemployed.

“I do,” you huff, “I just,” so you tell him about it. He looks tired while you talk, occasionally eyeing the ketchup and continuously rereading the label while actively pretending not to. But he’s an honest, good sport about it; at the very least trying to seem interested. Mike nods in all the right places, giving “yeahs” and “mhms” when he should.

In the middle of your drone, the waitress comes.

She’s fifty-something, with chalky eyeliner bleeding under her eyes; her ginger-dyed hair is pulled back in an impressively messy beehive. You easily imagine royal honey dripping from the split ends. She smells like stevia and tobacco. The name tag on her chest says “Susie”.

Susie blinks at you warmly and tiredly. “What can I get for you?”

Mike orders first, orders for Abby– who barely flinches at the mention of her name– and then you order.

Susie leaves without writing any of it down.

Mike turns back to you, tense. “You don’t mind paying for yourself, right?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you joke, but he doesn’t really smile. Abby suddenly looks up from her art and leans in your direction, a little valence electron swarming into a new orbital. Her small shoulder pushes into Mike’s bicep. He stills her with a soft look like he wants to pillow her in peach fuzz and call it a night.

“Do you like your job?” She asks, sitting up on her knees. The hand Mike has resting on the booth moves to fix her sweater to her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch.

You shrug a little. “It’s okay.”

She seems troubled. “Why do grown-ups never like their jobs?”

You stifle a laugh but shake your head. “I’m not sure about that. There are a lot of grown-ups who like their jobs.”

“I don’t know any.”

You glance at Mike.

He’s wincing at her words– scratching at the skin behind his ear– looking properly embarrassed. They’re a funny pair; like pickle relish and peanut butter. Weird fishes swimming and circling together because they have nowhere else to go. They know this routine; know the angle of each other’s currents.

“There are,” you assure her. Your eyes drift toward the drawing she abandoned. “What do you wanna be when you’re grown-up?”

She shrugs and tells you “I dunno,” like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “This boy, Jesse, in my class, he wants to be an astronaut.”

“Do you want to be an astronaut?”

“Sure. Space is cool. And the moon is pretty.” Abby looks towards the ceiling as if it’ll break apart and reveal Mars.

Your fingers reach tentatively for her art and when she doesn’t protest, you take it fully. You hold her work up with two hands in front of your face like a mask. “You don’t wanna be an artist?” You ask with a sly smile, peeking around the drawing. She shrugs again and Mike rubs her back a little.

You face the paper.

It’s a grassy scene; blue sky, yellow sun wearing sunglasses. Five figures are the subject; Abby in the middle and then two other children on each side of her. On her left; a redhead boy with a hook for a hand and another boy in a top hat. On her right; a blonde girl in a pink dress and finally, a boy in blue with bunny ears.

You put down the paper to look at Abby. Her eyes are wide, expectant. Mike’s are the same.

“Are these your friends?”

“Yes!” Abby exclaims and leans on the table to look at you closer. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” you grin, pleased.

Mike shifts awkwardly. “Imaginary,” he clarifies. “Imaginary friends.”

You give him a private, amused smile. He relaxes a little.

Abby hands you a blank paper. “You should draw your friends.”

You obey, picking up a crayon, starting with yourself. Mike watches you carefully, eyes on your hands, sometimes trailing the curve of your eyebrows and the fall of your lashes.

“You’re good,” he says as Abby hands you a pink crayon– which you take dutifully. You draw a flower while sending him a wry smile, shaking your head. “I’m serious,” he implores, but you can hear the joke behind it.

“Sure.”

Then you finish coloring your jeans in and lean back to think.

Friends. You could draw your sister. But she’s not a friend. She’s your sister, and a lawyer, and a now ex-wife, but she’s not a friend.

David isn’t a friend either.

Dinner with him was quiet and he’d broke down into tears (again) by the end of it. You paid for the bill out of pity. You think that’s probably the last time you’re ever going to see him.

The waitress drops your food off as you start to outline the shape of red overalls.

Abby chews deftly on her chicken nuggets and leans into Mike’s shoulder while he dips his burger into a heaping pool of ketchup: the two of them eye your drawing together. You’re reminded of this photo you saw once in a Nat Geo magazine of two dark-eyed owls burrowed together.

You bite a smile.

When you’re done coloring a green sweater, you straighten and pop a self-satisfied fry into your mouth.

Abby wipes her hands off with a napkin that Mike hands her and takes your drawing. She gasps when she sees. Mike’s brows raise and you reflexively hope he doesn’t hate it.

“It’s us!” Abby says excitedly, vibrating with joy. You take a bite of your food and nod. She turns to Mike, huffing, and very seriously tells, “This is for the fridge.”

And finally, Mike smiles, almost snorting. But all he does is nod and say “Sure is,” between his bite

“You even drew my overalls.”

“I did,” you say. “They’re totally cute.”

“I like the flowers you drew around us.”

“Pretty, right?”

Abby looks so happy you could scream.

By the time both Mike and you are done with your food, her eyes haven’t left the drawing. And you must be doing something right because at some point Mike smiles at you.

Quietly. Mostly unseen.

Mike is comfortably out of your reach but he flutters in and out of your grasp fleetingly; a moth seeking light, heat, maybe something more. When he lands, you don’t close your fingers; only hang your palm open and let him decide if he wants to stay.

Maybe you are on the same page but you’re not sure if he knows it.

When the check comes Mike suddenly offers to pay. You refuse, waving him off and sticking your card in with his.

Susie comes to pick it up and then returns five seconds later, wishing you a nice day. You walk out of the diner as one big group– Mike holding the door open for you and Abby– and you find yourselves stuck under neon signs.

Mike looks at Abby carefully. “Can you wait in the car for a second?” He asks. She looks immediately offended, wanting to say no.

He looks exhausted.

Abby glares at him, then looks sadly at you before walking away and clambering into the back seat of his Honda Accord.

You turn to Mike and he turns to you when the door slams shut.

“Thank you,” he says immediately like he’s been holding it in his lungs the entire time.

“It’s nothing.”

“No,” he urges, “seriously. Abby, she,” he glances at the car, “she has a really hard time with people. Shit, I have a hard time with her too and I’m her brother.” Mike takes a deep breath. “She really likes you.”

You’re quiet for a second, letting the shadow in your eyes escape and mingle with his. “I get it.” You tell him. “Kids are…” you scuff your shoe against the pavement, “hard. Big emotions, little bodies, ya know?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He exhales. “You’re good with her.”

“I was a weird kid too.” You tell Mike with a grin.

Something like a smile is offered as he shakes his head. “You, uh,” he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and glues his eyes to the ground. “You wouldn’t mind meeting up again?”

You take a deep breath. This is a lot.

You should say, “Yes, I do mind,” but honestly, you really don’t. You’re not bothered by their company. You like both of them. Mike’s got something sad about him though; constantly in the eye of a storm, waiting for the hazard to hit again. And Abby’s Abby: sweet.

“It’s just, she doesn’t really,, click. But she did with you. And I know she’s gonna wanna see you again.” He elaborates.

“Sure,” you breathe, blinking. “Do you want my phone number or something?”

Mike nods. “Yeah, that’d be good.” He gives you his phone and sniffs when you enter your digits and hand it back.

You step away, steeping yourself deeper into the night. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he nods and turns to his car. Abby rolls the window down, thin arms circling quickly, and peaks her head out.

“Bye!” She calls desperately as the engine starts. She probably thinks she’ll never see you again.

“Later, alligator!” You call back, waving.

She grins toothily and Mike asks her to roll the window up as they pull slowly out of the parking lot.

•---------•

Mike doesn’t contact you for the next two weeks. You expect it.

By the third week, you’ve settled that he’s realized just how odd this situation is and won’t call you ever. Something like disappointment aches awfully in your chest but you brush it off as a human reaction to the departure of warm summer evenings.

October is right around the corner and you’re starting to feel it.

The days are getting crisper; dirt turning to mud, dew on the grass, leaves turning orange. There’s also a bug going around at work and you’re not spared of its spread.

You wake up one morning with a scratch in your throat, an ache in your head, and a clog in your left nostril. You’re not really that sick; after a cup of coffee, you feel better. But your psyche still feels like it’s made from popsicle sticks and cotton balls.

You take it to the pharmacy before work.

There’s Nyquil and a row of untouched Dayquil next to it. Concentrated Tylenol and Cepacol. Zyrtec and Claritin. Dimetapp. You take the Aspirin and Nyquil and shlump towards the counter.

Mike is there, looking casually fatigued in front of the check-out counter, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” you say, the inflection of a question in your voice; the hesitance that maybe Mike wants to be ignored. Remain unseen. Unperceived. He jolts a little at your greeting and doesn’t relax when he turns to face you.

“Hey,” he says back. He takes a glance at your hand. “Sick?”

“Just a runny nose.”

He nods, takes a nervous look towards the empty counter, and then scratches at the growing stubble on his jaw.

“How ‘bout you?” You ask.

His eyes won’t meet yours. “Just some medication.”

You nod and look slowly toward the rack of non-prescription reading glasses. There’s a glittery, red pair at the very top– so small they could probably fit in the palm of your hand. “How’s Abby?”

Mike relents a little, shoulders going from concrete to rubble. “She’s doing alright. She asks about you sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, that drawing you did? She loves it.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s a quiet spell– the two of you looking in your own directions– and when the pharmacist finally shows up, paper bag in hand, Mike nabs it and leaves.

Then you step forward to pay, a polite smile on your lips, eyes flicking to your watch to take a mental note that you need to get to work soon.

Mike’s waiting for you outside the pharmacy; awkward and dark against the white overcast. It’s foggy this morning. You don’t know how he isn’t cold, only wearing a pair of jeans and a Foo-Fighters t-shirt that’s a little tight around the arms and chest. That makes you swallow.

You slow to a stop in front of him.

“I was gonna call you,” he sighs. “I got busy.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you wanna,” he raises a hand, then drops it uselessly, “do something with Abby soon?”

“Sure.”

“She’s got a half-day on Wednesday. We could take her to the park?”

It’s a good plan. You don’t know why he sounds so unsure. “Get her outside before it gets too cold to?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing a little easier.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Mike straightens his back a degree. “You know Marylheights Park? It’s close to the school.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Is one okay? Or are you working?” He suddenly realizes.

You shake your head. “I can come by on my lunch break.”

“Alright. Great. See you there.”

You smile, nod, step away a little, and then leave– abandoning Mike under the eave of the pharmacy.

True to your word, you show up at one o’clock in the afternoon at Marylheights Park. Mike and Abby are already there– he’s sitting on a bench, wearing a flimsy black hoodie and she’s bundled up in a pink and red jacket, a beanie knitted in a cacophony of colors on her head.

She runs over when she sees you, a heap of colors on the breeze, a smile bright on her face.

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” She exclaims, tripping a little on the bark-chip. You see Mike twitch and then falter when she catches herself.

“You okay?” You ask, reaching a hand out for support if she needs it. She grabs your fingers, tight, as she leads you toward the playground. There’s a couple of other kids with their parents playing too.

“Do you like my hat?” She asks, stopping in front of you to show off.

“I love it.”

“Mike made it for me.”

You glance at him. He’s slouched lazily on the bench, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Really?”

“Mhm.” She dawdles around you, skipping and humming as she climbs the monkey bars. “I saw a turtle today.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was really cute.” She hangs off one of the bars, letting herself swing back and forth. “Lauren brought it for show-and-tell today.”

“What did you bring for show-and-tell?” You ask, leaning against a post with your arms crossed.

“My friend.”

“Your friend?”

“He’s in my backpack right now.”

You nod like it makes perfect sense. “When I did show-and-tell I brought my big sister.” It’s not true but it's funny to think about.

Abby looks at you wide-eyed and a flock of Canadian Geese honk above you; black and white, obnoxious angels. “You can do that?”

“Duh.”

Abby drops from the bar and stares at you. “You’re lying to me.”

You grin. “Maybeeee.”

She rolls her eyes the same way that people do it on TV and suddenly walks away when she sees a round of Lava Monster is starting up. It’s a weird, convoluted game you used to play all the time. You’re suddenly upset that you forgot the rules; as if it didn’t used to be one of your favorite things in the whole world.

You sigh and meander over to Mike, sitting next to him.

Your eyes stay on Abby as she toddles along the play-structure in the middle, unsteadier than you like. Mike hands you a brown, paper bag wordlessly. You raise a brow and take it.

Inside is a white-bread sandwich in a ziploc bag, a juice box, and a folded note.

“What-”

Mike cuts you off. “You came on your lunch break.” You raise your head to look him in the eye. He’s so hard to read sometimes. ”Hope you like turkey and cheese.”

You beam, flushing between joy and embarrassment, and grab the juice box. There’s a cool guy surfing on it. “Thanks,” you say, stabbing the straw into the top. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs and turns to watch Abby. She clambers across the slides to avoid being tagged. Some of the other kids yelp and scream wordlessly.

“I owed it to you,” he breathes, his words turning to a puff of vapor in front of his nose.

The two of you split the sandwich in half and you don’t miss the way Mike watches you pick at the crust. When you eat it anyway you hear him puff a sharp exhale of laughter through his nose, shaking his head.

The game filters out and Abby makes her way to the swings, shoes toeing the ground as she sits.

Your fingers lift the note from the bag when you finish eating— unfolding to find a small, crayon drawing, no bigger than your hand.

A purple cow, better than yours, and actually tangible as a cow. Impressive.

“Abby did that,” Mike says, chewing. “She said you need it.”

You close your eyes, amused and overjoyed. Your fingers fold the little piece of paper back up and place it carefully in your bag, in a place you know it won’t be ruined. “God, she’s so sweet,” you huff, hand clenching. You’re not sure what to do with yourself.

You feel like husked corn; chipping paint in a parking lot. Like the curl of peeled apple skin.

“She has her moments,” Mike says gently, almost smiling.

Abby starts spinning herself on the swing, twisting and knotting the chains together and then letting them unravel to leave her in spirals. He frowns at that.

“Abby,” he calls, fixing his slouch on the bench, “quit it! You’ll make yourself sick!”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He grunts. She grins at you and waves. You wave back. She goes back to swinging normally; progressively higher and higher. Another kid ambles over to join her wordlessly.

Mike frowns and shakes his head, first at Abby, then at you. “I’m starting to think she likes you more than me.”

You snort at him. “I’m an adult who isn’t an authority figure in her life.”

“Still.”

“She adores you.” You tell him. You don’t really know either of them well enough to say that but you’re sure of it. You’re sure of it not only because you said it but because Abby’s a sweet, smart kid. She’s got her problems but she’s generally well-behaved. More importantly, she seems happy.

Unbothered, by whatever situation she and Mike are in. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing pretty good.

And maybe she doesn’t look at Mike like he hung the stars but she certainly treats him like it. The thing about kids is that they’re brutally honest:

If she didn't like Mike, you’d know.

He stares at you for a second longer than you’d expect him to and turns back to watch her.

The two of you stay like that for a while. Side by side. Almost shoulder to shoulder. Abby sometimes comes over to take a break, or ask what you thought of her drawing, or tell Mike what she wants for dinner. It’s peaceful. Quiet.

Okay.

Some parents leave. Some new parents show up. The two of you stay.

At some point, you glance down at your watch and panic floods your synapses.

“Shit,” you mutter, standing up. Mike raises a brow. “I’m really sorry but I’ve gotta get back now. I’m gonna be late and-“

“Don’t worry.” He tells you easily, fixing his posture so he isn’t slouched under your eye. You smile apologetically. Abby runs over from the slides, panting, her wide eyes expectant on yours.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to get to work now.”

“But you’ll come back right?”

You bend down to her level, fix the hat on her head so that it sits evenly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Okay.” She sighs, seemingly relieved, but the trace shadows of upset are still visible in the gleam of her eyes.

“Have fun with Mike?” You tell her, rising. You linger despite yourself.

“Later alligator?” She asks like a wet mutt as you start the walk to your car.

“In a while crocodile.”

You wave and she waves back. Mike keeps his eyes trained on you, raising a hand too. Your smile widens.

•---------•

Your older sister is the prettier, smarter, more put-together version of you. The version of you that you pretend to be.

She doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t smile, and you can’t tell if it’s because she genuinely can’t feel joy or is afraid of getting wrinkles. You’re sure it’s a mix of both. She lives in this big, minimalist penthouse suite that you’ve only been in twice; her heels have red bottoms. She has avocado toast for most her meals and the hoops on her ears are real gold.

In short summary; your sister has got it good. You’re pretty sure she’s miserable.

She tells her assistant, Christa, to get her a coffee and Chrsita offers to get you one too with a sweet smile. You want to say “Yes,” but she looks awfully close to having a mental breakdown. You tell Christa, “No, thanks,” smiling gently back.

When she leaves, you turn and stare at your sister’s pursed lips.

You drove into the city for once and your sister could only make time for you to come and sit in one of the stiff chairs she has placed in front of her cocobolo desk; the chairs for clients. You look around her office.

It’s neater than David’s and ten times bigger.

Vast and white. A tundra of dreams scotch-taped together.

“You were almost late.” She says, annoyed, eyes stuck to the papers in front of her.

“Sorry, I had to get cough drops at the pharmacy.”

“You’re sick?”

“Just a sore throat.”

You lean forward to poke her cheek. She squawks and slaps your hand away, scandalized and disgusted.

“That’s disgusting!”

You laugh and she steels you with a hard glare, a scoff caught in the back of her throat. “I do wash my hands,” you tell her.

She shakes her head and drums her perfectly manicured French tips against the heavy table. You tuck your own hands under your thighs. You like her nails; you want yours to look like hers but they’re inconvenient for people like you. Real people, with real lives and realistic, boring jobs.

But it's nice to look at them, especially on your sister.

“Heard from David?” She asks as if she isn’t divorcing him. Like he’s a houseplant that you’re taking care of while she takes a quick business trip.

New York. London. Shanghai. Amsterdam. Seoul. You’ve seen the photos.

“Nope.” You bite your lip and Christa comes with the coffee. A cappuccino that she places in front of your sister. Black. Tiny, little cup. Christa gives you a dazzling smile that has you grinning back at her fully, like an indulged schoolgirl. And then she’s gone; clicking off to document review in her little black heels.

Your sister glares at that.

You look her over.

Look at the way she’s curled her lashes and glossed her lips. Her shirt is buttoned straight– stiff and crisp around her neck. There’s a little permanent divot between her eyebrows and the white light of the office washes her out.

“You look tired,” you say flatly, a fairly normal thing to say to a woman who’s a criminal lawyer for an inner-city law firm.

She barely looks at you. “Thanks.”

And then it’s her turn to look you over. You’re sure she doesn’t like what she sees. She rarely does. “Have you been eating?”

“Of course I have.”

She stares for a moment longer before saying, “Just checking.”

Someone knocks on the door and peaks their head in– a young man with dark hair. Bright hazel eyes. She glares at him wordlessly and he makes eye contact with you before shutting the door quickly. You watch her scoff and then carefully pick up a pen before signing the papers gently; like hemlock and hummingbirds.

Your sister. Elegant.

You tilt your head.

She starts. “So, any luck-“

“Oh, can we please go five minutes-“

“I was going to ask-“

“-without talking about-“

“-about your job!”

“-things I know you don’t care about!” You stare at her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. We won’t talk about it.

You smile. “I like your shirt.”

“Fuck off.” She flips open a stack of papers with a fit of impressive anger, scribbling something hotly in the margins.

You know she doesn’t hate you but sometimes you have to wonder.

She’s mean and a bitch; but she constantly worries— and she worries more about you than anyone else. More than she ever worried about David. Which says quite a bit about what the two of you have done and put up with for one another.

Your sister: less of a counterpart, more of a weird black shadow of a half-twin. Not the moon and the sun; but a tree and the ferns that grow underneath.

Your sister stares at her cooling cup of coffee and looks into your eyes like they’re blurry. “Do you need money?”

Her solution to everything. A pretty good one, you won’t lie. “No.” You say quickly, waving her off.

“So everything’s good then?”

“Yeah. Good. It’s all good.”

She raises a brow but looks away to read something.

“How about you?” You ask.

She sighs heavily and stares at the wall. “Well,” and for a moment she doesn’t look like your sister. More like any other woman– any other person experiencing life for the first time. She’s thinking about her job and her home; the wonders and horrors of burnt toast and manilla folders. Of sending people to jail or keeping them out of it. Of going to bed in her 1200 thread count, Egyptian-cotton bed set.

Then she blinks, as if remembering who she is, and suddenly your sister’s sitting in front of you again.

“It’s alright. Fine. Boring.”

“Makes sense.” You tell her with a nod.

“How’s Mac?” She asks off-handedly, eyes on her work. Mac. Full name Tarmac. The stray cat that’s been haunting your house for the past couple of years. A dumb, skinny little cat who loved you with all of his heart.

“Dead.”

“What?” Your sister exclaims, wrist dropping to the edge of the table, pen still in hand. “How are you not,, a wreck?”

“It happened a few months ago.”

“God.” She finally takes a sip of her cappuccino and clears her throat. “Well, just don’t get upset one night and, I dunno, drink yourself into a sobbing mess.”

You grimace. “Says you.”

She sends you a hard glare. “Don’t.”

“I’m not the one who had to be bailed out of-“

“When are you going to stop bringing that up?” She groans. You laugh a bit now, dropping your head towards your lap and your sister looks properly embarrassed. “I passed the bar, have a Porsche, and have a personal trainer, ya know!”

You laugh harder. You can tell she finds it almost funny too but is raging too hotly to care.

“And then I had to-“

“Stop!” She exclaims.

You leave her alone but still giggle through it, fingers pressing against your lips in a complete failure to contain your amusement.

There’s another beat of silence.

She takes another sip. You watch her. Christa comes by again with a new, impressively thick stack of papers for your sister and walks out.

“Where’s your shirt from?” You ask your sister, eyeing it. “It’s nice.”

“Balenciaga.”

Pricey. The white, simple, button-up shirt she’s wearing probably cost her more than a hundred dollars.

“Is it cotton?” You ask her, leaning forward for a better look.

“Yes.” She side-eyes you warily. You lean back. “You better not steal it.”

“I’m not going to!”

“You’ve done it before.”

You roll your eyes.

Your sister finishes her coffee off in silence. It’s awfully quiet for a law firm. You wonder if her office walls are sound-proofed.

At some point, she tells you she has a meeting and that you need to leave. She’s in a good enough mood to at least walk you out herself.

In the firm’s garage building the two of you wait for the valet to bring your car.

She looks strange, sad, lonely. You love her. But you don’t know what to do about it because she gives you no place to put it. That’s just who she is. Her person. Being in a constant state of distress is part of her identity and really, there’s no escaping it. Self-imposed, mortal limbo.

“You’ll be okay?” She asks gently, like for once she means it.

“Yeah.” You tell her, tender. Human. “You?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry about your divorce.” You finally tell her. You didn’t say it at first when it was too new and too fresh. When she was more concerned with paperwork than emotional damage.

She shakes her head like the mention of it is merely a fly in her face. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to thank you for bringing those papers to David.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s just, you live nearby and it would have been easier for you to do it than Christa, and-“

“Seriously.” You cut her off. “It’s fine.”

She sighs and looks you over. It’s a long, extended look of softness. Mike looked at Abby the same way. But it’s a rarity from her; one that has you giving her a confused smile, hands going into the pockets of your jacket— the nicest, crispest one you own— as she stares.

“What?” You ask.

She steps forward, raising an arm, and you step back. She huffs, annoyed. “I wanted to give you a hug but you ruined the moment.”

You scoff incredulously. “You’re so weird.”

She glares. “Fuck you.”

The valet comes with your car.

Shitty, and old. Reliable and well-loved. Needs an oil change.

You step around to the driver’s side and the valet places your keys warmly in your palm. Your sister stays in the spot you left her in.

“Bye.” She says stiffly.

“See you soon.”

She glances at the valet. “Right.”

“Give me a smile?” You joke. You see her right hand twitch to flip you off but with the audience she contains herself. All she gives you is a deep-seated, disappointed frown and a shake of her head.

You grin and step into your car before driving off.

Even as you pull out of the garage you can see her standing still in that over-priced button-up shirt; arms wrapped around her torso, watching you go.

You tell yourself she’ll be okay but when a song from your childhood plays on the radio you doubt it.

Nostalgia will kill you before she ever does.

[shares-a-vest]

a sad steddie ficlet for mother's day

tw: discussion of the death of a parent

Eddie Munson doesn’t have an easy time of it on Mother’s Day.

Steve figures as much as he gingerly walks up the front steps of the Munson’s home and raps on the front door. He’d woken up far too early for a day off work and perhaps selfishly, he felt lonely waking up to an empty house on Mother’s Day, a day he hadn’t spent with his own mother in three years.

As he knocks on the front door, the fly-screen frame making a tinny sound under his knuckles, he tries to convince himself to be thankful that his mother is here.

Well, not in Hawkins. But she's somewhere. He just isn’t sure where seeing as yet another business trip turned into a getaway weekend with friends that turned into an exotic vacation before going right back around to being an extended business trip.

He stops mid-knock, panic creeping into his chest as he considers the early hour - 8am being far too early for notorious not-before-noon Eddie.

But before he can take a step backwards and slowly make his way to the safety of his precious Beemer parked conspicuously right outside, the door opens revealing a worried and rushed Wayne, dressed for work.

The man closes his eyes, seemingly relieved at Steve’s presence. He makes quick work of scooping up his work boots (always sitting just inside the door) and crowds Steve on the small front stoop.

“Steve,” he whispers, leaving the door ajar, “Glad you’re here, my boy. Got called into work.”

“Is… is Eddie up yet?” Steve stutters.

“He’s inside watching TV,” Wayne replies, voice low, “Gotta warn you, kid, today is very hard for him.”

He cranes his neck to peek inside. Eddie is sitting on the couch, cradling something in his lap with a throw blanket over his knees. His eyes are glazed over, staring at the TV as he twists strands of his hair around his finger.

“Eddie,” Wayne calls, voice laced with the faint hope of a response, “I’ll be back tonight, okay?”

Eddie gives a half-hearted grunt, “Whatever.”

Wayne forces himself down the front steps and off to his truck, hesitating one last time as he opens his truck door and waves goodbye.

Steve steps inside, giving a small and admittedly just plain stupid wave from his hip. Eddie's eyes snap straight at him, glaring like he could shoot laser beams from his eyeballs if he tried hard enough.

“Oh, great,” he says, feigning a harsh edge as he rolls his eyes, “You’re here.”

Steve knows this tactic well, Eddie had done it a lot when he was recovering in hospital. But the pang in his chest, the feeling of rejection, of being turned away, hurts nonetheless.

He nods, more to himself to force himself into the kitchen to fix Eddie some breakfast. He decides on a bowl of Honeycombs, no milk. He will settle for the odd crunching mouthful of dried cereal bits if it means Eddie eating something.

“Why aren’t you at home serving up Mommy’s breakfast in bed?” Eddie seethes as Steve places the cereal box back in the cupboard.

He ignores him for as long as it takes him to move from the kitchen to the couch.

“Eds, my parents aren’t home,” he replies, letting the cereal bowl hit the coffee table with a pointed thud.

Eddie shirks away, clutching a big square book to his chest.

It’s a photo album.

After a long moment of only the sounds of a rather noisy toy commercial on the television filling the room, Eddie sighs heavily.

“I know.”

“Do you need me to leave you alone?” Steve asks, tone even and serious, despite not wanting to do such a thing, especially as his question conjures up a well of tears in Eddie’s already glassy eyes.

“Steve, I…” Eddie starts, voice low as he scrubs a hand over his face, “I won’t be very good company today.”

“It’s okay,” he says, lowering onto the couch.

He looks Eddie over - he is restless. Knee bopping on the spot, hair more matted than Steve initially thought. He isn't wearing his signature rings or his wristwatch. And he looks like he hasn't had an ounce of sleep.

Eddie mumbles something he doesn’t quite catch and shakes his head, the frizz and tangle caused by worried fingers adding an extra bounce. He fluffs the blanket to cover them both.

“Can we just sit here?” he asks, leaning in.

He wipes his nose on his (an old blue sweater of Steve’s that had long ceased being his own) sleeve.

Steve wraps a protective arm around him as he shifts closer, “Of course, baby.”

Eddie snuffles, barely getting out his words for tears, “I was going to look at pictures of my Mom.”

He covers his face with his hands, letting the album go. Reflexes kicking in, Steve catches it just before it slides off the blanket. He sets it by his side, leaning in close to ask, “How about I take some pictures out for you to look at, hmm?”

“‘Kay,” he agrees meekly.

Steve soon discovers why Eddie has been sitting here just holding the photo album labelled 'Precious Memories'. It is filled with pictures of his father, Al - mostly looking like a fun-loving young man, far from Eddie’s descriptions and Wayne’s understandably harsh words. There are many pictures of Al and Wayne, often featuring an older man Steve assumes is their father.

He can’t help the odd giggle that escapes him looking at pictures of baby Eddie, including one of him crying with a face covered in chocolate. 

Eddie barely registers, instead looking ahead to the Sunday morning cartoons on the television. Usually, he’d be laughing at Looney Tunes outwitting each other with sticks of dynamite, but today he just curls in on himself further and further, pulling the blanket up tight to his neck.

There is only a sprinkling of photographs of Eddie’s mother, starting about halfway through the book. Her dark brown hair is striking, similar to Eddie’s, only straightened out with its styling.

Steve gets to work flapping back stubborn sheets of acetate stuck to thick pages in order to free each picture. He picks them out one by one until he has a pile of about a dozen, all curling from years-old backing glue and tape strips.

“Here you go, Eds.”

He hands over a picture of Eddie, aged about six and dressed as a witch alongside his beaming mother donning a long grey beard and an electric blue wizard's hat.

A smile teases at Eddie’s lips, skin pulling at the scar on his jawline.

He reaches for a single Honeycomb.

“Thank you, Steve,” he says, pressing the photograph to his chest.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Hi Mamacita🫶🏻 May I request College!Matt x Fem!Reader they’re secretly sleeping together and Matt wants more with her but the only problem Is she’s dating someone else. Her boyfriend doesn’t treat her right but she doesn’t leave him because she’s scared to be alone. She thinks Matt is using her for sex and only wants her because he can’t have her. Eventually they end up together.

hii!! I LOVE stuff like this. thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌

want to choose you

college! Matt Murdock x f reader

wc || 1.4k

warnings || little bit of angst with fluff, minor argument

masterlist + rules

taglist

Your eyes slowly flutter open until the sudden realisation hits. “Shit.” You call out, immediately jumping out of bed.

“You okay?” Matt groggily replies, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he perks himself up on his elbow.

“No— oh, shit.” You mumble, rushing around Matt’s dorm room as you collected your scattered clothing. “Oh my god, I’m so screwed.” Puffing as you dressed yourself.

“Just tell him you stayed over a friend’s.” Matt says flatly, flopping back into the mattress. Mumbling. “Not like he cares anyway.”

“Don’t say that.” You huff, feeling flustered as you paced around. “He gets super controlling when I don’t come back on time— oh my god, and I can’t find my bag.” Sighing as you dropped your head in your hands. “What do I say?” You murmur against your palms.

“I don’t know, tell him the truth?” Matt says matter of factly between a yawn.

“I’m being serious Matt.”

“So was I, the guy’s a dick. It might make him leave you.”

“Why would you say that?” You question, head tilting to the side. Muttering as you search around for your things. “That’s mean.”

“The dude’s an asshole.”

“Well, I like him.” You lie.

A sly smile spreads across his lips. “Yeah, okay.” Laughing sarcastically.

Slipping on your shoes by his door, turning over your shoulder. “Talk about that later, I gotta go.”

“So you are coming over tonight?” Grinning wide.

“No-“ you blurt out. “Like, I’ll call you.”

“Cool, so I’ll see you tonight.” Smirking as he wraps the covers tighter around him.

“No… you can’t see Matt.” You say playfully, rushing over to sweetly kiss him.

Snickering as he clutched his heart. “Ouch.”

“But yes I’ll probably see you tonight.” Smiling as you close the door behind you.

Right now you had to rush across campus to your shared accommodation with your boyfriend, praying along the way that he was too hungover to notice your late arrival.

Slipping in through the front door, slowly stepping along the wood until you’re met with your displeased partner sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Where the hell were you?” He snarks, walking away from you and into the kitchen.

“At a friend’s.” You partially lie, placing your bag down to follow him.

“What friend?” He questions as he searches through the fridge.

“What happened in here?” You interrupt, looking around at the mess cluttering the counters. Pointing to the numerous dirty pots and pans. “What’s all this?”

He shrugs. “I cooked.”

“How is it so bad?” You question, your tone full of confusion as you gaze around the destroyed kitchen.

“That's what happens when you’re not here.”

“Pardon?” Your eyes follow his movements. “You’re saying that like it’s my fault.”

“Well, it kinda is.”

“How is my fault?” Eyes squinting at him in disgust.

“It’s kinda your job.” He replies flatly, filling his bowl with cereal. “You’re the female.”

“Excuse— what? Female?” Face contorting as your head vigorously shook.

“Yeah… don’t leave me alone, then.” Spilling the milk over the counter before walking into the living room.

Glaring at him through the doorway. “I’m not your maid… I’m your girlfriend.”

“Good girlfriends look after their boyfriends.”

Sighing exasperatedly. “I can’t believe you right now.”

“What did I say?” Questioning with his eyes glued to the tv.

You didn’t want to answer him, far too frustrated to even say a coherent sentence without wanting to burst into tears. Slamming the bedroom door shut before you slump into the mattress. Earlier on when you said you liked your boyfriend, you were lying. Matt was right, he was a dick.

You always told yourself that you should never settle, and to be with someone who loved and valued you. But all that went out the window when you started to date your boyfriend. If truth be told, you were scared of being alone. You knew that this relationship was tiring and lonely, but you just couldn’t seem to leave.

You met Matt a short while ago when you transferred classes, and ever since then, it was as if you two were attached to the hip, quite literally. Over time you got to know each other and eventually that lead to sneaky sexual encounters. You knew deep down what you were doing was wrong, but it bizarrely gave you peace of mind when you heard your boyfriend call another girl ‘baby’ over the phone. He didn’t know that you were aware of his affair, but then again he didn’t know of yours.

Right now you had to resist the urge to visit Matt’s housing building, you just wanted someone to talk to and Matt always seemed to be there. You felt such a crippling dilemma. You were starting to fall in love with Matt, but he made it very clear to you on multiple occasions that your relationship was strictly sexual. The person you actually wanted to be with, didn’t want you and that stung.

“Why you being such a bitch?” Your boyfriend calls out, stomping up the stairs.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” You reply, pretending to be busy.

“How convenient.” Huffing as joined you in the bedroom. “How fucking convenient.”

Ignoring his provokes, you fill your bags with clothing, stashing in everything you might need over the next couple days.

“Don’t do that— where you going? I’m sorry.”

Disregarding his manipulative tactics, you continue to pack your bags, paying him no such mind as you did so. Swinging them over your shoulder, you walk away. “I don’t want to be with you anymore.” You state, looking over your shoulder as you made your way downstairs.

“I don’t wanna be with you. I’m breaking up with you.” He childishly adds.

“Okay.”

Shutting the door behind, you make your way over to the patch of grass on campus. Setting your bags down so you could have a moment to think of what to do next. You wanted to see Matt, but you knew you shouldn’t. He was always such a great listener and advice giver, and you desperately needed that right now.

Fortunately, it was Saturday, and you knew Matt had no plans. It wouldn’t hurt to see him, right?

Pulling out your phone, clicking on his name at the top of your recents and pressing call.

“Called me sooner than I thought.” Matt smugly replies through the receiver. “What’s wrong?” Immediately noticing your uneven breathing.

“Nothing.” You lie. “What you up to? Wanna hang out?”

He interrupts. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Forcing a soft laugh.

“Okay… yeah I’m free, come over.” He responds, his tone full of uncertainty.

-

Knocking on his dorm door, waiting patiently to be let in.

“Everything okay? You didn’t sound good on the phone.” He warmly asks, assessing you as he steps to the side to let you in.

“I don’t know.” You sigh, placing your bags on the floor of his room before spinning around to pull him in for a desperate embrace.

“What’s going on?” He softly presses, gently stroking your back as he hugged you tighter.

“Sorry.” You blurt, separating as if you’ve just realised what you were doing. Laughing awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be… everything okay?” Lacing his hand into yours as he guides you to sit at the edge of his bed.

“We just ended things.” You meekly reply, eyes glued to the floor. Realising the prolonged silence, you turn to face him. “Why are you smiling?”

Stiffening his face. “I’m not.”

“I’m over here sad and you’re there smiling?” Shaking your head with displeasure.

“No—“ he blurts, placing a comforting hand on your thigh. “I’m sorry you’re upset… but I think this is a good thing.” Shrugging earnestly.

“A good thing? Why- and why would that be a good thing?” Neck whipping around to face him.

“He’s an awful person… and, you deserve better than him.” Sheepishly smiling. “You deserve someone that appreciates you… I do. I appreciate you.” Sweetly gazing at you.

“You’re just saying that.” You reply, nervously laughing at the thought.

“No, I mean it.” His eyes soften as he caresses your hand.

“Why are you saying this?” You question, not yet sure of his motive.

“You deserve to be told that once in a while. You should feel loved and valued, he wasn’t treating you that way.”

Nodding at him to continue, noticing his parted lips.

“I want to make you feel that way.” Wryly grinning as his thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “… because… I love you.”

@mattymurdock1021 @ch3rries-n-cream @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @redecoratestan @kpopgirlbtssvt @scarletsloveletter @princesspannnn @messymissy

[dreamties]

there's nothing really wrong with me; i'm just choking almost constantly || Polyam! Ghostface x GN! Reader

title from Twinkle Lights by The Sonder Bombs

Reader is dealing with the aftermath of their sexual assault, to which they still haven't told Billy and Stu that it was even a thing that happened. After a particularly rough night, the boys comfort them.

1st person POV

TRIGGER WARNINGS: there is reference to past SA, but it's not too graphic. the reader talks about it and there's like, references about it through out the text- and I know it can be really traumatic for some to read it so PLEASE be careful and read at your own risk. panic attacks, nightmares, i believe that's it !! let me know if I need to add more warnings!!

I blink awake, filled with an erratic, heart-pounding panic. It takes a moment to realize where I am- home, in my bed, by myself. I'm not at the trailer and I can't feel his breath down my neck anymore. 

I let out a shaky breath and sit up slowly, trying not to shock my body anymore.

My body feels unstable and wrong as I walk through the house. My mind and body caught in a fuzzy sort of dream state. 

I dial Stu's phone number, because I know he'll ask less questions than Billy- and that's what I needed right now. Just a distraction.

I school my voice to properly fake that sort of "I'm fine, nothing bad has ever happened to me" tone.

I clear my throat. "Stuey? I know it's a little late, but-"

"Nah, it's okay, baby. Whaddya need?"

I laugh- of course Stu sounds so chipper, he was likely up looking at Play Boys or watching total torture porn (aka a load of trash). 

"Could you pick me up? It'd be nice to stay at your place tonight." 

I can practically hear him grin on the other line. "Ab-so-LUTE-ly!"

I kind of half-giggle and thank him. I pull on an extra-long hoodie and grab the handmade Michael Myers plush my friend gave me off my bed. I wait out on the front porch for him to arrive. 

I settle into Stu's bed, and he hurriedly puts his magazines and other items under his bed, careless to the minor scrumpling to his merchandise. 

“Hey baby,” he kisses the top of my head and I try not to shrink away too much when he does so. I know it’s Stu, I know I’m safe- I can still feel his touch around my body, his hands at my throat, though. It’s so hard not to think he’s there with me, in bed next to Stu and I.

I smile at him and let him turn his lamp off even if the darkness and the looming shadows in his room are wholly disorienting.

I can feel a light tickle against the shell of my ear, like someone is whispering, “I won't be able to stop myself.” I shake him off of me and turn to my other side.

Just leave me alone, please.

I probably toss in my sleep the whole night, but Stu doesn’t seem bothered when we wake in the morning. My eyes are bleary and blinking back tears, hoping he doesn’t see. 

I should know better than to think Stu could keep any secret from Billy. I'm still surprised, however, that Billy jostles into the Macher's kitchen at 9am, already with a prickled attitude.

I drop the spoon into my bowl of cereal, milk splashing up and over onto the counter. I try to school my expression into something more neutral, so my surprise doesn’t hurt him. 

“Billy,” I greet. 

He replies back with my name, which I can only half-hear through the fuzzy, distant feeling in my body. 

Billy sits on a stool next to me, moving my bowl a little further from my reach. “Why were you up so late?”

I half-laugh, still tired, still groggy. “What, I’m not allowed to stay up?” I tease. And the hurt sick feeling settles in my throat. 

Billy shakes his head and sighs- he’s clearly frustrated. 

Stupid. Stop teasing him, he’s- I physically shake the thought off. Trying desperately to repel the negative energy like water to oil. Get it together.

“C’mon,” Billy tries again. He seems abnormally pissy, and I wonder what Stu told him on the phone. It’s no way that either of them could have figured it out, but the lump in my throat still grows at the possibility. 

“Just- missed Stu. That’s all.”

“You brought along your plushy,” he says, like that’s supposed to prove anything. “And that big hoodie of yours that you only wear when you’re sad.”

“Did Stu tell you that?” I try not to sound too antsy or annoyed. I know they’re only worried. Of course they’re worried- of course they know my tells like the back of their hands. I should have just stayed home, even if that meant waking up with the feeling of him pressed against my body. 

He nods. “You always tell us what’s wrong,” and he whispers my name in that hard-soft tone he gets when he’s anxious. I shiver.

“Nothing’s. . . nothing’s wrong.” I try and I know it’s bullshit. It’s a dumb attempt and Billy sees right through it. “Nothing that you can fix.” 

And I know Billy takes it as a personal attack- that I think he can’t take care of me. That his comfort isn’t enough, that he isn’t enough. I don’t know how to tell him that’s not what I meant, though, without telling him what happened. It feels hard to breathe, I take a shaky, sharp breath in. It doesn’t help. 

I don’t even know what’s going on, my eyes teary and blurred. My ears are ringing out. My body feels so fuzzy and too soft at the edges. My thoughts muddle in my brain and I don’t know if I'm breathing or talking or breathing or- I gasp out. 

Stu’s hands hold my shoulders tightly, trying to ground me. He’s done it a hundred times before, and it works nearly every time. 

My breath is labored, heavy and quick. Too quick. I still can’t feel myself breathing.

Billy and Stu both try to reassure me- I think. Their voices still unclear through the fog. 

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, sorry, sorry,” I repeat, till the word feels unsafe and garbled through my lips. “Shouldn't have to- shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have to. Have to- have to worry.”

My voice sounds so far away, like I’m speaking into a dying microphone, to the clashing, screaming crowd before me. Feeling so unheard, so unseen, even at center stage. 

The fog fades around Billy’s voice. “Hey, hey, it’s fine. Just- stop apologizing,” my name is slow on his tongue. “Can you hear me? C’mon, baby, you’re worrying Stu.” 

And I should respond. But everything just feels so- off. I’m not even sure what I’d say. I don’t want to explain myself. 

When the fog finally finally cuts through, I can breathe again. I’m sitting on the tiled floor of the Macher kitchen, with my knees pulled up against my chest. Billy and Stu sit on either side of me, their hands tentatively retracted from my body. 

I can finally breathe in the clearing. I could cry, if feeling my feelings didn’t hurt so much. If everything didn’t hurt. 

My breath takes a while to steady, and when it does, Billy takes this as a sign to pounce on me again. 

“What happened, baby?” And he sounds so . . . concerned. It hurts to know I’m hurting him. My body aches with every pound of my heart against my chest. 

“I think I had a panic attack,” I managed. 

Stu lets out an awkward laugh, and I don’t freak out this time when he touches my shoulder. “No shit!” 

He murmurs an apology and repeats himself, quieter now. It was sweet. Stu was so sweet and I can’t get over myself to just- live and not cause all this . . . all this angst and trial and tribulations between us. Billy would remind me- if I vocalized this ache - in my own words, that having tough emotions aren’t a burden. It feels like it is though. 

“I’m sorry,” I try and Billy shushes me. He seems annoyed still, I know it’s just the look he has when he’s scared, though.

Fuck, he’s scared. Get yourself together.

I swallow down the lump in my throat.

“Okay, fine. I can’t apologize, I get it.” I realize now that my voice croaks out, like I'd been crying. 

My eyes still feel hazy around the edges and they still struggle to focus on anything properly. 

“What can I say then?” I teasingly ask, and I feel sick to my stomach. 

Please don’t ask me why. Please don’t ask why. Please don’t ask why. Please.

“What’s up with you?” Billy asks. I’m not sure if that’s any better of a question though. 

“I- I can’t tell you.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

Stu sighs, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. His fingers tense when he speaks. “Please? We won’t- Stu glances at Billy and then back at myself- I won’t ask any other questions, I promise.” 

I give a humorless laugh in response. “Real assuring.”

“C’mon, I can’t control what Billy does,” he whines.

And there it is again. The lump in my throat. His breath tickling against my face. “I just can’t control myself around you.”

The attempts to shake off his incessant greed seem to only be in vain.

“Just- just get off of me, please,” I have to wrench the words out of my throat. “Please, ‘m sorry for- I’m sorry- just. Let go.”

Stu quickly winds his hand from my shoulder and puts his hands up, in defense. He looks at me all confused, his eyes wide and his brows furrowed. 

He lowers his hands and gives me those stupid, big blue puppy eyes.  “What’s wrong?” And he says it so gently. His voice felt warm and comforting.

“Just- I. Give me a moment.” 

“Okay,” both boys reply. 

“I- I think I was sexually assaulted.” My voice comes out in a tight whisper, lodged somewhere between my throat and the tension of the kitchen conversation. “I thought- I thought it was my fault or maybe it didn’t- it didn’t happen. Or- or maybe I misremembered it but-”

My voice gets caught and I let out a measly sob. 

“Woah,” Billy carefully reaches a hand out towards me, but doesn’t touch me. “Woah, woah. Baby,” he whispers. “What- who did this to you?”

I sniffle. I didn’t want to tell them.

It felt so much more real speaking it aloud. 

His voice feels dirty against my body, and I just want to get away from him. But he’s in the walls, he’s in my dreams. And I can’t escape. He’s sitting with me as my boyfriend’s try to comfort me. 

“I know better than that. I should have known better than that and-” my throat feels all funny, like I can’t breathe again. A sharp intake in, a shaky breath out. “And I still let him put his grubby hands all over me.”

“Woah, baby,” Billy’s voice is impossibly quiet and calm. He appears more apologetic and concerned with how I am, than the dark, revengefulness that usually seeps out of him when someone hurts me. “Baby, look at me, okay?”

I keep my head snuggled at the top of my knees, straining my eyes to look in his direction. I hum, not trusting myself to speak without crying. 

“It’s not- it’s not your fault. Whatever happened, it’s-”

My mouth seems to be on its own agenda. And my head feels impossibly fuzzy again. Everything is so . . . so disconnected. I tap my fingers against my shins, and they don’t feel like they’re really there at all. No matter how many times I tap them in the same familiar pattern. 

Nothing feels right. 

“I shouldn't have been such a tease. I- he told me to stop, said he wouldn’t be able to control himself if- and, and I didn’t listen, Billy. Was so confused, didn’t know where I was, Stuey and- and he- I told him that. But I should’ve listened. He w-warned me and I should have- I’m sorry.”

“Hey, shh,” Billy tries once more. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, baby. Whatever- whoever it was, who convinced you . . . it doesn’t matter, okay? He doesn’t- you didn’t make him do anything. You-” even Billy struggles with it. 

He sighs, “what do you need from us? Just right now- what do you need at this moment, okay?”

Stu tries, as well. Learning from his previous mistake. 

“Is it okay to hug you or touch your shoulder right now?”

I shake my head. His hands at my throat, his voice tickled against my face. 

His hands at my throat, telling me to behave. 

Taking my “i’m fine”s and “okay”s out of context, blatant ignorance of my confusion.

“Could we just- could we sit on the couch maybe?”

It felt better, safer, in the openness of the living room. 

Like I wasn't going to suffocate and, like, explode or something. 

Stu's hanging his limbs off one end of the couch, and Billy tentatively perches on a couch arm. I assume Billy is sitting strangely to give me space- Stu's position is natural though. He always sits weird, and does things weird, which I love. I love him. I love Billy, and I'm just. I'm hurting them- I'm sitting in the middle of the couch, shaky and strange, and hurting them.

“What can we do?” Billy sounds gentle. He sounds sincere. I think . . . he is. The whole situation is strange and terrifying. I want to go back to sleep and hope when I wake that the past few months were some fever dream instead. 

I let out a shaky, heaving sigh. 

“I don’t- I don’t know.”

“That’s- that's okay. Baby,” his voice is sturdy, despite the uncertainty bleeding in.

“Yeah!” Stu smiles at me, and it feels sort of warm. It feels almost good. 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with someone so damaged.” I stare at my feet and my hands fidgeting absently in my lap. Tears pricking, stinging at my eyes.

I stumble over and retract apologies in my head. Trying to justify what he had done to me, to pin what he said, to pin his hands around my neck and push me down, as my own fault. As my own actions. 

I can’t tell Billy that. Not to him, not to Stu.

Billy has this restrained look in his eyes, and his face is twisted into an almost scowl. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I know I shouldn’t have said that. Because Billy thinks he’s broken, all the time.

He’s told me or alluded to his mom’s disappearance, to his asshole father. About the disconnect between himself and his own thoughts, his hands and his actions. He’s told us why he’s only ever felt safe and trusting in the arms of his lovers. 

And that he’s so afraid that one day, we’ll up and leave him, too. 

That he’s too damaged, too broken, to be loved. 

And I go and fuck it up again. I only know how to hurt.

“That’s, wait- that’s not. I’m sorry, Billy. I-”

And his voice is uncharacteristically sweet. It’s calm and low, and I can’t hear held back anger.

“It’s okay.”

“What?” My voice is small and squeaks out, unsure. 

“It’s okay. Baby," Billy says my name with my name with care. “You’re not- you will never be too fucked up to be loved by us.”

Stu smiles, protective. “I- we will never let that happen to you again.”

They offer physical comforts, they lean closer but not close enough to touch me. 

Maybe I shouldn’t be so trusting. He had promised to never hurt me and I followed him blindly. But Billy & Stu aren’t him. And I should be allowed to put my faith into others, without fearing I'll be hurt again.

I lean into Billy's touch, allowing him to encase me in his strong arms. Stu leans against us, bringing his long, sweater-clad arms around the huddled mess of us. 

Maybe it's against my better judgements.

Maybe it's a mistake.

But maybe, too, this is safety. This is love.

[miscellaneoussmp]

I want my happy-ish domestic ending, so I wrote it myself. Anyways, here's Emi's sixteenth birthday (cw/tw: death mentions):

When Emi woke up, she was filled with excitement. Today, she was officially sixteen. She had lived one more year, and that was something, right? She had a relatively normal life now. She was adopted all those years ago. She goes to school and hangs out with friends like all teenagers her age do. After getting up from bed, she walked into the kitchen of the apartment, passing Luis, who was sleeping on the couch. A note was held on the fridge door with a magnet. It was from Benito. It said he had to go into work early, but hopefully, he'll be back in time to celebrate her birthday. It finished with him telling her to have a good day. Emi tried her best not to feel upset as she knew Benito was out here saving people. Like how he saved her. She made herself a bowl of cereal and sat on the arm rest of the couch where Luis slept. The tv was playing some old reality show that Emi didn't much care for.

School was pretty normal for Emi, aside from being given a few happy birthdays and a small gift of a cookie from a friend. There was only one hiccup in the day. Honestly, it really isn't a hiccup, just a surpise. A substitute teacher called full names on the roster, including hers Emilía-Lucie Camelo. When her adoption became official, she was allowed to change her name. She thinks it was meant for her to only change her last name, but when she added Lucie to her first name, Benito smiled so brightly at her. It was another way to keep Lucie's memory and legacy alive.

After school was over, Emi went back to the apartment she shared with Benito and Luis. Only Luis was home as it was his day off from working night-shift security at some fancy hotel. He greeted her and wished her a happy birthday while ruffling her head under her beanie. The two sat in comfortable silence while she did homework, and Luis did some minor chores. Near sunset, there was knocking at the door. When Luis opened the door, there stood Jeffrey and Diego. The two had been traveling around the world working through whatever they needed to work through. They still made time to be in Emi's life when possible as they, Diego mostly, took comfort in her being living proof of Lucie's memory. After a small group hug, they four took some time to eat a few snacks and watched some more trash tv together like a family would. They are a family afterall.

Benito came back just a bit after sunset with a cake and a few candles. It was too long after, when Emi sat at the dining table with a cake in front of her with some candles stuck in it. "She would be very proud of you if she was here, Emi," Diego spoke, and Emi's started to tear up. "Don't make her cry on her birthday, jackass." Benito immediately responded with both Luis and Jeffrey giving him 'what the fuck' type looks. Diego immediately apologized, saying sorry quickly in rapid secession. Emi found herself laughing softly as the candles were lit. She closed her eyes and blew out the candles. Her wish was for her to make what happened all those years ago worth it. Her birthday cake was caramel apple flavored.

[castawaycat]

The Tales of a Little Tiger: Chapter 18- Home Seems So Far Away

Summary: Both Wanda's come to a conclusion on how to get you home, but it seems so far out of reach.

Vision let out an exhausted sigh as he walked out of the boys’ bedroom. He didn’t know how his wife was going to locate where you and America came from.

He gave a small smile to his wife who looked just as exhausted and puzzled as he did. “What a night, huh? Are the girls settled?”

Wanda nodded her head as she walked into her husband's open arms and placed her head on his chest. “America fell asleep on the couch and the little one is fast asleep in the crib. Vision, what are we going to do? It’s odd but the baby seems to know who I am.”

Vision's eyes grew big at Wanda’s statement. “Honey, do you think it’s possible she belongs to a version of yourself in an alternate timeline?”

Wanda gasped as she pulled away as the thought processed. “Vision, my love you’re a genius! Oh, but I don’t know how I would get in contact or find the right Wanda. I’d have to use chaos magic… and I just don’t like what it does to me.” Wanda said as she felt conflicted emotions arise.

“Honey, let’s head to bed. We can figure things out in the morning.” Vision said as he led his wife to the bedroom.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is it possible Y/n is in an alternate timeline?” Carol asked the team of Avengers who were tirelessly trying to locate you.

It took a few minutes for Wanda to process what Carol was proposing to the team. “It’s possible. Y/n has powers but the portal that took her felt different. It didn’t feel like Y/n’s powers that whisked her away.”

Nat stood up and began to pace, “if y/n is on another timeline how the fuck are we going to locate her?” She half shouted as she began to pace even faster. She felt so helpless as she looked at her team who were all worried about her, Wanda, and you. “I’m sorry. I just… I just want to find our little Tiger.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Billy and Tommy sat at the kitchen table rubbing their tired eyes.

“Babies are so loud.” Billy said as he let out a loud groan.

Tommy groaned as well, as he put his head in his hands.

America looked just as tired as everyone else. The only one who seemed well rested was you.

You babbled happily when Wanda clipped you into the high chair. You ate the cereal puffs and scrambled eggs that she placed on the tray in front of you.

“Mama!” You squealed as you kicked your feet and stuffed your face.

“We’re going to find your mama, little one.” Vision said as he talked to you. He found you absolutely adorable even though you had woken up several times in the night crying to be fed.

The kids ate their breakfast as they watched cartoons from the living room tv. You babbled happily as you ate your food. Mealtimes always made you happy now that you were fully a little.

Wanda placed a sippy cup full of apple juice and placed it in front of you. “Here, little one. Are you thirsty?” She asked as she watched you drink happily.

Your eyes lit up as you tasted the sweet juice. Your real mama’s didn’t let you normally drink sugary drinks very often. If they did give it to you they normally filled your cup with water as well. You drank your juice so fast that you started to choke a little. Tears began to form as you started to cough.

“Slow down, little one.” Vision said as he saw you sucking down the juice. He moved quickly when he heard you begin to cough. You began to cry as you felt the juice go down the wrong pipe and you found it hard to breathe. Vision patted your back and spoke softly to you.

“It’s alright. You’re okay.” Vision said as he gently swayed back and forth once you had caught your breath.

Wanda felt scared when she heard you begin to cough but felt reassured when her husband jumped into action. She remembered when the boys were toddlers and had a habit of putting things in their mouths. “Is she alright, Vision?”

You laid your head on Vision's chest and let out a shaky sigh as you sniffled. You felt safe in his arms. It was a different type of safety you normally felt with your mama’s. It reminded you of when your uncle Clint or Tony held you.

“She’s perfectly fine. I think she just got excited when she got a taste of the apple juice. Her mama must not give her sweets very often.” He said as continued to gently rub your back.

The kids had all watched you choke and they looked relieved as they saw you relax in Vision’s arms. America walked up to you and patted your back gently as well. “I’m glad she will be okay. Have you found out how to get her back to her family?” America asked.

Wanda bit her lip nervously as she nodded her head. She looked at her boys, “boys why don’t you go give Sparky a walk? It’s about time he has one.” She told more than asked the boys. She didn’t want them to hear about chaotic magic.

Tommy and Billy both groaned as their shoulders dropped, “but mom… we want to hear how you and dad are going to find their parents.” Tommy argued.

“Boys, listen to your mother. Go on and walk Sparkly.” Vision said firmly.

Both boys crossed their arms in defeat and obeyed their parents as they grabbed Sparkly’s leash and walked out the front door.

America turned to face Vision and Wanda, “it’s not going to be easy finding her parents is it?”

Wanda let out a defeated sigh as she sat in front of America, “no, it’s not going to be easy. We think that you and her come from alternate timelines. In order to find the right one I will have to use chaos magic.”

“Is chaos magic bad?” America asked. “It isn’t always bad; but it can be. I don’t like how it makes me feel or who it turns me into; but I’m going to try to find her parents. Speaking of which, what about your parents?” Wanda asked after she explained the details of chaos magic.

America’s head hung low and for the first time she felt tears trickle down her face. “They’re gone. My home. My planet. My mom’s. Everything is gone.” Sobs erupted past her lips as she allowed herself to grieve.

Wanda moved quickly to pull the young girl into her arms. Wanda didn’t know what to say or how to respond. When her parents had died, the words of strangers never gave her any condolences. Sometimes it was just better to hold someone and offer them comfort.

Vision looked down at you asleep in his arms and then looked sadly at America who was grieving in Wanda’s arms, “don’t worry my dears. We will figure things out.”

[starsomens]

great heavens, what have i done…

ladies and gentleman 🦦

i’ll hop right in, cause i don’t wanna be a tease, we have enough of that in the eyes of noah sebastian.

now in regards to the manhandling thing, i don’t even mean it in a sexual way (but yes, i do but later on). i just imagine him opening and holding the door over your head so you can walk right under him. that shit makes him feel good and it makes you look even cuter in his eyes. i’m sure he loves to see his women in his shirts. someone mentioned wearing the band’s shirt and yes, i agree. seeing how arrogant he has admitted to being, i can totally see him making comments on you wearing his bands merch.

“look at you, what’s that say? turn around. bad who?” while smirking at you.

putting you in front of him in pictures so he can lock you in his arms. leaning on the door frame while talking to you (as a form of teasing, of course, this man will do just about anything to watch you suffer). getting things off counters that you have trouble reaching but i do believe he’d also enjoy watching you struggle to get it yourself. he’d deadass sit down and watch you climb the kitchen counter to reach the top drawer only to laugh at you. and i am sure he likes to fuck with shorter people. like putting things away in unreachable places so you have trouble getting them and whining for him to help you and practically having to beg him to give it to you? (don’t get distracted, i’m talking about the cereal he hid away)

now if we have to get a little spicy 🌶️

i can totally see him saying stuff like

“oh, you can’t take it? that little body of yours can take a bit more pain?” while holding you down by the neck and slapping you all around

receiving texts in the middle of the day like

“missionary so i can wipe your tears from your eyes as i tell you how proud i am of you for being such a good little whore”

or

“you’re cute. i wanna train you to never cum without my permission”

or

“you’re too small and dumb to cum unsupervised”

or

“i think i’m just gonna use you as my little fucktoy tonight”

or

“oh, you feel embarrassed for what you did? then why are you so fucking wet, huh?”

or

“i’m the only one who’s allowed to do this to you.”

like he’d call you “dummy” and “silly” as a joke but he means it in a way that is “you’re not safe without my supervision”. and he likes to know you obey. and when you don’t, well…

let me tell you, this man reacts quickly and he reacts with violence, so you better do as he says. he’d just pin you down and say something in the words of “fuck, you’re so small and weak” in a voice that’s filled with list and sadistic pleasure and he’d just watch you struggle against his grasp, fully aware that you don’t really wanna escape and you’re just being dramatic and a brat about it.

oh yeah, and he’s definitely the “drop the attitude” type of boyfriend and he really, really wants to hear “and if i don’t?” type of answer, cause this man loves being tested. i just feel it in my bones.

oh yeah, and he will for sure smile at you while watching you beg for it.

yeah, this got a little out of hand and is not only “manhandling” but hey 🤷🏻‍♀️

yours truly,

🦦

AAAAHHHH GIRL I AM BLOWN AWAY I LOVED BOTH PARTS THE FIRST FLUFFY PART MADE ME SMILE AND THE SPOCY PART MADE ME BLUSH I LOVE. Especially like just imagining it and how that we got more visuals from the tour LAWD HAVE MERCY

Girl don’t even be shy if we ever collaborated (only if you want!) I’d feel so honored

my writing ain’t nothing compared to this YOU ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS EVERYONE GIVE THEM A ROUNF OF APPLAUSE 👏🏼 DAMN IT!

But rlly thank you for sharing this is AMAZING 😫 you’re so imaginative and creative 😩 I LOVE YOU BEAUTIFUL CREATURE

I can’t add cuz this is perfect

[starksvinyls]

Title: A Bad Day Rating: Teen+ Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Tags: Non-Sexual Age Play, DDlb, Diapers, Wetting, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Summary: Peter has a bad day. Notes: for @ageplay-may and the Sugar prompt for day 3: "a bad day" AO3 Link

Peter woke up with a wet pull-up, that was how it all started. Daddy had said that if he went one whole month without waking up wet, then he could go to bed in his big boy undies. It was day 23. He had been so close and Peter wanted to cry at how unfair it was! 

When Daddy came in, it only took one look at Peter’s tear filled eyes for him to know what had happened. 

“Oh, honey, it’s okay.” Tony came over and unlatched the side of his baby’s crib and helped Peter to climb out. “We’ll get you all cleaned up.” 

Since he had just taken a bath the night before, Daddy let him get in the shower and helped him to just wash off his peepee and his thighs. After, he was dried off and dressed in some shorts overalls and a Star Wars shirt, and then it was time for breakfast. 

Peter loved breakfast! Daddy always bought him Lucky Charms - his favoritist cereal. A bowl was set down in front of him once Peter had sat down at the table and he dug in, milk dribbling down his chin that he wiped away with the back of his hand. Daddy chuckled and came over with a paper towel. 

“So messy,” He teased, wiping Peter’s chin. 

Giggling, Peter went back to his cereal, but the bowl was suddenly tipping, spilling milk and cereal all over the table, it running towards him. Daddy quickly pulled his chair back to avoid any of the milk getting on Peter, and then went to pick up the bowl. He didn’t understand what had happened, had his spoon hit it?

Tears began to well up in Peter’s eyes. “‘M sorry, Daddy!” 

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Daddy assured. “Accidents happen.” 

Daddy was kneeling on the ground, wiping up all the spilled milk that had dripped into the floor. Peter just sat in the chair, out of the way like Daddy always said. Peter wanted to help, but he usually just ended up making the mess messier. Once it all was all cleaned up, including the table, Peter got up to push his chair back over to the table and then pouted at Daddy. 

“Can i have some more cereal? Please?”

“Sorry, bud, we’re all out, that was the last of it.” Daddy said gently. “How about I make you a fried egg and bologna sandwich?”

Peter nodded dejectedly. He liked fried egg and bologna sandwiches, but it wasn’t his Lucky Charms. 

—-

By the afternoon, Peter had had enough of this day. After breakfast, he had lab time with Daddy where he burned is finger. Then, during lunch, Peter accidentally bit his cheek while chewing. During coloring time, his favorite green crayon broke, and then the pink one did, too. 

It was nap time, now, and Peter had to be put into a pull-up. He hated that, even though Daddy said that wasn’t a nice thing to say. But it was true!  Peter stomped into his room, Daddy calling after him. 

“Hey, no heavy feet, mister!” A second later Daddy appeared in the doorway of his room. “You know better than that.” 

Peter did know better than that, he knew stomping around wasn’t going to make him feel better; he and Daddy talked about that sometimes when Peter was upset. He had done something Daddy said he shouldn’t do and he was thinking mean thoughts and nothing was going right today! Before he knew it, Peter burst into tears, head thrown back as he wailed. 

“Oh, honey, hey!” Daddy rushed forward, cooing. “It’s okay, Daddy’s not mad, I just don’t want you to stomp around, okay?” 

“D-daddy! I can’t wear my big boy undies and the crayons and the milk and my finger and my cheek, Daddy! And it was the green and pink crayons and…” Peter cried harder, bringing his hands up to rub his fists over his eyes. 

“You’re having a bad day, huh, bud?” Daddy coaxed Peter over to the corner where the rocking chair was. 

Peter climbed into Daddy’s lap the second he was sat down. He tucked his face into Daddy’s shoulder, his own shaking with his hitched breath as he continued to cry. 

“Shh, honey, it’s okay.” Daddy rubbed his back. “It’s been a bad day, and you’re tired, I know. But everything is going to be okay.” 

They rocked for awhile, Peter’s tears slowly drying up as he began to drift off to sleep. Before he could get too far, Daddy gently helped him up and guided Peter over to his crib. Once nice and cozy inside, his favorite bear tucked under his arm, Peter was finally able to slip off into dream land, and with it all his icky moments from the day disappeared. 

[oliverreedmasterass]

Can I request a fic of twins being young kids and playing Pirate with baby Sam

You've got it! I love the idea :)

Argh

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: N/A

While the week was typically spent trapped behind a school desk, running errands with their mom, and their tedious tutoring sessions, the weekends were wide open for Jake and Josh to get into whatever trouble they pleased. Being out in the more rural part of Michigan meant that they had plenty of space to explore and get lost in their minds, playing in the grassy fields and under the canopy of the tall birch and cedar trees. They had a routine set where, after finishing their cereal and getting dressed, they raced each other to the front door and spent their day outside playing pretend until the sun started to creep down over the horizon. The weekend prior Josh had been the mastermind behind their weekend adventure, where they were wood nymphs trying to protect the forest from evil gremlins. Jake wasn’t a big fan of the imaginary world that Josh had built, but he kept his mouth shut because he knew he would get to call the shots the next weekend. 

When that weekend came, Jake could hardly sleep the night before. Even though he was in his comfiest pajamas and tucked tightly under his constellation covers, his mind raced as he went through his plan again in his head. 

“We’re gonna be pirates,” he told Josh the following morning as they bound down the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast. 

“I like it,” Josh nodded with a toothless grin. 

“We’ll hunt for treasure and fight the bad guys and fire cannons.”

“Do I get to pick my pirate name?” 

“As long as I get to pick mine.” 

They both stood on their toes to rest their elbows on the kitchen counter so they could watch their dad, still clad in his plaid robe, groggily making a pot of coffee. 

“You want your usual?” he asked his sons over his shoulder. 

“Yeah!” they both brightly chirped. With a grunt, Kelly grabbed two Scooby Doo-branded plastic bowls from the cupboard and carefully set them down in front of Jake and Josh. He grabbed an open box of Mini Wheats from the counter and filled each bowl to the brim with cereal. Jake and Josh both stared intently as Kelly poured a splash of milk in, monitoring to make sure he gave them the right amount. 

“There you go,” he said, handing them both spoons. While Jake and Josh hungrily tore into their breakfast, Sam came clomping into the room, dressed in his Elmo onesie pajamas, carrying a Bionicle in one hand and a Dr. Seuss book in his other hand. 

“Ronnie won’t read to me no more,” he whined out in his squeaky voice. Jake and Josh were too busy digging into their sugary meal to make much of Sam’s complaint. Sure, he was 5, but he really did whine a lot for a little kid. 

“Ronnie has a playdate to go to,” Kelly tried to explain to his youngest son. “She can read to you later.” 

“Can I go with her?” Sam’s face brightened. Kelly winced. 

“I’m afraid not, buddy. You weren’t included on the guest list.” 

Sam’s face contorted into a deep frown and he looked on the brink of tears when Kelly cut him off to do some damage control. 

“Why don’t you play with your brothers today?” 

“Dad!” Jake couldn’t hold himself back from protesting. Sam just got in the way. He was going to ruin Jake’s pirate game, which Jake wouldn’t accept. 

“C’mon,” Kelly gave Jake a pleading look. “Let the little guy join you. Just for today, okay? I promise.” 

“We can play pirates tomorrow,” Josh leaned into Jake’s side to whisper. 

“I want to play pirates today though,” Jake was now the one who looked on the brink of tears. Kelly accidentally let out a loud sigh and chugged down his cup of coffee. 

“Just play pirates with Sam,” he said. ���I would keep an eye on him, but I’m practicing for a gig with the guys.” 

Jake knew that this was an argument he couldn't win so, with a locked jaw, he nodded. Josh patted him on the back, as if to tell him that everything was okay. 

“I get to be a pirate?” Sam sounded hopeful as he stood in between Jake and Josh, looking up at them in eager anticipation. Jake took a break from his cereal and patted on the top of Sam’s head with probably a little bit too much force. 

“You get to keep an eye on the booty.” 

“Oh boy!” Sam exclaimed, even though it was obvious he didn’t know what Jake was talking about. 

“Why does he get to keep an eye on the booty?” Josh asked Jake under his breath. 

“We’re gonna steal the booty from him,” Jake whispered back. “He’s the bad guy.” 

“Oh,” Josh breathed out. In unison the twins finished the rest of their breakfast and let their spoons clatter down on the counter. Kelly looked up from the newspaper he was scanning and pointed back upstairs. 

“All of you get changed and then the day is yours.” 

The three brothers sprinted upstairs and tore into their shared bedroom. While Josh helped unzip Sam’s pajamas and tug his Detroit Red Wings shirt over his head, Jake reached into the back of their closet and retrieved his Halloween costume from the year prior. He had given it a lot of thought during his restless sleep the night before that he couldn’t successfully play pirates with Josh unless he looked the part. Josh finished dressing Sam and watched as Jake pulled up his patched pants, black and white striped shirt, and black vest. 

“I don’t have a pirate costume,” Josh complained. 

“You can wear my eyepatch,” Jake tried to compromise. It was hard to see out of anyway. That seemed to be enough for Josh since he nodded with a goofy grin and got to work getting into a pair of jeans and white t-shirt. 

“I want to wear pirate clothes too,” Sam’s shrill voice rang out again. 

“You don’t have a pirate costume, Sammy,” Jake turned around to tell his brother. 

“Why not?” Sam crossed his arms. 

“I don’t know,” Jake responded as he carefully placed his pirate hat over his unkempt hair. “You can wear a bandana though.” 

It was Jake’s luck that Sam accepted that as enough for his pirate costume. He fetched a red bandana from underneath his bed and brought it over to Sam. Sam held the cloth in his hands and stared down at the paisley design. 

“What do I do with it?” he finally asked. Jake had been in the process of tugging on his fake pirate beard, so he tsked in aggravation and returned to Sam’s side. 

“You do this,” Jake explained as he took the bandana out of Sam’s hands and sloppily tied it around his head, pushing the fabric back so Sam looked more like a milkmaid than a first mate. Even though Josh looked equally as ridiculous with the eyepatch and a bucket hat on, he let out a small snort at the sight of Sam. It didn’t seem to bother Sam at all though, since he was already in character, running around his side of the room yelling out “Argh!” 

Jake finished getting into costume and cleared his throat. While it didn’t stop Sam, Josh joined Jake’s side. Jake cleared his throat louder a second time and Sam skidded to a stop and whirled around to face his older brother. 

“There’s booty out on the high seas, there is,” Jake growled out in his best pirate voice. “Argh, booty as far as the eye can see.” 

“I want the booty!” Sam shouted out as he danced from foot to foot in excitement. 

“You have the booty, boy,” Jake told Sam. “You need to hide it from us because we’re going to take it from you.” 

“No!” Sam exclaimed. “I won’t let you!” 

“Well get in yer boat and set sail, sonny boy. We’ll give you a head start.” 

Sam took Jake’s cue and booked it out of the room, squealing out in glee. As his thrilled cries disappeared from earshot, Josh turned to Jake. 

“What’s your pirate name going to be?” 

Jake combed his hand through his fake beard as he pondered his options. 

“Captain Brown Beard,” he decided. 

“I wanna be Curly the Pirate,” Josh shared. “I’ll be your first mate.” 

“Ay,” Jake said. 

“I want a parrot too,” Josh added. “He’ll talk sometimes, but I’ll let you know when it’s the parrot talking and not me.” 

Jake nodded at Josh’s request and then motioned towards their open door. 

“The lad’s far enough ahead. Let’s get us some booty.” 

Jake led the charge, letting out the best pirate whoops and calls he could afford, which Josh echoed behind him. They made their way downstairs and, sticking to tradition, raced each other to the front door. Since Josh was technically blind in one eye from the eyepatch, he was at an unfair disadvantage. Jake won by a landslide, but that was mostly because Josh accidentally ran into a wall while they were trying to pass through the living room. Jake opened the front door with a grunt but waited for his twin to catch up, basking in the warm glow of the early sunlight. When Josh joined Jake’s side with an embarrassed grin plastered on his face, Jake craned his neck to shout outside, 

“Sammy boy! We’re coming for ya!” 

He was certain he heard Sam call out in shock at Jake’s announcement, followed by the sound of his tennis shoes crunching on fallen leaves as he tried to run away. 

“The booty’s not far,” Jake turned back around to share with Josh. 

“Roger roger,” Josh chirped back. “That was the parrot,” he added in a whisper. 

With Jake leading the way, they crept through the front door and down the front steps to their front lawn. Jake had his hands cupped together to form a makeshift telescope, which he used to scan their property. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but Jake assumed that meant he was hiding in the backyard. Sam always ran for the shed in any game of hide and seek. Jake reached into his pant pocket and pretended to retrieve a compass, which he held out to Josh to observe. 

“North is that way,” Jake said, pointing towards the backyard. “We have to go north.” 

“Ay ay, captain,” Josh saluted Jake. They started to make their way around the side of their house, Jake pretending to steer their impressive ship while Josh was in charge of keeping an eye on the sails. 

“What will you do with the booty, Captain?” Josh asked after Jake commanded that he weigh anchor and pick up the pace. 

“I’ll buy an even bigger boat, argh,” Jake announced with his arms wide. “So I can get more booty!” 

“Brawk, more booty,” Josh imitated a parrot. “I’m going to use the booty to make a movie,” he continued in his normal voice. This made Jake stop in his tracks, Josh nearly bumping into his back. 

“Josh,” Jake thought hard. “I don’t think movies existed when pirates were around.” 

“Oh,” Josh frowned. “Then I’ll buy an island, I don’t know.” 

They reached the backyard with the shed clear in view, and Jake grabbed a long stick from the ground to serve as his sword. He knew using a stick as a weapon was something his parents wouldn’t approve of, but he wasn’t going to actually use it as a weapon. It was just a prop. 

“My compass says to go that way,” Jake ordered, pointing his stick in the direction of the shed. “Booty ahead, matey!” 

“Yarr!” Josh agreed. They pretended that a strong gust of wind had propelled their boat forward and started to run for the shed. 

“Ahoy, Davy Jones’ Locker!” Jake exclaimed as he pulled the shed door open. “What treasures are here?” 

“No booty,” Sam’s small voice squeaked from the corner of the shed, behind their dad’s lawn mower. Jake and Josh shared an amused look before cornering Sam. 

“Yo ho ho, that was too easy,” Jake couldn’t help but muse. He lowered his stick back down to his side and pretended to swing from his ship down to Sam’s side. As he started to reach for the imaginary treasure that Sam had been given, he was shocked to find that Sam slammed his own stick down on Jake’s hand. 

“OW!” Jake hollered, clutching at his throbbing hand. “Whaddya do that for, Sam?” 

“You won’t take my booty!” Sam shouted with a newfound sense of confidence. “It’s mine!” Because he had caught Jake and Josh off guard enough, he managed to squeeze between them and rush out of the shed and back around to the front yard. 

“Captain?” Josh checked in with Jake, lifting his eyepatch to make total eye contact with Jake. “Is your hand okay?” 

“It will need stitches, but I’ll live,” Jake decided to stay in character, even though internally he wanted to swing his own stick at Sam in retaliation. “Fetch me the surgeon.” Josh hurried to a separate part of the shed and then came back with the eyepatch gone.

“I’m the surgeon, Toothless Pete,” he introduced himself, shaking Jake’s uninjured hand. “What’s the problem?” 

“The enemy got me,” Jake explained, showing his red hand to Josh. “He got me with his sword.” 

“That’s a deep cut,” Josh said as he pretended to examine Jake’s “wound”. “Let me work my magic.” Jake was pleasantly surprised to find that Josh dancing his fingers over Jake’s hand while mumbling gibberish did, for some reason, make his hand feel better. “Good as new,” Josh announced, letting Jake’s hand out from his grip. 

“Let’s get that bad guy,” Jake said, pointing his stick out the shed door. 

They hustled back out into the sunlight and snapped their heads around, trying to catch a glimpse of their younger brother. 

“He can’t be far,” Jake reasoned. 

“Use the compass,” Josh reminded Jake. They acted as if they were looking down at Jake’s trusted compass again, and Jake pointed back to the front yard, where there was a scattered collection of trees. If he had to guess, Sam was probably hiding behind one of them. They set sail once more, this time with Josh and his parrot singing sea shanties while Jake attempted to do tricks with his sword. By the time they approached the trees, the twins were in high spirits. That quickly disappeared though when it was obvious that Sam wasn’t there. 

“Where did he go?” Jake’s voice rose. “He has me booty!” 

“In the house?” Josh guessed. 

“We only play outside,” Jake countered. 

“Maybe that’s why he’s inside,” Josh suggested. Jake shook his head. 

“I’ll bet he’s on the other side of the house.” 

Since Jake was the captain, Josh couldn’t challenge his judgment. They crept to the other side of the house and, again, were left disappointed that Sam wasn’t there. 

“The rascal,” Jake muttered under his breath. 

“I was thinking about it,” Josh commented. “Should we tell on Sam to Dad? He did hit you with a stick.” 

“Maybe,” Jake realized. That would have been a good way to get Sam off of their hands. But, now that they were deep into their game of pirates, Jake was determined to keep Sam in the game so he could find him and rob him clean of his treasure. As Captain Brown Beard, it was his life’s mission. “We have to find the booty first,” he turned back to tell Josh. Josh gave Jake a salute. 

They circled around the house once more without catching even a glimpse of Sam. Jake knew for a fact that Sam wasn’t that good at hiding, which meant Josh had been right all along, that he was inside their house. Jake made a mental note to coach Sam that going inside was against the rules as they steered their ship through the front door. 

“Blimey,” Jake and Josh both whispered in awe. Sam, still wearing his bandana, was sitting on their leather living room couch, happily munching on a bowl of cheddar Goldfish. 

“The booty,” Jake turned to Josh to widen his eyes. They both gazed at Sam’s snack with a newfound hunger. Sure, they were still playing pretend and the Goldfish were a nice tangible thing to steal from Sam, but Jake also realized how hungry captaining an imaginary ship made him. 

“What’s the plan, Captain?” Josh asked in a hush. “Brawk, plan,” he added. 

“An ambush,” Jake conspired. “He won’t know what to do.” 

“On the count of three?” Josh checked in. 

“Ay,” Jake readied his stick. 

“One.” 

“Two.” 

“Three.” 

Jake felt a rush of exhilaration as he and Josh both tore in Sam’s direction, yelling out in their best pirate voices. Sam had been in the middle of shoving a hearty handful of Goldfish into his mouth when he jumped in shock from the sound of his brothers. 

“No!” he cried out as Josh rushed in front of him and pulled the bowl of Goldfish out of his hands. Jake ran in the opposite direction and snatched the bandana off the top of his head, just because. 

“The booty is ours, Curly!” Jake whooped in glee as they rushed out of the room. 

“My snack!” Sam wailed. “My bandana!” 

Jake and Josh both returned back outside and ducked underneath the porch so they could take inventory on their bounty. The bowl was nearly empty, but Jake hardly cared. In that moment he felt as if he was really a pirate, swinging in from a rope, slashing away at the bad guys and taking what was rightfully his. 

“There’s five Goldfish,” Josh realized as he sorted through the crackers. 

“Enough to buy a new boat!” Jake exclaimed, waving his hands up in celebration. 

“And my island!” Josh was back to pretending, joining Jake in his glee. They patted each other on the back and divided the bowl between them, happily munching away on Sam’s food. Jake had to admit that they were probably the best Goldfish he’d ever had. 

He was finishing crunching down on his last one when he heard heavy footsteps above them. Within seconds, Kelly was down by their side, gazing down at them in a mixture of disappointment and amusement. Behind him was a sniffling Sam, who was holding onto the back of Kelly’s shirt. 

“Did you take Sam’s snack?” Kelly asked Jake and Josh. They both exchanged a quick look. It was hard to deny that they had, considering they had Sam’s bowl between them and were both holding Goldfish up to their mouths. 

“He cheated and went inside!” Jake tried to divert the blame. 

“I didn’t know!” Sam raised his voice. Kelly took a pause to turn around and address his youngest. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he calmly told him. “You’re not in trouble.” 

Kelly returned back to Jake and Josh. 

“I’m disappointed in you both,” he said. Those words stung. Jake and Josh winced and tried to avoid looking their father in the eye. “You shouldn’t team up against your brother like that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Josh was the first to crack. 

“I am too,” Jake echoed. He did feel bad; he had never told Sam he couldn’t go inside. Plus, it was unfair that Jake and Josh had teamed up against him, two versus one. If Ronnie was with Sam, Jake wouldn’t have felt a sliver of remorse, but Sam was all on his own. He didn’t stand a chance against his older brothers. 

“Good,” Kelly was finally able to make eye contact with his sons. “Sam, do you feel better now?” 

“I want my booty back,” Sam’s eyes still glistened with tears. 

“We can get you some more booty inside, how about that?” Jake asked as he handed Sam his bandana back. Sam cautiously grabbed it from Jake and then held it up to Kelly to tie around his head. With a small grin, Kelly took the bandana from Sam and motioned for him to stand in front of him so Kelly could properly secure it around his head. 

“There you go,” Kelly softly told him. “You’re a pirate again.” 

That was apparently all that Sam needed to hear, since he called out in glee and ran back towards the house, hollering “Argh!” all over again. Jake, Josh, and Kelly all looked amongst each other and couldn’t help but let out a laugh. It felt like there was never a dull moment with their family.

Kelly trudged after Sam and Jake and Josh shortly followed behind him. 

“Was that a good game of pirates?” Josh asked Jake. Jake reflected on their day. 

“I’d say it was pretty good,” he replied with a large grin through his fake beard. Josh tugged on the fake hair, revealing Jake’s chin for a split second, and let out a hearty laugh. 

“Curly the Pirate and Captain Brown Beard got their booty today!”

[haveihitanerve]

i did not, in fact, make it about Tim that much, but rather a betrayed Jason and the fear every single one of us has felt when our parents leaves us in line to grab something else (or, in this case, someone else)

Jason did not like grocery shopping. Firstly, it reminded him too much of his days on the street, and that always came with guilt because in those days he was forced to steal. Secondly, it was just so boring. But Alfred was busy, and Dick really hadn't wanted to go. So here he was. Jason Todd-Wayne, doing a grocery run with Bruce. Their cart was stuffed with all sorts of food, dietary restrictions meant nothing to them apparently because there were at least seven dairy products and not a single gluten free item. Jason sighed as he grabbed cereal off the shelf, the one he knew Dick devoured, and stuck it in the cart, well aware that it also broke all dietary restrictions. Bruce was frowning down at the cart in disappointment, but Jason noticed he also added something for Dick that he definitely should not, legally, be allowed to eat. “Everything in this goddamn family is a losing battle.” Jason muttered. Bruce’s lips twitched. “Perhaps.” He sighed and Jason blinked at the easy agreement. “Yesterday I had to tell Dick that he only had five more minutes of sink time and then it was your turn.” Bruce reminded him. Jason gave him an innocent smile. “What even is my life anymore?” Bruce shook his head. They rolled the cart into line and Jason scanned the candy, picking out what he liked and what extra because he just knew Dick and most definitely Babs would not let it slide that he didn't grab them something. Bruce just watched, eyes blank as Jason filled the last bit of empty space in their cart, before clearing his throat. Jason froze, halfway on the way to place a Payday right next to Bruce's hand in the cart. “Almond joy.” He grunted. Jason looked at him in confusion. “What?” Bruce's finger flicked towards the candy. “Almond joy. Please. For me.” Jason grinned. “Sure thing old man.” They rolled forward slowly and Jason glanced at the person in front of them. She was half done with scanning her items and already standing ready to pay. Bruce froze next to him. “Shit.” “language.” Jason muttered on instinct because he just couldn't let Bruce get by with cursing without reprimand, no sir, he had gone through too many lectures for that. “I forgot the milk for Alfred for dinner tonight.” And that was when Bruce fully betrayed his son for the first time. “Stay here.” And his father disappeared back into the store. Jason stared wide eyed at the cashier. The lady in front of him had finished and was paying. The cashier slowly removed the divider between her goods and theirs. And started to scan. Sweat beaded on Jason’s forehead. The cashier started to smile, hands moving faster and faster. Jason took a tiny step back. She was halfway through their items. He looked around frantically for Bruce. His father was nowhere in sight. “He's left me to die.” Jason whispered miserably. Suddenly there was a large presence pressing against his back. Milk smacked onto the conveyor belt. “I'm back." Jason turned, tears in his eyes. Bruce looked uncomfortable and bracing. "Jason, meet Tim." Jason's eyes dipped to the black haired, blue eyed boy standing next to Bruce, clutching a bag of peas. "Hi!" He chirped cheerfully, waving a hand. Jason looked up at Bruce. "What." His voice was flat. "Tim here is our neighbor and um, alone, so I figured we could invite him to stay with us for a bit." Bruce offered a hesitant smile. "Yes?" Jason pulled Tim next to him, sending Bruce a glare. Bruce's smile faltered in confusion. "You shouldn't be trusted with children, backstabber!"

“Jason come on! You're being a child!” “Betrayer!” Jason screeched, storming away from Bruce as the man followed him into the house, carrying way too many bags in his arms. Jason, himself, was holding a tiny Tim, who looked both happy and very confused. “Woah.” Dick raised his hands in surrender as they walked in, Jason livid, tear streaks on his cheeks, Bruce exasperated. “Jason!” “what happened?” Babs whispered, reaching her hand into one of the bags Bruce was still carrying and pulling out an almond joy. “That's mine.” Bruce growled at her. She looked at him innocently, peeling it open, and taking a bite. Bruce stared at her. “You're disowned.” Then he turned to Jason. “Its not that big of a deal!” He said in exasperation. “What happened!!!?!?!” Dick demanded. Jason turned to them, anger and hatred and sadness in his eyes. “B left me at the check out alone and we were next in line!” He exploded. The almond joy toppled from Babs hands. Dick whipped around to his father. “It isn't true.” He breathed in disbelief. Bruce sighed, long and heavy. Dick wrapped Jason in a protective hug. “Oh jay, I'm so sorry.” He whispered, pulling his brother closer. “I hate all of you.” Bruce announced, clearly and loudly, before he made his exit to the kitchen. They smirked at each other, before Dick noticed Tim in Jason's arms. He let out an exasperated sigh, then offered the kid a smile. "hey there. Welcome to the family."

Instead of: Batman leaves Jason alone with Sheila in Bosnia

I give you: Batman leaves Jason alone at the checkout line to go grab the milk he forgot

[bobbyseyesmile]

Pride and Passion | 5

Chapter 5

Note: This takes place before chapter 4. Enjoy!

⤝ Previous chapter | Next chapter ⤞ ➻ Pride and Passion masterlist

Amber was a very quiet and shy girl, she walked in front of you without saying a single word, occasionally looking back to check if you were still following her.

“Here we are.” She finally stopped in front of a big double door, taking a deep breath before swinging it open. “Home sweet home…”

Your mouth stood open when you saw the other women: all different in hair colors and personality but wearing the same dresses and shoes as Amber and you.

“You must be Y/N.” a brown-haired woman spoke, holding out her hand for you “I’m Sherry. Welcome to the Sanctuary and our little kingdom.” She made a small gesture to show off the room that you just entered.

“Hi-“ you managed to get out “Thanks… uhm, let me get this right, you are all his wives? Like, you are married to Negan? How’s that possible? Did y’all have a wedding or something…”

“No” a red-haired woman laughed “He just claimed us, and yes, we’re all his wives. I’m Frankie by the way, nice to meet you.”

You shook your head in confusion, all this didn’t make any sense, on the other hand it was Negan you were talking about so it kind of made perfect sense. “He wants me to be his wife too… How does it work? Is there some kind of ceremony or-?”

“Nah, as soon as he introduced you to his people as his new wife, that’s it. You were already married to him when he showed you off a few weeks back. Name’s Tanya, hi.”

You ran your fingers through your hair. Shit. You had hoped that there would be some kind of ceremony thus leading to a chance of an escape or getaway.

“Don’t.” Sherry’s voice was soft, her expression showing that she knew exactly what you were thinking about “There’s no way out for us.”

“But-“ you started, and your eyes fell on Amber who sat in a corner of the room, staring at the wall with an empty look “What if I object to be his wife? I mean, he can’t just claim us, we’re not trophies! At a real wedding there’s the chance to make a plea and I can’t be forced into a marriage-“

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” You immediately stopped talking when you heard his voice. Negan’s lips where merely inches from your ear thus making your skin crawl and you inevitably started to shiver.

“Forced? Trophies? My wives?” You heard the smirk in his voice, his musky scent filling the air. He walked over to the other women, all of them on their knees staring at the floor, before he lifted Sherry’s chin: “Tell me, baby, did I force you into this marriage?”

“No, Negan.”

“Frankie, darling, what about you?”

“No, Negan.”

“And you, angel? Did I ever treat ya like a trophy?”

Tanya shook her head and gave him a quick smile. “No, Negan.”

He let out a deep “Hmm” before turning to Amber who fought back her tears. “What about my sweet Amber? Did I claim you or did you marry me because you fucking wanted to?”

“I married you because I wanted to, Negan.”

Negan turned around, arms in the air like he was shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t see no one here who doesn’t want to be here, darling.”

“You can’t be serious!” You spat back and pointed at Amber “Don’t you see how scared she is? They all answered your questions like robots, no way they did it out of love or-“

“Oh honey, let me fucking stop your right there-“ he raised his hand, instantly shushing you before he came up dangerously close to your face. “Love? You really think people still do stuff out of love, in this world? Sorry to shit in your rainbow-colored cereals and ruin your picture but love’s dead. There’s only alive and dead left, and I’m the one keeping everybody here alive. Including you from now on.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive, I can handle myself.”

“Oh, alright, I saw ya handling yourself, princess. And I acknowledge your fighting spirit but that won’t be necessary anymore- you can relax here and just be pretty for me.”

You two stared into each other’s eyes, no one was willing to give up or back down. The others anxiously observed the whole scene in front of them, never had anyone ever spoken to their leader like that. “No.” was the only word that left your mouth, but it made his eye twitch in annoyance.

“Careful, honey, thin ice.”

“Or what?”

You knew that you were playing with fire and it would burn you eventually, but you refused to give up who you were and become a brainwashed life-sized doll for Negan.

“Oh fuck…” he finally gave in and leaned back while biting his lips “You make me hard as fuck and I can’t even screw your brains out because I promised not to touch you… What a shitty day.”

You gulped your fear down and crossed your arms. You sincerely hoped that you didn’t go too far but giving his smug behavior he seemed more amused than angry. So, you thought.

“Well-“ he gave you a devilish smile and it send cold shivers down your spine “I guess my forthcoming visit to Alexandria today will be quite different… I’ll send your dad your love and hope he'll be doing fine with just nine fingers left…”

“W-what?” you stuttered “No, Negan wait-“

“Oh, and since Amber seems to be your new best friend, she’ll have to be the replacement for you today.” He reached out for her hand “Come on, baby, I’ll have to relieve some fucking steam before I go.”

Your eyes widened in shock as Amber took his hand and her eyes started to tear up. “No! Leave her out of this, please Negan, I beg you! Take me-” you grabbed his arm, but he shook it off with one smooth motion.

“Too late, darling. I’ll see y’all later.” With those words he left the room and you sank down to your knees, realizing what you’ve just done.

“I told you. There’s no way out of this.” Sherry and the others turned around, leaving you by yourself.

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