#that's my favourite way to consume content

[dismalflo]

loving is easy

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 4.3k words

summary: Being friends with idiots is hard. how long will it take them to realise you and Remus are dating? or a series of events where you become progressively more obvious.

cw: fluff, steamy makeout towards the end but no smut, established relationship

Somewhere between late night study sessions and early morning conversations, you fell in love. To your amazement Remus fell in love with you too, his honeyed words and soft touches taking on a new meaning. What started as quiet,  timid affection bloomed into an all consuming devotion. Happy and safe. 

At the start, you both decided to keep it quiet, nurture it by yourselves with no interruption. But time has a way of slipping past unnoticed, and now the two of you are in deep, and no one else has caught on. It’s not as if you’re hiding, exactly; you and Remus just prefer the intimacy of privacy. And honestly, there’s a quiet thrill in watching how long it takes your friends to figure it out.

The great hall.

The smell of toast and tea lingers in the air as you trudge through the double doors of the Great Hall, hair still mussed from sleep and jumper slightly askew. It’s far too early for the kind of noise James Potter is making, voice echoing off the high stone walls as he waves his hands dramatically about something you don’t have the energy to decipher.

“…and I told her, I don’t care if you hexed my quill, I’m still not going to that—”

He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes flicking past Sirius to you. His mouth snaps shut like a trap. Sirius glances behind him, curious about what could possibly silence James of all people.

You offer a sleepy wave as you shuffle closer, barely catching the way Remus’ head lifts from his folded copy of the daily prophet. His gaze finds you instantly. A slow smile tugs at his mouth, and his shoulders visibly relax, as if just seeing you settled something in him.

“Morning,” you murmur, sliding onto the bench beside him, bumping your knee lightly into his under the table. He shifts just slightly, his hand coming to rest on your thigh in a gentle squeeze, grounding and familiar. You hide a small, content smile behind your cup of tea.

Across the table, Sirius raises an eyebrow over his plate of eggs. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Remus beats you to it, not even looking up from his paper. “Leave her alone, Pads. Some of us don’t spend an hour in front of the mirror every morning.”

Sirius scoffs, flicking a crumb at him. “Jealousy is a disease, Lupin.”

James is still watching you—narrowed eyes, brow slightly furrowed, as if he’s trying to do complex equations in his head. You glance his way, and he startles like he’s been caught.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly to Remus, then back to you. “You look—well, not great.”

You blink at him over your tea. “Cheers, James.” you deadpan, “I’m just tired.”

He opens his mouth to say more, maybe apologize, but Lily slides onto the bench beside you with a rustle of parchment and the kind of purpose only she can manage this early in the morning.

“Did you start the Transfiguration essay yet?” she asks, nudging your elbow meaningfully. “Because McGonagall will have your head if it’s late again.”

You groan, resting your temple against your palm. “Started it, yeah. Finished it? Not even close.”

Lily sighs, long-suffering but fond. “Library after lunch.”

You nod, and the two of you slip into an easy rhythm—first the essay, then weekend plans for Hogsmeade. Remus stays quiet beside you, content to listen, a soft, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

At some point, without saying anything, he sets his paper aside and starts assembling a plate. Two slices of toast, a spoonful of marmalade, a soft-boiled egg, a handful of your favourite fruit. He doesn’t announce it or fuss, just places it gently in front of you, brushing a few stray crumbs off your sleeve with ease.

By then, James and Sirius have resumed their conversation, judging by the rising volume. Lily spots Slughorn across the way and excuses herself with a quick goodbye, already halfway across the room before you can respond.

You turn back to your tea, only to pause. The plate of food wasn’t there before but it’s exactly what you would’ve gotten for yourself. Toast arranged neatly, marmalade on the side. You glance sideways. Remus is already reading again, pretending not to notice your looking.

Under the table, your hand finds his. You link your fingers, gentle and grateful, and when you squeeze, he squeezes back. It’s warm, steady. 

You lean in slightly, just enough so he can hear you over the breakfast chatter.

“Thank you,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the back of his hand.

Remus doesn’t answer right away, eyes still on the paper; but the smile tugging at his lips is unmistakable. Quiet. Fond. Yours.

“It’s nothing,” he says softly, in a way that means everything.

You open your mouth to say something more, because it's not nothing and Remus is the sweetest boy you know, but Sirius cuts in from across the table, dramatically dropping his fork and fixing Remus with a mock-offended glare.

“Why don’t I ever get breakfast made for me, Moony?” he demands, gesturing wildly at your plate. “You’ve known me longer. I’m charming. Handsome. A delight, really.”

Remus doesn’t even look up. He just turns a page.

“Because you’re a right wanker,” he replies, so evenly it takes a beat to register.

Sirius gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been wounded. “The audacity! James, did you hear that?”

James snorts into his tea. “Hard to miss. He’s not wrong, though.”

“I’m hurt,” Sirius insists, turning to you with wide, dramatic eyes. “He used to be so sweet. So gentle.”

You glance at Remus, one brow raised. “Did he?”

The infirmary.

If Remus had to pinpoint the worst part of the full moon, he doesn't think he could. The way his body is violated and his mind succumbs to bestial madness is high up there. Or maybe it's the way his mind is tormented month-round, collapsing from exhaustion afterwards and being plagued with worry for the next. A vicious, never-ending cycle. This time, he thinks, it's waking up the morning after the full moon.

Though he can tell it was a particularly bad one, it’s not the aches and pains. It’s waking to you, curled in an armchair at his bedside, asleep. Remus hates that you worry so much, that it affects you. Your neck is at an awful angle, and there's a faint crease between your brows, even in sleep.

He exhales, the breath barely more than a rasp, and your lashes flutter in response. You shift, not fully awake at first, and then, like something clicking into place, you sit up straighter, eyes flying open.

"Remus," you say softly, already pushing yourself to your feet and crossing the space between the chair and the bed. Your hands find his arm gently, carefully, as though you're afraid even your touch might hurt. "You're awake."

He tries to offer a weak smile, but it falters before it can fully form. "Unfortunately."

"Don't say that," you murmur, frowning as your hands glide down to check for injuries, the kind that bandages don't always catch.

“I’m fine, dove,” he lies, out of habit more than belief.

You ignore him. “Let me get you some water,” you say, already moving toward the small table where a pitcher and glass had been left. You pour it, return, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed, holding it to him with steady hands.

He accepts it, grateful but quiet, sipping slowly. When he’s finished, you set the glass back on the nightstand with a soft clink.

His brow furrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice hoarse but laced with genuine confusion. “You usually come after I’ve woken up.”

You hesitate, brushing a bit of hair away from his damp forehead. “You… woke up early. Just for a little while.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I know.” Your hand stills against his temple. “It wasn’t for long. James came to get me. Said you were–” You glance away for a moment, mouth tightening. “You were in pain. And saying my name. Over and over. Apparently Sirius and Madam Pomfrey had to hold you down to get a calming draught in you.”

Remus goes still. Shame rolls through him like a fresh wave of fever. He looks away, down at the rough wool blanket, his hands balled in the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words bitter on his tongue. “I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to wake you. You didn’t have to come.”

“Stop being silly,” you say, almost fondly, but there’s a steel thread beneath it. You reach for his face again, gentle but firm, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Of course I came. You think I’m going to stay in bed while you’re in pain, calling for me?”

He starts to respond, some garbled protest forming in his throat, but you cut it off by leaning forward and pressing a quick, sure kiss to his lips.

It’s warm. Soft. Gone before he can even react.

He blinks at you, stunned.

“I’ll always come,” you say simply, your fingers still resting at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to be sorry for needing someone, Remus.”

Silence settles between the two of you.

You don’t say anything, and neither does he. It’s not awkward. shifting just slightly on the mattress, curling one leg up under you, you begin brushing the hair from Remus’ forehead again—gentle, patient sweeps of your fingers, like you have all the time in the world. His hair is still damp with sweat, a little tangled, but you don’t seem to mind. You just keep smoothing it back, over and over, letting him rest in the rhythm of it.

Remus closes his eyes. Not to sleep but just to relax. The silence swells around you, filled only by the quiet sounds of the castle waking up; distant footsteps, the occasional creak of old wood, and your even, steady breaths.

Eventually, his voice slips through the hush, barely more than a whisper. “Where are the others?”

You smile faintly. “James is with Regulus. Doing God knows what. Hopefully sleeping.” You roll your eyes, affection bleeding through the exasperation.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh from Remus, which quickly dissolves into a wince. He presses a hand to his ribs.

“And Sirius?” he asks.

You glance toward the door. “Went to get breakfast. Said you’d need something solid, not just Pomfrey’s apparently sad excuse for toast.”

Just as you say it, the door creaks open and Sirius steps inside, a paper bag tucked under one arm and two cups in his hands. The scent of butter and cinnamon trails in with him.

“Speak of the devil,” you murmur.

Sirius pauses when he sees the two of you. You're still perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against Remus’ temple, the other curled in your lap. Remus’ eyes are open now, glassy with exhaustion but softer than they’ve been in days. The two of you are close and something about the look on your faces makes Sirius stop mid-step.

Then he just clears his throat and steps forward, saying nothing about it. “Brought food.”

He places the bag and drinks on the nightstand with uncharacteristic care, glancing once more between the two of you. His gaze lingers on Remus, searching for signs of deeper pain or unease, but seems satisfied by what he finds.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says softly, stepping back. “See you later, Moons.”

There’s a quiet fondness to it.

“Thanks, Pads,” Remus says, voice rough but genuine.

Sirius nods and slips out the door with barely a sound.

-

Sirius finds James exactly where he expects: sprawled on one of the beaten-up sofas in the Gryffindor common room. Less expected is Regulus, curled under James’s arm, head tucked into his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. James looks half-asleep, fingers lazily combing through Regulus’s hair, while Regulus is clearly pretending he hadn’t just dozed off.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, stepping over the hearthrug. “Is there something in the Gryffindor water this year? Everyone’s getting domestic.”

Regulus lifts his head just enough to shoot him a glare. “You sound like you’re sixty.”

“And you look like you’re two seconds from sucking your thumb,” Sirius shoots back, dropping down onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, then looks squarely at James.

“You’ll never guess what I just walked in on.”

James, ever patient when Sirius is in a mood, lifts a brow. “Tell me.”

Sirius jerks his chin toward the entrance of the common room. “Remus is awake. Looks like hell, obviously, but that’s not the point. The point is…” He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing meaningfully between the two of them. “Y/N was there. Sitting right beside him. Touching his face. Whispering. Very softly, I might add.”

James frowns. “So?”

“I’m just saying,” Sirius drawls, “it was very couple-y.”

James lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “No way. They’ve been like that for ages, they’re just friends, mate. Remus would’ve told us if they were dating.”

Sirius nods, like that settles it.

Regulus snorts into James’s shoulder.

“What?” Sirius narrows his eyes.

“You two are incredibly dense,” Regulus says without looking up. “They are dating. It’s obvious.”

James and Sirius look at each other, then back at Regulus in perfect unison.

“No offence, Reggie,” Sirius says, raising a brow, “but they’re our friends. I think we’d know.”

“You think you’d know,” Regulus says flatly. “But you don’t. Because Remus is private and stupidly noble, and your friend is just as bad. Do you really think he’s going to announce it over breakfast? What would he even say—‘pass the marmalade, I’m in love’?”

James blinks.

Sirius blinks.

Then they both burst out laughing, as if Regulus is mental.

The black lake.

With the summer months fast approaching, and a week passing since the full moon, the warm weather has called for a relaxing day on the shore of the black lake. You're laid out on a blanket with Remus sat beside you, your head resting on his thigh.

With closed eyes, you can picture the peaceful look on Remus’ face as he reads with his fingers twirling in the ends of your hair.

The sun is warm where it filters through the branches above, casting soft, dappled patterns across your skin. Somewhere behind you, someone splashes into the lake with a shout, followed by a chorus of laughter. But it all feels far away.

You sigh, content, eyes still closed. “If I die right now,” you murmur, “tell Madam Pomfrey I went happy.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh, the vibration of it echoing down through his thigh. “Bit dramatic,” he says, though there’s affection in it.

“Mmm,” you hum, noncommittal. “We’ll see what you say when it happens.”

Another beat of silence. You think he’s gone back to reading–until his fingers pause, then still.

“Everyone’s out of the dorms tonight,” he says casually, “some ravenclaw party, or something.”

You open one eye, peering up at him. “You planning to go?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. I thought maybe… you’d want to come up for a bit. To mine.” His voice dips a little lower. “Just us.”

“I’d love to,” you say simply. “You and me. No interruptions. I’ll finally have you all to myself.”

Remus’s eyes soften. He sets the book aside, turning his full attention to you. “You already have me,” he murmurs.

Your only response is to wiggle your eyebrows suggestively, the grin on your face unmistakably wicked. Remus gives a soft, breathy laugh and shakes his head. “Minx,” he says, voice full of fondness.

You're just about to respond–something equally teasing on the tip of your tongue–when there’s the familiar thunder of approaching footsteps.

Before either of you can move, Sirius throws himself down onto the blanket with a loud oof, landing half across your legs and knocking Remus slightly off balance.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, even as you’re giggling.

Sirius groans dramatically as you swat at him, your hand smacking against his shoulder with no real force.

“You love it,” Sirius replies, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

Before you can retaliate with some biting remark, a familiar voice calls out from behind.

“Y/N!” Lily’s voice rings clearly through the warm air, her red hair catching the sunlight as she approaches. “You coming to the greenhouses? Marlene’s already started without us and Dorcas is claiming all the best pots.”

You sit up with a groan, shoving Sirius more forcefully this time. He rolls onto the grass with a theatrical oomph that earns an eye-roll from Remus.

“On my way!” you call back to Lily, brushing grass off your legs. You turn to Remus, eyes softening, your hand brushing his wrist. “Later?”

He nods, that quiet little smile playing on his lips. “Later.”

Sirius waves lazily from the blanket, still lounging, and you hear him shout a cheerful “See you later, Y/N!”

The two of you start walking toward the greenhouses, and once you’re out of sight, Sirius suddenly sits up. Remus catches the shift in his mood, the way he straightens, a more serious look crossing his features. 

Then, as if deciding to finally ask whatever's been on his mind, he looks at Remus, his voice quieter than usual. "You two are friends, right?" he asks, a slight edge of curiosity in his tone.

Remus, who’s watching you walk away, doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Of course." He’s telling the truth, you might be his girlfriend but you were his friend first and you're his best friend now.

There’s a brief pause, and Sirius nods slowly. He makes a soft sound, tapping his fingers absently on the grass, clearly stewing in his thoughts. Remus knows he’s trying to find the right words, the ones that aren’t too blunt but also get at whatever Sirius is really thinking. After another long stretch of silence, Remus sighs, deciding to make it easier.

“Spit it out, Pads. You're not very tactful.”

Sirius huffs a small laugh, a little awkwardly, before shifting on the blanket. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. “I was just thinking,” he starts, “You… fancy her, don’t you?”

The question hits Remus like a sharp poke to the ribs. He looks over at Sirius, surprised at the bluntness, then immediately thinks Oh. He can’t help but chuckle lightly, thinking Sirius has finally put it all together–that he and you are already together.

“Well, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, his gaze drifting back to you. “I do.”

Sirius, however, just stares at him for a moment, blinking in confusion. “You… do?” He asks slowly, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “So, why are you not doing anything about it? Do you need help telling her?”

Remus freezes for a second, eyes narrowing. The warmth in his chest from the thought of you is still there, but now it comes with a pinch of amusement. He opens his mouth to respond, but then quickly closes it. Sirius really has no clue, does he? Remus can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head.

“I don’t need help, Pads,” Remus says, his voice an easy mix of affection and slight exasperation.

Sirius scoffs, “If this is some mopey werewolf bullshit, I don't want to hear it. You deserve to be happy, Moony.” 

“I am happy,” Remus stresses, “I’ve done all I need to.” he nods at Sirius, hoping that the boy can read between the lines.

“Okay.” Sirius sighs.

The dormitory.

The evening sun casts its last golden rays over the horizon as the two of you find yourselves alone in the quiet of Remus's dorm room. The noises of the day have faded to a dull hum, and it’s just the two of you now–no distractions, no interruptions.

Remus’ heated touch is wandering, hands gripping whatever part of you he can get to. His mouth is warm on your neck, doting but rough, anything else you were thinking of doing tonight quickly erased from your mind. One of your hands is buried in his hair while the other drifts upwards to his neck and jaw. 

“Rem,” you sigh, breathless and lightly pulling his hair to move his mouth upwards. 

A breathy laugh comes out of him, before he captures your mouth with his own. You sigh into his mouth, and he takes it gladly, his hands moving down to your hips shifting you closer in his lap. His eager kissing is warm, acting like a man starved.

You shift your hips, wanting to be closer, feeling him against you. It elicits a groan from one of you, that gets swallowed between you. Remus’ grip on your hips becomes firmer, working to guide you in your efforts grinding against him, and your moans become more frequent for it.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling back to look up at you, his grip on you not faltering. He shifts a hand to toy with the hem of your top. “Can I take this off?”

“Please.” you reply breathless and he smiles at you planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth before moving your shirt up and over your head. 

Remus moves in again, his mouth mean as it skims across the top of your breasts. It's bliss.

Neither of you notice the door opening until a scandalised gasp echoes through the room. “Bloody hell!” James squeals, immediately throwing a hand over his eyes and turning around so fast he nearly maims himself on the doorframe. “I’m blind! I didn’t need to see that!”

Remus scrambles to wrap a blanket around your shoulder as you shift to move off his lap. Once the blanket is secured, Remus’ hands grip your waist tightly and he looks at you, eyes pleading, begging you not to move. 

Sirius lingers in the doorway, eyebrows shooting straight into his hairline as a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Well, well, well,” he whistles, arms crossing as he leans casually against the frame. “When you said you’d done all you need to, I didn’t think you meant you were shagging her. I thought you were a gentleman, Moony.”

Remus, who’s gone a shade redder than any of the Gryffindor banners, pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders and groans. “Can you both just– piss off?!” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he sounds more desperate than angry.

You stifle a laugh against his shoulder, only mildly mortified but mostly amused.

Remus shoots Sirius a glare, ears flushed pink. “That–that was me telling you she’s my girlfriend, you sod.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, in perfect unison, James–still hiding behind his hand–and Sirius both shout;

“What?!” 

“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, amusement clear in your voice despite the heat in your cheeks. You’re still tucked against Remus, the blanket barely doing its job, and your shirt’s rumpled on the bed behind you. “This is really fun, guys, but could you maybe turn around so I can put my shirt back on?”

James lets out a garbled sound still shielding his eyes. Sirius sighs but obliges. 

“What the fuck,” Sirius mutters, and James echoes it softly, bewildered and still shell-shocked.

You grin as you press a quick kiss to Remus’ lips, gentle, grateful, and a little teasing. He’s still beet red, poor thing, but the moment your lips touch his, some of that panic in his eyes melts into warmth.

Then, with a deep breath and no small amount of dignity, you swing your legs off his lap and slip your shirt back on. Remus helps you straighten it without thinking, hands ghosting over your sides like he can’t not touch you, even in the middle of the world’s most embarrassing interruption.

Once decent, you move to sit beside him rather than on top of him, though you don’t go far. Your knees still touch. Always.

“Alright, you can turn around now,” you call lightly, brushing your fingers through your hair.

James turns slowly, eyes still suspiciously squinted like he’s worried he’ll see something scarring again. He takes in the scene, both of you sitting side by side on the bed, fully clothed now but clearly together, Remus still flushed and you not bothering to hide your smug little smile.

“So…” James begins, narrowing his eyes, “when did this start?”

You glance at Remus, who looks as though he’d prefer the full moon over this interrogation.

“Be honest,” Sirius adds, crossing the room to drop dramatically into the armchair by the window. “If you say, like, last week, I will riot.”

Remus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “October.”

James blinks. “October last year?”

You nod innocently. “Started with studying. Got a bit… distracting.”

Sirius makes a sound like he’s just been betrayed. “You mean to tell me you two have been together for months and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like we were hiding it,” Remus mutters.

James gestures wildly. “You were definitely hiding it!”

You exchange a look with Remus, who just shrugs helplessly.

Sirius groans, dragging a hand down his face as if it's all too much to bear. And then, with the weariness of a man forced to admit defeat, he mutters:

“For fuck’s sake… Reg was right.”

Remus smirks, finally relaxed again. “You gonna be okay, Pads?”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius says, already slumping further into the chair. “You’re disgusting.”

But he’s grinning.

James just shakes his head, still in awe. “Next time, just tell us.”

You reach for Remus’s hand, lacing your fingers together, and smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

masterlist <3

[louisa-gc]

how to start reading again

from someone who was a voracious reader until high school and is now getting back into it in her twenties.

start with an old favourite. even though it felt a little silly, i re-read the harry potter series one christmas and it wiped away my worry that i wasn't capable of reading anymore. they are long books, but i was still able to get completely immersed and to read just as fast as i had years and years ago.

don't be afraid of "easier" books. before high school i was reading the french existentialists, but when getting back into reading, i picked up lucinda riley and sally rooney. not my favourite authors by far, but easier to read while not being totally terrible. i needed to remind myself that only choosing classics would not make me a better or smarter person. if a book requires a slower pace of reading to be understood, it's easier to just drop it, which is exactly what i wanted to avoid at first.

go for essays and short stories. no need to explain this one: the shorter the whole, the less daunting it is. i definitely avoided all books over 350 pages at first and stuck to essay collections until i suddenly devoured donna tartt's goldfinch.

remember it's okay not to finish. i was one of those people who finished every book they started, but not anymore! if i pick up a book at the library and after a few chapters realise i'd rather not read it, i just return it. (another good reason to use your local library! no money spent on books you might end up disliking.)

analyse — or don't. some people enjoy reading more when they take notes or really stop to think about the contents. for me, at first, it was more important to build the habit of reading, and the thought of analysing what i read felt daunting. once i let go of that expectation, i realised i naturally analyse and process what i read anyway.

read when you would usually use your phone. just as i did when i was a child, i try to read when eating, in the bathroom, on public transport, right before sleeping. i even read when i walk, because that's normally a time i stare at my screen anyway. those few pages you read when you brush your teeth and wait for a friend very quickly stack up.

finish the chapter. if you have time, try to finish the part you're reading before closing the book. usually i find i actually don't want to stop reading once i get to the end of a chapter — and if i do, it feels like a good place to pick up again later.

try different languages. i was quickly approaching a reading slump towards the end of my exchange year, until i realised i had only had access to books in english and that, despite my fluency, i was tired of the language. so as soon as i got back home i started picking up books in my native tongue, which made reading feel much easier and more fun again! after some nine months, i'm starting to read in english again without it feeling like a huge task.

forget what's popular. i thought social media would be a fun way to find interesting books to read, but i quickly grew frustrated after hating every single book i picked up on some influencer's recommendation. it's certainly more time-consuming to find new books on your own, but this way i don't despise every novel i pick up.

remember it isn't about quantity. the online book community's endless posts about reading 150 books each year or 6 books in a single day easily make us feel like we're slow, bad readers, but here's the thing: it does not matter at all how many books you read or what your reading pace is. we all lead different lives, just be proud of yourself for reading at all!

stop stressing about it. we all know why reading is important, and since the pandemic reading has become an even more popular hobby than it was before (which is wonderful!). however, there's no need to force yourself to be "a reader". pick up a book every now and then and keep reading if you enjoy it, but not reading regularly doesn't make you any less of a good person. i find the pressure to become "a person who reads" or to rediscover my inner bookworm only distances me from the very act of reading.

[sorryimananti-romantic]

to a dying? atinyblr

i don't usually speak about these things, but a lot of blogs (amazing writers) are leaving this platform or taking time off bc of lack of engagement which serves as a big demotivating factor. especially and specifically in this atiny fandom, some things have come to my attention and i just want all readers and writers to take a look at this post and refresh some reading and writing etiquettes, as well as revive the essence of being a part of this fandom.

feedback:

i understand that there are a lot of silent readers on here, but since tumblr is dying and our fandom is not very huge, the least you can do to show the writers some support is like the post. 

which brings me to the point that the like function didn't even exist in the past. this site still runs on reblogs. as readers, to show your favourite writers some semblance of support, you should be reblogging with tags. a simple ‘#ateez x reader’ or ‘#ateez fics’ is enough. it's literally not asking for much– reblogs are the only way writers can get reach.

if you cannot do that bc of your blog's aesthetic or whatever, side blogs exist. if you still cannot do that, a simple anon ask appreciating the writer sometimes saves them.

also, what has happened to the quality of reblogs? readers consume years of writers’ work and efforts in mere hours and don’t even leave any feedback? art in general in all forms is very underappreciated and with all sorts of problems like plagiarism, ai writing and everything, true art and writing is dying and needs to be appreciated now more than ever. we’re literally the last generation witnessing ai take over in all fields of arts. appreciate content creators before it’s too late, don’t be a content glutton!

updates and requests:

asking writers for updates when they specifically mention that they would prefer posting at their pace is wrong for so many reasons– we all have a real life. you, the reader, do too. just like you don't always have time to read, writers don't always have time to write. do you ever see the writers asking their readers 'why have you not read my latest chapter?' 

most of the times, writers mention in their bio/faq post or elsewhere that they do mind being asked about updates. respect your writers, please, and do a little scroll before you send such demanding asks (also, sugarcoating when asking for updates does not make it any better!)

if you are only asking about updates, it demotivates a lot of writers bc these same people will disappear when it is time for feedback. writing is a form of art. we can write, artists can paint, musicians can compose music, but all of it has no meaning unless it is shared with an audience and appreciated. readers are just as important as the writers but there is no way of knowing fics are valued unless feedback is given.

the same goes for requests. you can only send a request when the requests are open, which is usually mentioned in the writer’s bio/faq post. it’s literally not that hard to check if requests are open and it’s basic decency to not send a request when the writers specifically mention that requests are closed. when sending a request, please be courteous. a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ are examples of being courteous when sending requests.

the fanfics in atinyblr:

i understand that you can read whatever you like, but why is it that in the atiny fandom, fics that do not contain smut hardly ever get attention? as a writer, i enjoy writing and reading smut, and while i am not specifically a smut blog, i have noticed how fics containing smut get far more reach than fics that do not contain smut– not just in my case, but other amazing writers as well. 

there are such amazing fictions in this fandom. all fics are crafted with dedication and care, yet stories without smut often get sidelined. writers are not able to express themselves in their writing freely anymore and they simply conform to a genre they know readers will consume, as they are forced to consider adding smut to their stories so they can get more reach in this fandom. i have heard accounts from a lot of writers who were inclined to add smut to an otherwise smut-free fic just for reach.

this is by no means hate to the smut writers. i am also not placing blame on them. smut drabbles have always been in this fandom, and there are amazing smut writers out there, doing their thing. it is the readers here who are failing the writers. readers are quick to talk about the lack of ‘good fics’ or ‘plot’ yet will not even bother searching for these works. there used to be a good balance and appreciation for all genres alike.

i know that smut is what's hot and trendy these days, and drabbles in general, no matter the genre, are easier to read when you want to take a short break. but there is such a lack of longfics in this fandom, especially as of lately, and as someone who has personally witnessed the ratio of longfics decrease exponentially, i felt the need to point this out. appreciate all writers! appreciate all genres! longfic writers need as much validation and encouragement as drabble writers, and vice versa! don't be too harsh on longfic writers for not pumping out fics at the same speed as shortfic writers.

and on that note, smut drabble writers experience a lack of quality feedback despite the high engagement, so readers, please don't hesitate to point out exactly what you liked about a fic, even if it's a short drabble! be kind to those writers, give them time to write and be kind when sending requests! they may post more often but they, too, have a life.

tags:

this is specifically for the people who will post a very normal picture of a member, no caption, but tag it something like #ateez smut, #ateez hard hours, #ateez x reader. and for the people who tag their asks with irrelevant tags– literally learn to tag your post properly, and stop crowding the wrong tags. you're just proving the point that if you don't tag a post with the smut tag or something similar, it won't get reach. if you've posted with a caption, that makes sense (though it still doesn't warrant some of the tags being used there).

as for writers, also learn to use your tags appropriately. fics that do not contain smut should not be tagged with smut related tags. believe in yourself. i get that there is the problem of reach but do not overcrowd tags with irrelevant material.

disclaimer:

this is by no means about me. if i cared about the notes, or lack thereof, i would have stopped writing a while ago. while it is challenging to be a writer here, especially as of lately, i still enjoy posting whatever i write no matter the genre or the word count. but it's a bit disappointing that my planned out fics get much less attention than a simple smut headcanons post that i wrote in the heat of the moment with my friend in literally a few hours as a joke (which has reached almost 10k notes btw in a span of 2 years). sure, it has exposed my blog to new readers but that's about it.

this post is for all the amazing writers who have left, are thinking of leaving, or are struggling to voice these problems because they are afraid of being marked as 'problematic' or a 'hater' or something worse. i am not afraid to voice my opinion on here, and if you think that i am wrong, feel free to interact with this post and correct me because i am not claiming that i am right about this.

these are just the observations i have made as someone who has been actively writing on this platform for about 4 years now, and since i have a decent number of followers, i hope this post gets more reach. do not be afraid to reblog this if you agree, and even if you do not, reblog this so someone else gets educated. i may have missed some points so feel free to add if you want too.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Dick Grayson is my favorite lil guy

And my favorite way of consuming content of my favorite lil guy is the core 5 titans

There is also about 5 billion pieces of media where these 5 interact and some of it sucks so here I am scrapbooking canon together with glue and scissors so I can talk about how I view Dicks relationship with the other OG titans and how different these relationships are from one another while all still being boiled down to found family love

Dick & Donna: Listen. To. Me. These two aren't besties, or fav teammates or siblings. These two are the sun and earth revolving around each other except they each think the other one is the Sun. Dick Grayson and Donna Troy are the blueprint for platonic soulmates. Dick and Donna make everyone around them believe in ancient story by plato "humans once had 4 arms and legs and 2 faces and the God Zeus split them in half for their hubris and now they are destined to roam the earth forever looking for their other half". If y'all think Dick wasn't doing well after Jason died?? Donna Troys death fundamentally changed who Dick Grayson was and how he was written in teams for years. Donna Troy and Dick Grayson absolutely have debated getting platonically married (not canon but it is in my heart) and the only reason they haven't is BC if they do, Donna will kidnap Dick and never let him within 1000 feet of Bruce Wayne and Gotham.

Dick & Roy: remember how I said Dick was fucked up post Troias death in the comics? yeah? Roy Harper is the only reason he made it out of that period of his life alive. These two are like fire and Gasoline, they're quick and angry and always inexplicably near each other. They are VICIOUS with one another in a way they almost never are with anyone else. They try so hard to ruin their relationship bc implicitly they know (unless its the new 52 which I ignore for my own mental wellbeing-hey I did say this was a scrap book of canons) they'll always be there for each other. Roy Harper never misses, Dick Grayson cannot fall and yet Dick is there to hold Roy when his hand trembles and Roy is there to catch Dick when he loses his Grip.

Dick Grayson is the first person Roy calls to get Lian

Roy Harper is the designated keep Dick Grayson alive even if he has to tie the bastard up-

Dick (and wally depending on the run) help Roy with his addiction)

these two are each others roman empires

Dick & Wally: to cut back on the pretentious seriousness of this post. Every time these two are drawn together be it 80s road trips or being the most likeable part of tom Taylors run. Wally west always reads like he's about to invite Dick to swing with him and his wife. If you see them as platonic, romantic (right person wrong time is my favourite Fanon flavour but canonically I like em besties) or somewhere in between Wally West is always Dick Graysons best friend. There is something so wholesome about the fact that Wally canonically stalks checks up on Dick Grayson as much as he does his wife and twins and Dick who is a bat, notorious for expressing their love via breaking into your house and doing your casework for you. Is getting stalked checked up on by someone who loves him without it triggering his "see obviously you're not good enough they're literally babysitting you" paranoia. its like meeting your partners love language needs but its for deeply messed up individuals. They canonically call themselves best friends, and while Dick will always love Roy he always Likes being around Wally (as well as love him but that's a given)

(sidetone are you even besties if people don't think you're dating when they meet you?)

Dick & Garth: The amount of trust, love and respect that tempest holds for Nightwing melts my damn heart (but then again everything garth does melts my damn heart, baby Garth you will always be famous) they are such an underrated pairing and I love the fact that no matter the media, whether they're rivals like in the cartoons or Garth deferring to Dick as leader to the point where he disobeys aquaman (rebirth) Bc yeah THATS how much my purple eyed perfect boy trusts wing. There is always this really sweet understanding that Garth can go to Dick for advice (he asks for Donna advice in titans and advice on his relationship with Dolphin in the comics). And him and Dicks reunion post RIC? I love them sm. Its just... There was also a period of time where Garth was the only titan with sense and tbh sometimes its refreshing to see that when the rest of them (except donna she was dead at the time we never say a bad word about donna in this household) are being fucking insane

[gh0stfacemasc]

lately i’ve just been yearning for something more.

i want a partner, someone to come home to and just exist with. waking up to the prettiest girl in the world, holding her, kissing her body, soft spoken words to gently wake her. morning snuggles with kisses exchanged, content sighs, groans of refusal to get out of bed and face the day. tempting her to get out of bed by promising a shower with more kisses to perk her up.

hot droplets of water running down our skin as we can’t stop touching each other, our mouths obsessed with each others as we waste a ton of water, our attention only on each other. soft touches, maybe helping each other get clean. holding her close, smiling into her skin as i kiss her shoulders, lathering up the soap on her body.

clad only in an old band t shirt of mine and boyshorts, she reads the news on her phone as i make her breakfast, serving it up on her plate with a kiss on her temple. she hums contentedly and tells me she loves me as she watches me take a sip of my orange juice before i toss a wink her way, followed by a smile that is reserved only for her. we exchange nonsense conversation over food, unable to stop touching each other. my fingertips brushing over her bare knee, her hand on my forearm tracing my tattoos, our fingers intertwined as our dog begs for scraps. she smiles at me with an eye-roll, turning her attention to him and talking to him as if he were a baby. i smile at her, feeling my love for her consume me even more than it has every day since i met her.

as i work, she sends me a mixture of texts, ranging from sweet to flirty to supportive. i drive home at the end of the day, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to relax. i put my keys in my door and am greeted with the sight of my wife just existing in our living room. watching some trashy reality show, she turns at the sound of footsteps, standing up to greet me. her arms around me, her lips on mine, her perfume comforting me as i feel so warm inside. dinner is in the oven, i am being held by my favourite person and all is well.

settling down after food, deciding to snuggle in bed. she picks what we watch. a rom-com. i always hated rom-coms. till i met her. till i knew love was real. till i knew it was possible to be so consumed by a person you felt as though you would combust. pulling her closer, i kiss her shoulder, tell her i love her. tell her how much i live for the mundane days. that this is all i want. she is all i want.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 17

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You do your best to make yourself look normal. You think it might help you feel normal. If you ever can again. You haven't since your dad got sick. Now, you're certain that the change can't be undone.

You look at yourself in the mirror. The simple blue dress is one of your favourites. You've tidied your hair enough, washed your face, brushed your teeth, done everything you typically do. You slip into a pair of flats and go to the door.

Walter isn't bad. He's nice. He's only ever been nice. But how this all unfolded, doesn't feel nice.

You open the door and go downstairs. He's waiting by the window, looking out at the farm. A farm he says belongs to you and your family but is signed with his initials.

"Ready?" He asks without looking back.

Your stomach is all wobbly. Walt. The grizzly man who silently tossed around bales and climbed up onto the tractor with that bristled expression. How long had he wanted this? When did it all shift?

"Sure," you answer and grab your purse.

"Glad the storm cleared up," he turns and crosses to the doorframe. He offers his hand. You take it. "Nice day to find a ring."

"Yeah, uh, well, you know... you don't have to buy me a ring."

"I do," he insists as he opens the door and guides you through first, following close. "If we're gonna be married, I'll need to give you everything a husband's supposed to."

You hum and let him bring you down the steps. His hand tightens around yours. You stare off at the horizon.

"That's a nice dress," he says. "You look good."

"Thank you," you make yourself smile. This isn't about you; it's about your family. What's left of it.

"That'll be another thing. The dress. We can have the wedding here. Flowers, food..."

"One thing at a time," you say calmly.

"Mm, good sense," he praises as he opens the truck door for you.

He keeps his hands on yours until you're firmly in the seat. You keep your lips curved. You're practicing for a lifetime of this.

He shuts the door and goes around the hood. He's not that bad, you tell yourself again. What were your options? What did you ever expect? You never went off to school, never troubled with leaving the farm. This is what was promised. Marriage. Your family.

Your blink away the heat in your eyes. You make yourself sit straight. He climbs in the drivers side, the truck shifting. He's such a big man. You watch him clutch the shifter and crank into gear. Thick fingers, thicker arms, big chest...

You think of the night before. That warmth that radiated from him. The way he clung to you. Will there come a day when he doesn't want you? Is this all just novelty to him?

You can't tell. You don't have enough experience to. None, really. Boys, men, you flirted, you kissed a few, but you were always more interested in other things.

You let the farmland blur in your vision and the motion of the truck calms you. You know you can't back out, you can't choose what you really want, especially when you don't even know what that is.

You arrive, happy to break from your spiraling thoughts. The world seems so small, time so short, everything is stunted by the certainty in his movement. He comes around to help you down. You thank him again.

His hand goes to your lower back, fingers curling around your side, a declaration of who you belong to. You feel the gaze of an older pair of women as they pass. The jeweler is the only in the city, sharing their space with Karen, the seamstress. Junior, the man behind the counter of gems and bands, greets Walter by name, then you.

"How's your pa?" He asks.

"He's... still recovering," you answer as you hug yourself.

"His old watch actin' up again?"

"No..." you trail off and stare at the wall.

Walter clears his throat. He moves you closer to the counter. Your body sears as you're certain both the jeweler and the seamstress notice.

"We're here to find a ring."

"A ring?" Junior scoffs. "Walter, you're serious?"

"My, my," Karen whispers.

"Afraid I jumped before I looked," Walt chuckles. "But she'll need one."

"A band too. One for each of ya," Junior goes into selling mode.

"Sure," Walt agrees and finally unsnakes his arm from around you. "What're you thinking, sweetheart? Diamond?"

"That's classic. Got all sorts of cuts and I can always work on them," Junior explains as he reaches under and brings out a board of rings. "We also got some amethyst, sapphire, all sorts of gems. You know, people are heading away from diamonds." He explains.

"Mhmm," Walt nods as he gives a thoughtful look to the collection. "Well..." He nudges you softly.

"I like them all, I can hardly choose," you say.

"What shape you like?" Junior asks, "teardrop?" He points to one, "princess?" He goes through several and you shrug again. You don't know. It all looks so expensive.

"Do you have anything... smaller?" You ask.

"Small?" Junior frowns.

"Well, yeah, I mean..." you glance at Walt, "living on the farm..."

"Ah, right, well, I got this antique the other day. Got a fresh band on it but it wasn't really meant to be an engagement ring," he puts the board back and shuffles around behind him.

He turns back to you with a slender band and a small sparkling stone. The diamond is set into the crook of the subtle crisscross. It's pretty but not too much. 

"Come on, try it," Junior waves you closer.

You put your hand out and let him slip it on your finger. You look at it. It's light as a feather but feels as heavy as a boulder. You gulp and nearly sway. Walt leans in to see it.

"I like it," he growls. "Suits you nice."

"Yeah, it's... it's... beautiful," you eke out.

It's the perfect seal for your fate.

[wonderlandwalker]

Developments pt. II: Exposure | Steve Harrington x reader

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈 / 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

summary: what happens when everything and nothing changes, when your world is at the edge of annihilation, and Steve is studying the phenomenon.

word count: 5.6k

tags / content warnings: more cockblocking I can't help myself, hurt/comfort if you squint, mdni, smut, my limited vocabulary trying its hardest to not sound repetitive, Dutch expressions that probably don't actually exist in English but do now

a/n: my life may be falling apart but at least there's still fictional men and reblog reactions that make me smile, hopefully this lives up to its precursor I fear I might be losing braincells

The past few days have been... strange. Not in any dramatic, earth-shattering way, but in the quiet, unsettling manner of a clock suddenly ticking out of rhythm—the kind of change you feel in your bones before your mind can articulate it.

Not bad.

Not heart-breaking.

Not even awkward, really—no stilted conversations filled with painful pauses, no forced laughter ringing hollow between you.

No, this was something quieter.

Something more unnerving in its subtlety.

Diffidence.

Which was ridiculous. Infuriating. A cosmic joke of the cruellest variety.

Because just seventy-two hours earlier, Steve Harrington had pressed you into his mattress with the reverence of a worshipper at an altar, his confessions spilling against your throat like secrets too sacred for this world. And you’d kissed him back with equal desperation, nails scraping down his spine as he moved over you, his name leaving your lips over and over and over like a mockingbird discovering its new favourite melody. The morning after, he’d made you pancakes—slightly charred, just the way you liked them—and watched you eat with this soft, dazed expression, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

It had been effortless. Natural. Like you'd been doing this for years instead of hours. And then—

Nothing.

No lingering touches in the hall—no casual brush of fingers that lingered just a heartbeat too long. No warm palm settling against the small of your back to guide you through doorways. No stolen kisses behind the Family Video counter, breathless moments between the VHS racks where he'd crowd you against the shelves, his lips finding yours in the shadows between customers.

Just... Steve.

The same Steve who still drove you home without being asked, even when it was twenty minutes out of his way. Steve, who still passed you the last slice of pizza without hesitation, who still remembered to grab your favourite candy bar when he stopped for gas. Steve, who still looked at you like you'd hung the goddamn stars—only now there was something newly cautious in his gaze, something fragile and measured, like he was afraid of being crushed beneath their celestial weight.

The Waterloo of it existed in the way you understood. Able to read the fractures in his composure like Braille beneath your fingertips—how his confidence splinters under pressure like thin ice trying to bear an ever-growing weight. His smirk just a fraction too tight when he was worried and his jokes landing a beat too quick when he deflects. Because for all his effortless charm, all that golden-boy popularity that came so naturally to him, Steve Harrington approached love like a penitent approaching communion, all-consuming, self-immolating, giving until he was hollowed out—like it was something to be earned through blood and sacrifice, something he had to deserve. 

And now? Now he looked at you like you were both the salvation and the executioner. Like loving you was a game of Russian roulette where he'd already spun the chamber five times and survived, and this last shot awaits. You could see the calculation in his eyes—the gambler's dilemma. Go all in; sign his soul over without reservation? Or fold now, walking away while he can still pretend his heart is intact? You knew it from the way his hands hovered near yours but never quite touched, fingers twitching with the ghost of a caress he wouldn’t allow himself. You saw it in the careful distance he maintained, the space between you measured like a man navigating a minefield—every step a potential detonation. He’d chosen to love you; that much was undeniable. But you also knew the gambit had already been made, that he didn’t know how to let himself be loved in return. Not when every instinct in him screamed that good things were borrowed, not kept, and that happiness was just the prelude to loss.

So he waited.

And you waited.

The two of you balanced on the knife’s edge between the leap of faith and the fall.

This wasn’t rejection.

This wasn’t regret.

This was Beckettian limbo. Waiting for Godot in a mall parking lot, watching shadows lengthen as hope curdled into something bittersweet. The agony wasn't in the absence of answers but in the infinite possibilities each unanswered question contained—was he giving you space or creating distance? Was this patience or retreat?

Was he waiting for you to run?

Was he waiting for some invisible string to be pulled?

Was he already running himself?

You were this close to convincing yourself it had all been in your head—that the tension between you was just another ghost you’d conjured out of want and wishful thinking. You’d almost swallowed the lie whole.

Until Eddie Munson—bedlam incarnate, meddler of divine proportions—reached between you like a thief in the night and yanked the pin from your stalemate grenade.

It happened like this:

Robin, in her infinite wisdom (or more accurately, in her current state of sugar-deprived hysteria that has her vibrating in place like a hummingbird on espresso), practically launches Eddie toward the back room of Family Video with a desperate whine that borders on ultrasonic. Her fingers twitching toward the empty candy wrapper on the counter like a junkie eyeing their last hit. "I know he stashed candy bars back there. Find it, Munson, or so help me God—” The threat loses impact when she punctuates it by nearly face-planting into the counter. And Eddie, ever the chaotic neutral force in your lives, obliges, sweeping toward the employee area with all the gravitas of a man marching to the gallows.

The locker is... depressingly empty, because Steve Harrington has the organisational skills of a concussed squirrel. The interior looks like a tornado swept through a TJ Maxx clearance aisle—a single spare vest (slightly wrinkled, probably from that time he used it as a pillow during his lunch break—"It’s ergonomic!" he’d insisted, as if that made any sense at all), a half-empty bottle of cologne he no longer wore (”I needed to test drive it!” He’d argued when confronted, as if his "signature scent" was a goddamn Camaro he could take for a spin around the block), and—aha— the coveted candy bar. A king-sized Snickers slightly melted from being forgotten in the summer heat, wedged behind a mint condition (clearly unread) copy of "Employee Conduct Guidelines". Eddie’s about to declare victory and return to Robin’s good graces (or at least avoid another plastic fork ambush—seriously, that shit stings) when a small, glossy rectangle flutters to the ground. It drifts down with all the grace of a falling feather, spinning lazily like it’s got nowhere urgent to be (which would be poetic, if it wasn’t about to detonate his life like a stray missile in a china shop)

His stupid monkey brain—always curious, never helpful—screams at him to pick it up. Logic, self-preservation, and approximately three seconds of common sense lose the battle to sheer, self-destructive instinct.

So he does.

And—

Oh.

Eddie’s higher brain functions short-circuit, neurones firing and fizzling out behind his eyes like a busted string of Christmas lights.

Shit.

It’s one of those Polaroids.

The kind you’d been strategically hiding for Steve, who, for all his alleged detective skills, somehow hadn’t managed to uncover this particular landmine.

And there it is, staring up at him in damning, saturated colour: a snapshot of bare skin bathed in low light, the smooth curve of your waist disappearing under rumpled sheets that Eddie suddenly, violently, wishes he could shred with his teeth. And your eyes—Christ, that look—something so utterly foreign to him that his pulse stutters like a misfiring engine. It’s the kind of look that makes him think, for one delirious second, about dropping to his knees and taking up religion—because surely this is divine retribution.

Maybe he’d been a war criminal in a past life.

Maybe this was karma for swiping that pack of gum when he was eight.

Or maybe God was just an arsehole with a particularly fucked-up sense of humour, sitting up there on his cloud and cackling as Eddie’s soul left his body in slow motion.

He should burn it.

He should eat it.

He should—

But then—because this mystery deity apparently finds his suffering hilarious—the break room door groans open with a creak so nerve-shreddingly ominous it sounds like nails dragged across a chalkboard. You and Steve walk in mid-conversation, shoulders brushing, laughing about something undoubtedly stupid—completely unaware that Eddie's world has just tilted on its goddamn axis like a bored kid shaking a snow globe. The kind of violent, nauseating tilt that sends all his internal organs sloshing against his ribs. He should shove the photo back in the locker. He should pretend he never saw it. He should let Steve find it himself later—preferably when Eddie is at minimum three state lines away, maybe starting a new life as a goat farmer in Vermont.

But he doesn't. Because while Eddie's charisma stat might be maxed out, his wisdom score has always hovered somewhere between "questionable" and "actively self-destructive". So he stands there, frozen like a bug in amber, a bee drowning in golden honey—Polaroid welded to his stupid, traitorous fingers—as you finally register his presence. Steve follows your line of sight a beat later, and oh fuck, this is bad.

In all the time you've known each other, Eddie's been rudimentarily brash, crude, and gloriously callow. Now? Every single shred of his DNA seems to have been rewritten overnight. Someone's taken the Eddie Munson operating manual and hit select all → delete.

"Uh," he says, brilliantly eloquent. His eyes perform a frantic tennis match between the incriminating photo in his hand, the dangerous twitch of curiosity at the corner of your mouth, the frankly unfair amount of exposed skin your summer clothes display (making his fingers spasm like wanting to reach for the forbidden fruit of Eden itself), and Steve's expression, which has gone so arctic that Eddie can actually feel the frost forming on his own eyelashes from across the room.

Here's the thing: Steve genuinely couldn't give less of a shit about Eddie rifling through his locker. Hell, he uses the thing so sporadically he'd be shocked if there was anything in there worth stealing. But the way Eddie's looking at that photo? The way his breathing's gone all jagged, like he's been sucker-punched by lust and forgot to be ashamed about it? Like he'd been struck by lightning and sent the storm a thank-you note?

Yeah.

That gets his attention.

Because Steve knows that feeling. Knows it in the way his own pulse jumps when you look at him. Knows—with sudden, violent clarity—that the Polaroid currently burning a hole in Eddie's hand is one of yours. One of the ones you'd tucked away. One of the ones he hadn't found.

The air in the room curdles. Three heartbeats stretch into eternity. Somewhere, the universe is taking notes for its next comedy special. Steve’s posture locks—the calm before the storm, every muscle coiled tight beneath his skin. The carbonated fizz of the soda in his hand is the only sound in the crushing silence, bubbles popping like distant gunfire. Then the storm breaks: his jaw clenches, and his eyes sweep through Eddie’s foundation like a wrecking ball.

Something raw crawls across Steve’s face. Not anger. Not alarm. Assertion. A silent, seething mine that blows through the room. You’ve seen Steve in many moods—smug, pissed, reckless—but this? This is something new. An undiscovered decimal that changes the entire equation. Something hot and primal, that same flicker of virtue twisted into vice that made him spend hours between your thighs, savouring your undoing like Judas betraying Christ with a kiss.

Eddie’s expression snitches on him instantly, darkening as his gaze drifts back to you. It lingers—too obvious, too long—on the hitch of your breath, the teeth digging into your bottom lip, like he’s already imagining things he has no right to. “Munson—” Steve’s voice drops into a register that would send most sane men sprinting for the hills, the kind of tone that prophesies bloodshed. “Eyes are up here.” 

Eddie’s hands fly up in surrender, the Polaroid fluttering to the floor like the first leaf of autumn—ominous, inevitable. But there’s a new cadence in his voice, something reckless and intrigued, the curiosity of a starving animal in a trap debating whether to chew its own leg off. “Hey man, no hard feelings. Just—uh—didn’t exactly expect that to be lying around like some kind of—” Steve takes a step forward. Eddie takes two steps back, knocking into the table hard enough to send a mug catapulting to the ground. “—highly classified erotic artefact,” Eddie finishes, voice pitched higher than usual, flashing a grin that’s all nerves and zero bravado.

You can feel it in the air—the shift from a fleeting southbound breeze teasing through the open window to the suffocating vacuum of withheld dares and arsonist heat. The change is tectonic, the kind that splits the earth between before and after. It should frighten you, this dissolution of restraint, reluctance disintegrating like cotton candy in the rain, leaving behind only the sickly-sweet residue of possibility. It would frighten you—if you didn’t know it. If you hadn’t heard that same voice murmuring filth against your stomach, dripping with devotional ruin. If it didn’t send an electric current racing from your membrane straight to your marrow.

Across the room, Eddie’s smirk falters. He’d looked the gift horse of Steve’s restraint square in the mouth—and now finds himself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun as the reality of his miscalculation hits. Then—

The dam bursts.

Eddie scrambles backwards so fast he nearly trips over his own shadow in his haste to escape the flood. The tension solidifies into something palpable as Steve turns to face you. For a moment, he simply stares—an apex predator amused by the detritivore that dared trespass in his territory, calculating whether to devour you whole or savour you slowly. It’s the same razor-edged focus he’d worn that night when he pinned you to his sweat-damp sheets, when he’d growled "again" against your throat and insisted, asserted, stipulated that he needed to feel you clenching around him even as his own spend leaked down your thighs between thrusts. That look that said mine and more and never enough, the one that turned your blood to gasoline and your nerves to lit fuses.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of your top—contemplating tearing it off yourself to feel his skin against yours faster—but the thought disintegrates when his knee nudges your thighs apart, pressing his body flush against yours. Jealousy rolls off him in waves, thick enough to choke on, and God help you, you revel in it. The phantom of his touch lingers in every hot breath that skates over your skin, in the way his hips slot against yours like a key turning in a lock. His mouth crashes into yours, hands bruising into your waist as he lifts you onto the break room table with the practised ease of a man who’s been praying for this. The wood creaks beneath you, a feeble protest swallowed by the groan that tears from his throat. And you—Christ—you realise with dizzying clarity that you’re already addicted to this side of him. To the way his control shatters when it comes to you. The way he needs to brand the truth into your skin: you’re his. He’s yours. His hands dig into you, urgent as a sinner’s grip on salvation. His lips brush your temple, soft as a benediction. You melt into him like a sacrifice on an altar, pliant and willing when his palms glide over your chest; it’s with a reverence that borders on fear—hesitant, hungry, as if touching you might unravel him instead.

This isn’t fealty.

It’s revelation.

Steve kisses like he’s composing his last confession—every sigh you give him a psalm he’ll spend eternity trying to recite to perfection. His mouth drifts lower, a crusade down your body, pausing to worship at the inside of your thigh. His nose nudges the sensitive skin there, lips parted against your pulse as if tasting divinity. Not demanding. Surrendering. A disciple on his knees, ready to die for the privilege of dedication. "Steve—"  Your voice shatters, cracking not from desperation but from something far more forceful—love, molten and thick. He answers with a low hum, the vibration travelling straight to your core.

Warm.

Approving. 

Devouring.

But still, he doesn't rush, doesn’t take.

Moving over you with the precision of a scholar deciphering sacred texts, each touch a deliberate translation of supplication. When his knuckle tilts your chin up, the eye contact is nearly unbearable—his gaze burns with the intensity of staring at the sun without blinking. "Tell me this is real," he murmurs, the pad of his thumb tracing your swollen lips. His voice cracks on the plea: I can't lose you. Tell me what to do, how to keep you—every word is another wingbeat higher, another reckless ascent toward combustion. You can almost see the wax dripping from his shoulders as he flies ever closer to it—the heat between your bodies threatening to melt both your hearts.

His mouth finds yours before you can answer, stealing the breath you'd gathered to reassure him. It's a claiming, last-ditch effort to brand himself into your memory should the Gods tear you apart tomorrow. His hands map your body, fingers pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises. The irony isn't lost on you—this man who fought against every chain now begging to be bound, this once-carefree Icarus who sees the wax melting from his wings and chooses to keep flying, because his tragedy lies not in the fall but in the willing surrender to the innate burn, to this delicious damnation.

He’s almost come full circle—so close to acceptance, yet still hovering at the precipice, one flutter away. His skin scorches where you touch him, eyes burning with the effort of maintaining control when every atom in his body screams to dissolve the last fragile boundary between yours and mine until there’s no distinction left. The last of the shreds of doubt melting beneath your fingers as they tighten in his hair. The heat of you is irresistible, a gravitational pull dragging him deeper into orbit. His hand slides under your skirt, calloused palm skating up your thigh to discover the truth he already knows: you’re falling apart just as fast as he is.

A broken sound escapes you as you arch into his touch, your body ablaze against him. Your own hands map his skin with starving intent, drifting lower, lower, tracing the hard planes of his abdomen before dipping beneath the waistband. His fingers brush higher, hot and slick with your arousal, drawing a ragged groan from his throat that you swallow like communion. The sound vibrates against your lips—pure animal triumph—as his thumb circles with devastating precision. Fuck, how does he always know? That sweet spot that makes your thighs tremble, that perfect pressure as two fingers sink deep, curling just right, and a silent scream tears through you. "Fuck, baby," Steve pants against your mouth, his voice wrecked. "You’re so fucking perfect." The praise liquefies your spine, but you still manage to slide your hand under his jeans, grasping him through the strained fabric. The second your fingertips graze that velvet heat, he jerks forward with a gasp, teeth scraping your earlobe in retaliation—

The door flies open like a gunshot. "Jesus Christ!" Robin’s voice slices through the haze. Steve’s body slams over yours in a protective arch, his forearm braced against the table as he glares over his shoulder with venom. "Buckley," he snarls, voice dripping with murderous intent. She covers her eyes with a sigh so dramatic it would make Shakespeare weep. "In my defence—" she yelps, "your shift started ten minutes ago, and there’s this very persistent customer asking about the horror section you organised like a psychopath!" Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. You can feel the furious pound of his heartbeat where his chest presses against yours, a wild counter-rhythm to your own.

"Robin", you drawl, sweet as poisoned honey, "if you don’t turn around and walk out right now, I will tell Vickie about the time you—" "GOING!" she shrieks, already backpedalling. The door slams hard enough to rattle the framed employee-of-the-month certificates.

The silence that follows is worse.

The momentum’s gone, but the wreckage remains. His forehead drops to your shoulder with a thud, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your collarbone. You can feel the restraint vibrating through him—every muscle coiled tight enough to snap.

You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound shaky with adrenaline and lingering lust. His head snaps up so fast you hear his neck crack, eyes blazing with unfiltered heat. "Oh, you think this is funny?" he growls, nipping at your jaw with sharp teeth before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. His hands slide back under your thighs, hauling you flush against him in one motion. The hard line of him pressed insistently between your legs wipes the smirk right off your face—along with every coherent thought in your head.

"Keep laughing, sweetheart," he murmurs against your throat, lips dragging a searing path down to your pulse point. "See what happens when my shift ends."

The hour that follows—after Steve had hesitantly detached himself from you with a plea in his eyes and your lipstick smeared across his jaw like war paint—stretches into eternity.

It’s longer than the time you got drenched by a speeding car ploughing through a frozen puddle on your way to school, icy water seeping into your socks until you squelched with every step. Longer than Aunt Margie’s infamous "Bridge Club Confidential" lecture, where she’d waxed poetic about the "sensual strategy" of trump cards while you stared into your punch glass praying for spontaneous combustion. Longer even than Eddie’s dare at Rick’s party, when you’d sat statue-still for sixty minutes while Dustin balanced a Dorito on your nose and Steve—unhelpful bastard—kept making you laugh just to watch you fail.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t make idle threats.

He feasts on them.

Every excruciating minute carves a new circle of hell into your sanity. Steve moves through the store like a man possessed, his brain reduced to binary code: 1. You’re the one. 0. Everything else is noise. His pacing is a slow-burn torture—languid and deliberate, letting the heat of his chest sear into your back as he reaches for a misplaced copy of The Terminator, his biceps flexing just enough to make your throat go dry. He makes sure his lips graze your jaw when he slots returned tapes onto the shelf exactly where you’re standing, his exhale hot against your ear. Then he’s gone again in a heartbeat, leaving only the phantom imprint of his promise throbbing under your skin.

And you’re no martyr. Not when every stolen glance from Steve—heavy-lidded and determined—pours fuel on the fire in your gut. Not when the brush of his fingers against yours as he "accidentally" hands you the wrong receipt makes your pulse stutter like a bad VHS tape.

Until Robin, bless her deadpan soul, reaches her limit.

"That’s it." She slams a stack of returns onto the counter hard enough to make the Jawbreakers jump in their display, rattling like tiny, panicked witnesses. "Eddie’s covering Steve’s shift."

Eddie opens his mouth— "No." Robin jabs a finger between his eyebrows. "I don’t care that he doesn’t work here; it’s not that hard to say ‘Be kind, rewind’ and take people’s money. What is hard is watching you two orbit each other like horny vultures waiting to dive in." She shoves Steve’s keys into his chest. "Do humanity a favour and go home. Fuck it out. Write each other sonnets. Carve your initials into a tree. I don’t care. Just end this before I drown us all in holy water."

And well.

You don’t need to be told twice.

The store’s entrance barely shuts before Steve's crowding you against the scorching hood of his car, his body pinning yours to metal that burns through your skin. You gasp at the dual sensation—the sear of the sun-baked steel beneath your thighs and the far more dangerous heat of Steve's palm cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, hips grinding against yours in a way that makes your vision blur. The parking lot's empty, but you'd barely care if it wasn't—not when he kisses like he's trying to carve his name between your ribs.

But then—the cruel, calculated tease that he is—he steps back. Lets you sway there for one dizzy second before guiding you into the passenger seat with a hand low on your back.

The silence during the drive isn't uncomfortable—it's charged, vibrating with everything left unsaid and undone. You can practically hear the filthy refrain looping in Steve's head, matching the pulse pounding between your thighs: not yet. Not here.

Your fingers creep toward his thigh like a separate entity, drawn by magnetic need. The muscle tenses beneath your touch before you even make contact. When your nails scrape up the inseam of his jeans, his grip on the steering wheel turns white. "Don't," he warns, voice gone dark. But his dick twitches traitorously beneath your wandering palm, the thick line of him already straining against denim. The hypocrisy would be laughable if you weren't so busy revelling in the power thrumming through your veins.

His hand closes over yours — not to stop you, but to press your palm harder against his erection. The groan it wrenches from him vibrates through your entire body, your own breath catching in time with the stutter of the speedometer as his foot slips on the gas. "Keep doing that," he grits out between clenched teeth, "and you're going to regret that."

As the car takes another turn, you realise you've miscalculated.

Badly.

The math had been simple—fifteen minutes to his place, ten if he sped—but you hadn't accounted for the way his jaw would clench every time you shifted in your seat. The engine had roared like a living thing as he took corners too fast, and now the tires screech their protest as he slams into his parking spot.

The ignition cuts.

One heartbeat of silence.

Then he's on you, pressing you into the window with enough force to fog the glass, his mouth hot and demanding against yours. There's nothing gentle in it—just hunger, raw and unchecked. His teeth catch your lower lip as his hand slides up. When his mouth closes over your nipple through your shirt, tongue circling just hard enough to make you arch, you're half-ready to drag him into the backseat and fuck him right there. But before you can so much as gasp his name, he's gone—door flung open, his footsteps sharp on the pavement.

Your door swings open next, his hand extended.

It might look chivalrous to anyone watching, but you know better. That grip on yours as he tugs you out is a demand, not an offer. The walk to his front door is a blur, his arm locked around your waist like he thinks you'll bolt. The lock clicks shut behind you, and then—

Déjà vu hits like a sucker punch. This is exactly what you haven't been able to stop thinking about. And yet—

Completely different.

Last time, he'd been a man on a mission, determined to show you every filthy fantasy you'd ever pulled from him. Methodical. Precise. A slow unravelling that left you begging. Now?

Now he doesn't wait for begging.

Now he hauls you onto the kitchen island with a roughness that sends a bowl clattering to the floor, his hands already pushing your thighs apart. There's no patience in him—just certainty and something darker, something that curls low when his gaze drags over you like he's already deciding where to start. His palm splays across your stomach, pressing you against the cold granite as he leans in, and the revelation hits you — he doesn't just want to worship at your altar. He wants to be the architect of your canonisation, the hand that lifts you to sainthood even as he drags you through the exquisite torture of your own destruction.

If you had one wish in this crumbling world—it wouldn't be fame, wouldn't be fortune, not even the hollow promise of world peace—you would ask for this. The devastating press of his body, the sinful cadence of his voice whispering filth and vows. You'd take it until your lungs forgot how to expand, until your heartbeat stuttered into arrhythmia, until the last frayed thread of your consciousness could only comprehend the grip of his arms and the sweet poison of his words. Even then, especially then, you’d ask for more of this.

You're already ruined beyond salvation—a ship dashed against the rocks, hull splintering on unforgiving shores, yet somehow grateful for the carnage that means you've found land at last. His name spills from your lips in a ceaseless litany, your thighs clamping around his hips in wordless supplication, speaking in the sacred tongue of want, your body offering its final surrender at the temple of his undoing. The light at the end of this tunnel isn't absolution—it's hellfire, and you're so consumed by its gravitational pull that reality has dissolved at the edges. The world narrows to the sweat-slick press of his skin against yours, to the animalistic sounds tearing from his throat, to the obscene stretch as he sheaths himself inside you in one devastating thrust, a broken sob caught between your teeth—until his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing the sound as he buries himself to the hilt. You feel him tremble—not from restraint, but from the way your body takes him in frantic, greedy pulses, as if trying to draw him deeper still.

The fat of your ass shifts under his punishing grip as you grind down, chasing that perfect angle until he swears he can feel your heartbeat through the slick walls clenching around him. Your shared sweat makes a mess of everything—the slide of his abdomen against your clit, the way your thighs stick to his hips, the obscene squelch as he moves through your dripping cunt like he was carved from the same divine stone that shaped you. Every convulsive ripple of your inner muscles seems designed to ruin him, to reduce this beautiful, dangerous man to nothing but base instinct and desperate thrusts. Then—just when you think he's wrung every possible reaction from your body—he does something that steals what little breath you have left. With agonising slowness, he withdraws until only the flushed, leaking head of his cock remains seated inside you, that unbearable stretch reduced to the barest teasing pressure. Your hips jerk uselessly, chasing that delicious fullness, but he pins you in place with one broad hand splayed across your ass while the other yanks open the nearby drawer in search of something. You open your mouth—to tease, to protest, to beg with words so filthy they'd make a sinner blush—but he gives you no chance. In one brutal snap of his hips, he's buried inside you again, the force of it driving you up the surface until his forearm bands around your waist to keep you still. The punched-out moan that escapes you sounds broken even to your own ears.

The rhythm he sets is punishing, each thrust calculated to make your vision whiten at the edges. Your tits bounce obscenely against his hungry mouth, nipples pebbled and oversensitive from his teeth scraping urgently against them. Tears bead at the corners of your scrunched-shut eyes as you bite your lip—until his command slices through the haze: "Open your eyes.”

When you obey—when your bleary vision finally focuses through the haze of pleasure to see the obscene glisten between your thighs, your own arousal painting his cock in irrefutable evidence of your desperation—a shutter clicks, echoeing as the bullet going through the church, the camera flash immortilizing everything as your body arches in perfect, ruined ecstasy.

He's not just fucking you. He's curating it—assembling irrefutable proof of your complete surrender to his arbitration. Cataloguing how beautifully you come apart beneath him. Documenting how even when reduced to a shuddering, tear-streaked wreck, all your broken pleas still ask for the same thing: him. Only him. He captures it all—the flutter of your lashes when his thumb swipes through the streaks on your cheek, the way your throat works around silent screams when he angles deeper. His next words are the final nail in the coffin of your consecration, divulged against the column of your throat: "Let me show you how pretty you look when you cum on my cock."

[dixons-sunshine]

Last updated 2025/05/26

General warnings: Some of these fics contain mature content. Please heed the warnings before reading and note that I nor the writers on this list are responsible for your consumption. That said, also be sure to respect the writers’ boundaries regarding who can consume their content.

Krys Rambles: Hi hello! On this list, you can find all of my favourite fics I’ve read. These writers are all amazing and I highly suggest checking them out! This list isn’t in any order, and as of right now, it covers characters like Daryl Dixon, Scud Frohmeyer, Murphy MacManus, Connor MacManus, and Joel Miller! However, more will be added as I read. Also, if you don’t want to be on this list and want to be removed, please tell me and I’ll do it! You can also find every fic I’ve ever reblogged under fic rec, and they’re all amazing!

This list includes both x Reader and OC fics.

𝑶𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔/𝑻𝒘𝒐-𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔:

Flattery by @dixonsdarkelf

Warnings: No use of y/n, suggestive themes but no smut

You’re An Amateur (but Baby, I’m A Pro) by @dixonsdarkelf (part two of Flattery)

Summary: During a run with Daryl, you find yourself a little sexy surprise and catch your new boyfriend with a look in his eye you’d never seen before. When leaving the department store, the last thing he said was you’d talk when you got home. Well now you were home, and it was time to have that talk…a talk that escalates into an experience you’d never forget.

Warnings: Smut, heavy on the MDNI, we got virgin!reader and a flustered Daryl in this one, Reader is in her late 20s/early 30s, virginity loss, oral (both f & m receiving), Daryl talks Reader through giving a blowjob, Reader has hair long enough to be held in a ponytail, next part will contain more smut, I'm incapable of writing smut without a lot of feelings, mentions of blood (in reference to blushing, i.e. blood rushing to your cheeks), pet names (angel mostly)

Close Quarters by @janiehellion

Summary: Trapped overnight by a horde of walkers during a supply run, you and Daryl Dixon find yourselves in close quarters with nothing but time on your hands. And the problem that you can't keep your hands to yourself.

Warnings: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Oral Sex ⋮ Belly Kink

Healing Touch by @janiehellion

Summary: When Daryl Dixon is injured and stuck in bed, he’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of being pampered by the group. But you? You’re more than ready to take care of him—and show him just what it means to be a good boy. Think Daryl Dixon’s all rough and tough? Think again...

Warnings: Smut ⋮ Handjob ⋮ Teasing ⋮ Edging ⋮ Orgasm Control

New Blood In An Old Place by @janiehellion

Summary: The quietest souls have the loudest hearts, and you just found yourself staring at the sky—wondering if Daryl Dixon might be the one to make the stars in the night feel a little closer and less out of reach.

Warnings: Selective Mutism ⋮ Fluff ⋮ Mild Angst ⋮ Canon Divergence

Revved Up by @janiehellion

Summary: Learning to ride a motorcycle should’ve been simple. After all, you knew your way around bikes better than anyone in Alexandria—except Daryl Dixon. But one crash and one pissed-off redneck later, and you're stuck with him giving you a hands-on crash course in focus and control.

Warnings: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮

A Mouthful Of Baptism by @janiehellion

Summary: Daryl Dixon's hands were made to kill—rough, calloused, and strong. But at the CDC, with electricity, a bottle of alcohol, and your lips wrapped around his fingers, he learns what it feels like to crave his woman's touch more than survival. Hot water. Red wine. Your mouth. And the man who owns it.

Warnings: Smut ⋮ S1 Feral Daryl Dixon ⋮ Wine Play ⋮ Pussy Worship ⋮ Primal Kink ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Oral Fixation ⋮ Finger Sucking ⋮ Dry Humping ⋮ Shower BJ ⋮ Teasing ⋮ Possessive Behavior ⋮ Marking ⋮ Spanking ⋮ Spit Play ⋮ Protective Violence ⋮ Language ⋮ Shane Walsh Being An Asshole

Not An Invitation by @dixonsdarkelf

Summary: Shane never knew when he wasn't welcome in someone's space, and he was often invading yours. After one time too many, a certain archer comes to your defense. Inspired by the song 'Invitation' by Ashnikko.

Warnings: No use of y/n, swearing, Shane being a major-league creep

What I Do, I Do For You by @holdmytesseract

Summary: When two Saviors kidnap you - Daryl's pregnant wife - in order to score him off, the archer sees red and does everything to safe you... Everything.

Warnings: Lots of bad stuff is happening, so please act with caution! usual TWD stuff, a lot of angst, pregnancy stuff, violence, blood, character death, murder, brief mentions of rape, FLUFF, Justin & Jed (yep, they're a warning), please tell me if I missed something!

In The Eye Of The Storm by @holdmytesseract

Summary: You go into labor while staying at the renewed Sanctuary. Daryl has to safely get you back home to Alexandria, of course - through a thunderstorm...

Warnings: usual TWD stuff, pregnancy, childbirth, baby things, mentions of blood, weapons, quite a bit angst, fluff, protective!Daryl

Save A Bike, Ride A Biker by @holdmytesseract

Summary: You plan to surprise Daryl and give his bike a scrub. But before you are able to finish your good work, Daryl walks in on you...

Warnings: TWD stuff, weapons, smoking? fluff, cleaning a bike? suggestive smut

Under The Stars by @maggie-atwood

Warnings: none really! Some typical TWD shitty living conditions and reference to weapons, but mostly just fluff!

You’re The Light, You’re The Night by @angelwings-crossbowstrings

Summary: You never thought you’d end up here, but there’s no place you’d rather be.

Warnings: Smut

Domestic Daryl by @tinysunshine

Warnings: Some spiciness

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔:

The Staring Contest by @deansapplepie

Summary: Daryl and you can’t just take your eyes off each other.

Warnings: swearing, talks about death, Merle, more will be added with time.

Finding Myself, Finding You by @dixonsdarkelf

Summary: Lydia Vector is a trauma surgeon trying to find herself again after a traumatic incident--on top of surviving the zombie apocalypse. Along the way, she finds community, friendship, and maybe something more.

Warnings: implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted SA, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death

Love In The Rearview Mirror by @holdmytesseract

Summary: Bikes, cigarettes & sex - a lifestyle Daryl Dixon had embraced since he was a teenager.

With being taught from childhood on that love is nothing but a weakness, foolish, and for losers, he had successfully locked his heart and threw away the key. The redneck playboy from Georgia never entertained the thought of committing to another person. Occasional flings, strip clubs, and one-night-stands served to scratch that primal itch inside him. He didn't care about broken hearts and dreams - not even when he stumbled upon you on one of his bike trips through the USA. You were like every other woman before...

... until you weren't.

Warnings: age gap (Daryl is 32, Y/N is 23), angst - quite a lot, drama - also a lot, alcohol & smoking, fluff, strip club? nudity, suggestive stuff, a lot of music/musical inspiration, horses? smut.

Save Me, Save You by @maggie-atwood

Summary: When a dangerous new community attacks, life in Alexandria gets turned upside down. In an attempt to protect your people, you volunteer to meet the bizarre demands of the new community's eccentric leader, including becoming his wife. But along the way, you meet an old community legend, who has fallen down a dark path. Will you be able to save him, your people, and yourself, or will you be lost in the struggle?

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character deaths (canon), guns, blood/injuries, explicit language, sexual content. (Individual chapters will have warnings as well)

Blood Ties by @angelwings-crossbowstrings

Summary: Daryl met you while hunting to feed the group he saddled himself with at the quarry. It was just sex, no strings attached. Until it wasn’t. Strangers to friends to lovers. A bit of slow burn and angst.

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore, canonical character death, smut, masturbation, allusions to abortion, medical blood draw, vomiting, allusions to suicide, minor canonical character death, child injury, pregnancy complications, illness, medical procedures, graphic descriptions of childbirth, allusions to child abuse

𝑶𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔/𝑻𝒘𝒐-𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔:

Pink In The Cheeks, Red In The Sheets by @dixonsdarkelf— Part One | Part Two

Summary: You'd had a long and stressful week at the workshop, and you were looking forward to a little unwinding with your partner. However, you knew it would be a little more than just unwinding.

Part one warnings: MDNI, smut, porn without plot, fingering, pet names (baby, gorgeous, sweetheart, etc.), sexy talk, praise kink, Scud licking his fingers after, no use of y/n, we're fully blaming the hormones for this one

Part two warnings: MDNI, smut, blowjob, making out, grinding, hair pulling, face-fucking, praise kink, masturbation, swallowing, pet names (babygirl, angel, babe, etc.), Reader takes his whole dick down her throat

𝑶𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔/𝑻𝒘𝒐-𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔:

A Little Snooping Never Hurt Anyone by @dixonsdarkelf

Summary: Bedroom activities with your boyfriend never ceased to leave you fully satiated, but tonight was different. And only later is it revealed what exactly had gotten into him.

Warnings: MDNI, implied smut (like we don't see any of the action but they were clearly fucking), implication of unprotected p in v & creampie (I do not endorse this, y'all know better), swearing

𝑶𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔/𝑻𝒘𝒐-𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔:

When Your Heart Beats In Stereo by @stellar-waves

Warnings: MDNI 18+ only! poorly written smut, explicit language, poorly written flirting, sorta slow-burn, unprotected p in v, pre-canon, poorly written '90s vibes, first time writing x reader

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔:

Staring Down The Sun by @stellar-waves

Summary: Real men hide their feelings, at least that’s what Connor and Murphy believed in order to survive. Until Elena Jensen helps them open up through therapy before they escape prison and go back to work as the Saints. The boys learn Elena has some secrets of her own as they uncover a network of powerful crime organizations. But when a spark grows between Connor and Elena, so does the threat to the greater good.

Warnings: explicit language, canon-typical violence, suggestive sexual themes (no smut here), mentions of past sexual assault, mentions of death and grief/mourning, suggestion of suicidal ideation, blood, injury, borderline attempted sexual assault, drugging, angst on top of angst

𝑶𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔/𝑻𝒘𝒐-𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔:

Do It For Dale by @daryltwdixon

Summary: As Sarah’s best friend, you’re determined to give her the perfect 21st birthday—even if it means going behind her grumpy old dad’s back. But when the night spirals and you end up stranded, you’re forced to call the last person you want to face. And once Sarah is asleep, he shows you exactly what happens to girls who misbehave.

Warnings: smut MDNI 18+, cheerleader!reader, bratty!reader, overprotective!joel, grumpy!joel, sarah's best friend!reader, sbf!reader, bfd!joel, college au, brattamer!joel, no outbreak, pinv, reader is on birth control, blowjob, f!receiving oral, no use of y/n, riding, dirty talk, tiny bit of degradation but also praise kink, spanking, big girthy age gap reader is 21+

Pretty Girl by @daryltwdixon

Summary: You’ve never felt fully at home in your own skin, but that has never stopped Joel from showing you just how much he wants you. One night, you gather the courage to show him what you’ve been too afraid to share, and he shows you exactly what it means to be wanted, worshipped, and seen.

Warnings: smut MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, pinv, f!receiving oral, little bit of (f!receiving) ass play, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare

A Lil’ Something Sweet by @citrusrei

Summary: After your husbands aunt passes away, he takes on the responsibility of caring after the beloved family farm. Coming from the city after living there your whole life to moving to a huge farm in the middle of nowhere is a shock to you. But what shocks you even more is the comfort you find from the live-in farmhand, Joel Miller.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. no outbreak AU. non canon Joel. country side on a farm type shit. Joel is a lonely man. Kinda creepy but in a sexy way. heavy petting. thigh riding. Joel finishes in his pants. Infidelity (oops). joel's possessive but not in a toxic way (outloud). unprotected p-in-v sex. creampies. slight breeding kink if you squint right. age gap. reader is mid to late 20's and joel is pushin' 50. petnames (baby, baby doll, baby girl, darlin', ya know). readers husband is a real dick. slight fatshaming (we hate the husband). joel makes it better. lots of soft touches and kisses. fluffy, angsty, smutty. happy ending.

Slow Like Sunrise by @junojoel

Summary: You and Joel try for a baby.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected piv, breeding kink, they are making a BABY, mentions of infertility/not being able to get pregnant, mostly fluff though, sickly sweet

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔:

Family Matters by @daryltwdixon

[rynwritesreid]

MunchSpencer, stressed bau reader 😉 do ur thing

A/N: I will absolutely do my thing for you iluvreid. Did I base this of that video of MGG eating that pie? Yes. Do I think about that video daily? Yes. Also to answer somebody else’s questions, I am planning on writing Luke fics in the future, and I do take Rossi requests (I take all requests that are to do with CM). I am also working through everyone’s else’s request, I’m waiting for some inspiration on the song ones :) As always jag älskar dig 🫶🏼

Content: Smut and Fluff. Fem! Reader. Overstimulation. Oral (F! receiving). Vaginal fingering. Slight dom/sub undertones. Mentions of doing this at work in the future. Munch! Spencer. Pet names (princess). A little argument to start of with, but it’s resolved quickly.

Masterlist| requests are open| Navigation.

 

Spencer had noticed how you were acting at work; he knew all the signs of you being stressed out. He tried his hardest to de-stress you at work, he had brought you all of your favourite snacks, he made sure you had plenty of water and coffee, but none of this seemed to be working.

 

Once you were both at home, he tried to ask you what was wrong, but you just shrugged him off, asking him to just leave you alone for a minute. “I’m not going to leave you alone; I know something is wrong. Just tell me.” His voice was strained, he was becoming frustrated, not with you, but because he didn’t know what to do.

 

“Spencer, back off. Nothing is wrong, I’ve told you. I’m just tired.” You bite back at him. You knew he was trying to be helpful, but you just wanted some piece of quiet.

 

“Something is wrong, why aren’t you telling me? Let me help you out here.” Spencer's voice softened as he watched the frustration etched on your face. He understood that his insistence might have been adding to your stress, but he couldn't bear to see you in pain. With a sigh, he took a step closer and gently wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace.

 

"I'm sorry if I'm coming across as pushy. I just hate seeing you like this, and I want to be there for you," he whispered against your hair, his fingers slowly rubbing soothing circles on your back. Spencer knew what would help him out if he was stressed, and he knew it would also work on you.

 

See, Spencer’s favourite place was to be in-between your legs. If he could, he would spend every hour, of every day there, exploring every inch of your body, losing himself in the pleasure he found there. He cherished the way you moaned his name, the way your legs would tremble as he brought you to the edge of ecstasy.

 

His hands continued their caress, moving lower down your back until they reached the curve of your hips. He could feel the tension in your body slowly melting away as his touch seeped into your pores, bringing warmth and comfort. The rhythm of his movements matched the beating of your heart, steady and reassuring.

 

"I know you're tired, but maybe... just maybe, I can help you relax," Spencer murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of gentleness and desire. He guided you towards the bedroom, with every intention of not letting you leave until you were totally relaxed.

 

As he undressed you with utmost care, his fingertips brushed against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Spencer's touch was like a delicate dance. His lips followed suit, pressing soft kisses along the path his hands had taken.

 

You found yourself surrendering to his ministrations, allowing the weight of the world to be lifted from your shoulders as pleasure consumed you. The stress that had plagued you all day melted away under the skilled touch of your lover.

 

The bed welcomed you both, its soft sheets cradling your bodies as Spencer continued his exploration. He knew every inch of you, every secret spot that drove you wild with desire. His mouth found its way to your neck, peppering it with butterfly kisses before trailing down to your collarbone.

 

A sigh escaped your lips, mingling with a gasp of pleasure as Spencer's tongue danced across your skin. The knots in your muscles unravelled as his hands glided over your body, burning away any remnants of stress. Your breath hitched as his lips descended further, leaving a trail of wet kisses along your chest, pausing to pay special attention to your sensitive breasts.

 

Spencer's touch was both tender and insistent, his fingers tracing patterns of desire across your skin. He knew exactly how to coax pleasure from your body, each stroke and caress tailored to elicit the most exquisite sensations. With every passing moment, the weight on your shoulders lifted, replaced by a growing sense of bliss that radiated from deep within.

 

Lust and love intertwined as Spencer's mouth found its way to the apex of your thighs. His tongue teased and taunted, sending electric currents of pleasure through your veins. Waves of heat cascaded through you, building with each flicker and swirl until they crashed over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy.

 

Your moans filled the room, mingling with Spencer's own growls of desire as he revelled pleasure. His movements became more urgent, his tongue delving deeper, coaxing louder cries of satisfaction from your lips. You clutched onto his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as you rode the waves of pleasure that consumed you.

 

Spencer’s hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he devoured you with an intensity that left you gasping for breath. Your hips were instinctively rocking against his skilled mouth, grinding against his face in search of more.

 

Spencer's touch was relentless, his tongue and lips working tirelessly to ensure your pleasure knew no bounds. The sensation of his mouth on you, the wet heat, and the flicks of his tongue, sent sparks of electricity coursing through your veins. Your walls clenched around nothing as your body convulsed in bliss.

 

But Spencer didn’t plan on stopping now, he was never satisfied if he only made you cum once. And now, more than ever, he was going to continue, he knew you needed it, and he knew he wanted it.

 

Soon enough, his fingers joined his mouth slipping inside you with a precision that left you trembling. You hadn’t been able to come down from your first orgasm, and now you were soaring even higher. The dual sensation of his mouth and fingers brought you to the brink of another climax within moments. Every stroke, every flick, and every curl of his fingers sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

You lost all sense of time and space, consumed by the pleasure that coursed through every fibber of your being. Your mind became a haze of pure desire as Spencer continued to bring you to new heights with every stroke, every flick of his tongue.

 

Spencer's movements became more insistent, his fingers moving with an urgency that matched the burning need in your core. Each stroke sent shockwaves through you, intensifying the pleasure that consumed you. Your breath came in ragged gasps as you teetered on the edge of yet another mind-shattering orgasm.

 

He paused, giving you a slight break. “Are you feeling better now, princess?”

 

You lay there, panting heavily, your body still trembling from the intense pleasure that Spencer had just bestowed upon you. Your mind was hazy, your senses heightened, and a sense of tranquillity washed over you. The stress that had weighed you down seemed to have dissipated, replaced by a deep sense of satisfaction.

 

You turned to look at Spencer, his face glowing with adoration as he admired the aftermath of his ministrations. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you nodded, the words caught momentarily in your throat.

 

"Yes," you finally managed to rasp out, your voice laced with awe and gratitude. "I feel... incredible."

 

Spencer's eyes sparkled with delight as he took in your response. He gently caressed your cheek, his touch feather-light against your flushed skin.

 

"Good," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. "That's all I wanted."

 

“I think I should get stressed more often.”

 

Spencer chuckled softly, his fingers trailing lazily along your side. "If getting stressed means, I get to relieve your tension like this, then I might have to start causing trouble on purpose."

 

You playfully swatted his chest, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Oh, so you're admitting that you enjoy being the cause of my stress?"

 

His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned down to capture yours in a lingering kiss.

 

“No, I’m admitting that I love hearing your moans, and it took all my might not to do this at work, but I can’t let the rest of the team hear how you moan for me. Those noises are for my ears only.”

 

Your heart raced at his words, a delicious mixture of desire and anticipation coursing through your veins. You had always known that Spencer had a playful side, but this level of raw intimacy was something new and exhilarating.

 

With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you leaned in closer, your lips mere inches from his as you whispered, "Well then, Agent Reid, I guess we'll have to find somewhere at work no one would be able to hear us”.

~join my taglist~

~taglist~

@iluvreid @nomajdetective @drspencieee @katieeeee314 @evvy96 @oliviah-25 @starkid024 @emalynvtgtgfhvgg @krokietino @xohoneybun @spencerreidwifeee @purplepistachi0 @pleasantwitchgarden @bitchassbecky691 @piperb400 @queermaxwooo @gemofthenight @topguncultleader @luvpiercethekaty @anna-belle-xd @catsareawesomek @drreidsfavwhxre @oureternalbond

[ghoulishhx]

Hellooooo!

Thank you for fuelling my addiction for frank castle while we wait for him to appear again in ddba

I was wondering how I could ask for all the prompts in one lol

But seriously if you could write #11 pretty please? Like Frank just sees you doing something mundane and comes up from behind? 😍🥵

4.) quickie where you don't take any clothes off, just tug and pull and expose the essentials

im more than happy to fuel your addiction, its what im here to do!! this prompt has been going through my head for dayss now and i finally wrote it!! apologies for the delay :')

this is just a smallll little drabble, quick read for a quickie!!!

18+ MDNI !!

My Masterlist!

──── ୨୧ ────

Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: smut smut smut and more smut, unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, swearing, fluff

Wordcount: almost 900

──── ୨୧ ────

✦ cookies

Frank can’t watch you do anything remotely domestic. It drives him insane, you’ll be in the kitchen in your little apron, baking his favourite sweet treats while listening to your music and he will be standing staring at you, eyes bulging out of his skull. You’d notice him staring, jumping out of your skin because you had no idea he had been watching you this whole time

“Jesus Frank, have you been standing there this whole time?” 

He notices the way your chest dramatically rises and falls having now acknowledged his presence, the action making him twitch in his jeans.

“Don’ let me get in your way, doll.” he’d grumble under his breath as you turn back around, resuming your task.

You feel him come up behind you, snaking his hands around your waist, lowering his head to the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking on the sensitive skin as his hands wander beneath the apron. He was in fact, getting in your way.

“Frank! What are you doing?” you say as blush creeps up your neck onto your face, his movements causing your knees begin to buckle. The way he holds you, touches and tastes you drives you wild.

“ ‘M sorry baby, I jus need ya ok?” he reaches down to lift your skirt, bunching the fabric up to your waist as it pools around your hips. He lets out a groan seeing the sight beneath him, bent over your shared kitchen counter, soaked panties clasping to your folds, preparing food for him. He must’ve been a saint in his past life to get so lucky to end up with you.

He doesn’t bother removing any of his clothes, unbuckling and unzipping his jeans, tugging his boxers down just enough to free his achingly hard cock. He doesn’t even take the time to take off your underwear either, just simply pushing the fabric to the side as he teases the head of his cock between your puffed petals, accumulating your sweet nectar as lubricant.

“Tight squeeze ok sweetheart? You can take it, attagirl.” he growls as he pushes his length into you slowly, taking his time revelling in the situation before him. The noises he was eliciting from you from so little almost made him cum right there and then. The most beautiful, sinful noises he has ever heard.

You were still clutching your batter covered wooden spoon, not having the chance to set it down because it was only mere moments ago you were in your own little world, your own little bubble. Frank’s sudden desire was a welcomed change of plans however.

“Fuck darlin’, ya dunno what ya do t’me.. Looking like that, I have to stop myself from takin’ ya right here in the kitchen every damn time I come home.” He fucks into you with a relentless pace, fully consumed by his arousal.

“My sweet girl already cockdrunk hmm? Love it when your Frankie takes you anywhere he wants? Usin’ your sweet pussy whenever he wants? All fuckin’ mine doll, all mine.”

There are no thoughts in his head but you, the way you feel around him, the way you sound and look. God, he loves you.

Your whole body travels up the counter with the force of his thrusts, and it’s not long until you’re gushing around his length, whining his name with an incoherent string of thank yous and I love yous.

Despite your overstimulation, he resumes his pace, gripping your hips with his large calloused hands, definitely bruising them.

He feels your weeping cunt leak all over him, staining his jeans, feeling your slick through the gritty material.

“That’s it babydoll, make a fuckin’ mess of my cock. It’s all yours sweet girl.” his thrusts falter, the clamping of your walls dragging his orgasm out of him and it’s not before long he’s spilling his seed inside of you, painting you white as a deep gutteral groan emerges from his throat.

He pulls himself out of you reluctantly, marvelling at the state of your pussy, your mixed juices intertwining with one another. 

He tugs your panties back on, covering your hole and pulling your skirt and apron back down.

He looks over your shoulder, finally noticing what you’ve been baking for him. His eyebrows raise seeing the chocolate chips submerged in batter, practically salivating. You were making him cookies, his favourite.

“You treat me too good, doll.” he reaches down, kissing the side of your head and smacking your ass as he takes the wooden spoon from your weak grasp, instantly clearing it with his tongue.

“What the fuck Frankie! Give it back you fuckin’ dope.” You turn to him, dumbfounded by the daylight robbery yet you can’t help laughing as he returns the spoon, no remnants of dough to be seen.

"Ya know I love ya, right sweet thing?" he says joining you in the laughter, pulling you into his grasp, running his hands through you're hair, squeezing onto you like you were going to disappear.

"I know Frankie, I love you too."

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: i hope you enjoy!! sorry it's on the shorter side!

my inbox is open!

[0silver0dreams0]

His Love

Your name was carved into my bones long before you ever spoke to me. I would rip the stars from heaven if it meant you'd never leave. If I must chain you to my side— so be it. Love was never kind.

Warnings: This story includes dark themes and intense emotional content, incest, bastardy / legitimacy issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

When Aemond Targaryen falls in love, he doesn’t simply fall—he descends, headfirst, heart ablaze, dragged by the weight of obsession and longing. His love is never gentle, never quiet. It’s ferocious, possessive, and utterly consuming.

Whether you are his sister, his niece, or merely a maid, his fixation manifests differently, but the outcome is always the same: once he’s chosen you, you belong to him. There is no escape, no forgetting, no mercy. His affection is a curse and a crown—worship and ruin intertwined.

He is not someone who simply desires—you cannot reduce what he feels to wanting. It is needing. And when he receives even the faintest hint of tenderness—a glance, a touch, a kiss on the cheek—it’s enough to shatter whatever self-restraint he once had.

Some say he would never betray his family for a woman. But they forget Aemond has never truly known love—not the kind that softens your voice and makes your chest ache when someone leaves the room. He is the favourite of his mother, yes, but he has always been a weapon, never a boy held close.

And if someone—you—offer him something he’s never had? A promise. A kiss. A whispered vow of devotion. Then yes, he’ll choose you. Every time. Because what’s a kingdom, what’s loyalty, compared to being wanted?

But it’s not simple—not always. There’s a particular cruelty in the way fate tempts him. If you are his niece, worse: a bastard, born of the very bloodline that mocked him, scarred him, took his eye, then loving you should feel like poison. He tells himself he should hate you—must hate you. But every time he sees your face, the war inside him rages louder.

And if you’re his sister... then the blood only makes it stronger. The Targaryens have never feared closeness. And to Aemond, you are not just kin—you are perfect. The way you understand him, the way you look at him and still stay. That cannot be coincidence. That must be destiny. So yes—he loves you. With a hunger that burns. With a violence that simmers under the skin. But love like this never leaves room for freedom. Only for possession.

Sister!Reader

With you, it’s different. He does not have to invent excuses for his obsession. The blood you share is sacred—dragonblood. He looks at you and sees what was always meant to be: silver hair, violet eyes, fire-born hearts that beat as one.

From childhood, you were his calm, his keeper. The only one who never flinched from the storm in him. You held his hand when he returned from Driftmark. You never looked away from the scar.

You are the only thing that makes him feel.

But as you grew older, more beautiful, more powerful, Aemond's love twisted into something feral. Now, his thoughts of you are laced with need, raw and desperate. He dreams of waking with you in his bed, your body wrapped in green silk and his hand resting protectively over your womb. His heir. His wife. His only.

He will kill for you. Bleed for you. Even marry you.

And if you protest—if you dare suggest it’s wrong—he’ll only smile.

“Blood of my blood,” he’ll whisper. “There is no sin in loving what was always mine.”

Niece!Reader (Bastard)

It’s torment, truly. Every time he sees your face, he remembers the boy he used to be—the one whose eye was carved out under the cold stare of your brothers. You wear their blood, their bastard legacy, and yet… he cannot stop looking at you.

He tells himself he should hate you. And he tries. Gods, he tries. But you smile at him once—just once—and it haunts him for days.

He follows your steps through the Keep, always in silence. Watches the wind play with your hair. Imagines what it would be like to press you against the wall, to kiss you until your bastard name disappears from your lips. Sometimes he dreams of you in his chambers—wearing green, swearing loyalty, begging him to never let go.

He knows it’s treason. He knows it’s madness. But he also knows that no one else will ever have you. He’s already claimed you—in thought, in breath, in blood.

And yes, he would betray them all for you. His mother, his brother, even the crown—he would leave it all behind if you only looked him in the eye and whispered that you were his. That you wanted him, and no one else. For a kiss, for a promise, he’d set the world on fire and walk through the flames just to stand by your side.

If he has to burn your brothers to the ground to make you his… then so be it.

Maid!Reader

He never notices the other servants. Never learns their names. But you… You were kind to him once. You bowed your head and whispered, “I’m glad you’re well, Prince Aemond.”

That was all it took.

From that moment, he watched you. Every morning. Every dusk. He learned the way your hands folded towels. How you whispered softly to yourself while cleaning his room. How your lashes fluttered when nervous.

At first, he let you live your life. But the thought of another man touching you—speaking to you—consuming you—became unbearable.

So he started controlling your shifts. Speaking to the Head Maid. Making sure no one else touched you. You only clean his chambers now. You only serve his table.

And when you try to leave early, he stops you.

“Why do you run, little dove?” “You serve me, don’t you? Then serve only me.”

He doesn’t need you to love him. Not yet. But he’ll make you need him. And once you do—once you look at him with something more than fear—he’ll never let you go.

Taglist:

@ursinaw @dakota-rain666 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @pookiedragonfire @jjggdfvvy @maryldrsstuff @1soultaken @ceramic-raven @eissaaaa @moodyblueberrytree @xadaboo @labryel @zoeyburton@hopingtoclearmedschool

[prettieinpink]

Cultivating a Growth Mindset

A growth mindset is the belief that one's skills, qualities, and abilities can be nurtured and enhanced through hard work and learning. Adopting this mindset makes you more open to challenges, embracing the unfamiliar or uncomfortable and willing to experience failure.

However, adopting this growth mindset means we must challenge our limiting self-beliefs that reinforce our fixed mindset. Limiting beliefs is the negative thoughts that hold us back, hindering our journey of self-improvement. 

RECOGNISE YOUR FIXED MINDSET. Start to be aware of how your fixed mindset, became your everyday internal dialogue. Fear of failure, procrastination, always being in your comfort zone or being a constant quitter could be why this mindset has been reinforced in your mind.

That being said, you need to start being conscious of what you’re saying to yourself daily. If you struggle with that, try speaking to yourself out loud, as it helps to be more aware of what you’re saying. 

REMOVE ANYTHING THAT DOESN’T ALIGN, i’m specifally talking about social media. There are so many self degarding or depreciating content(which are always disgusied as a ‘joke’) and the more you consume it, the more you believe it. 

However this can apply to your physical environment as well, such as people, sentimental objects or your actual space. 

START TO REDEFINE FAILURE. There are so many ways you can define failure, but my favourite has to be failure is the sacrifice for success. Of course, you can research other ways to redefine it that resonates with you.

However, allow yourself to grieve failures, especially if they had a huge impact on your life. The only way you can apply the lessons from failure in life is to process them. 

DO SOMETHING CHALLENGING EACH DAY. Whether it is giving yourself an extra 20 minutes at the gym, or trying to advance yourself in your studies, just do something that pushes you and hopefully, makes you struggle. 

Once we allow ourselves to struggle and be challenged, we start to develop the belief that being challenged is okay, not doing it perfect on the first try  is okay we can still do tasks without them being perfect + you’re also embracing failure. 

APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORT. Something is always better than nothing, not everything that we do has to be perfect to consider ourselves accomplished. Once we acknowledge the value of hard work and see how it impacts our day-to-day life, it enforces the belief that we can expand our skills even just by a little.

The perfect way to appreciate your effort is by celebrating or rewarding yourself. Allow yourself extra screen time, to sleep in, or do any of your favourite ‘unproductive’ activities. 

SEEK OUT NEW KNOWLEDGE. Not just reading an article and calling it a day, but actively researching something memorable. This doesn’t have to be a scholarly topic, it could be anything. When we start to desire to learn, which is practically the main thing about a growth mindset, it enforces those beliefs. 

BUILD RESILENCE. You’re going to fail, struggle, lose and maybe suffer. While it is important to grieve what happens, you should be able to bounce back after some time. Building this skill is so important in the growth mindset, as it helps you to take control of your emotions and not the other way around. 

This applies to constructive criticism as well. People will not always give you praise, but that doesn’t matter, what matters is your ability to act on that criticism. An outside perspective always helps to improve yourself and your abilities. 

[wileys-russo]

i need a pool day blurb with jenni after that bikini picture pretty pls bsf 💘 tysm

this is for @sunnyaelia who is constantlyy feeding my jenni obsession pool day II j.hermoso

finishing the final chapter of your book you near moaned with happiness, feeling as though you'd just scaled a mountain as immense gratification flooded your sun soaked bones.

with a content sigh you snapped it shut, patting the cover fondly and carefully tossing it onto the table a few feet away.

you'd been tackling said book for a far too long, and always having been an avid reader ever since childhood it had bugged you to no end that these days it took you months to finish a few chapters when you used to fly through a few books each week.

but life commitments seemed to stump that nowadays, though on vacation for the week it was the ideal opportunity to rectify that and only just two days in it made you feel immense relief that you'd conquered that.

you'd had your doubts of course, and they came in the form of the tall, tattooed clown you had the pleasure of calling your wife.

jenni was your favourite distraction but she was constantly just that, a distraction.

any sliver of free time you had away from family or work was consumed by her need for your every ounce of attention, and whatever you didn't give her she would simply take one way or another.

but your athlete superstar world cup winning striker was not as easily relaxed as you, and despite being on vacation together insisted on continuing her at times robotic rituals of exercise.

not that you could really complain given as much as you adored jenni as a person and a partner; her body, stamina and rippling physique was an immense benefit to all the perks that came with being mrs hermoso.

so your wife was off on her morning run, kissing you goodbye far too early for you to do much more than hum and roll onto your side as she chuckled and gently closed the bedroom door behind her with a click.

you'd arisen a couple hours later surprised that she still hadn't returned, but with the peace and quiet of her absence came the opportunity to finally finish your book and work on your tan, so here you were.

and it would seem right in the nick of time as you heard footsteps pad their way through the villa before her slides slapped against the concrete of the courtyard and suddenly your warmth dissapeared.

"you're blocking my sun hermoso." you warned with a small smile, eyes still closed but protected by a pair of sunglasses which were promptly snatched from your face.

"i am your sun, hermoso. just lighting up your days with my good looks and my muscles and my endearing personality." jenni quipped back with a grin as she settled her glasses on your nose and you cracked one eye up to stare up at her blankly.

you'd be lying if you said they didn't dip a little lower for a moment taking in her sweaty, toned and tanned half naked body before you which wasn't missed by your wife whose grin only grew at the sight.

"enjoying the view esposa? front row seats to la feria de armas." the gun show, the footballer smirked and flexed her arms obnoxiously with a few mock grunts as you rolled your eyes.

"can i get a refund?" you asked blankly, own smile curling upward as jenni's dropped and you closed your eyes again, kicking her gently and making a shooing motion with your hands.

"get out of my sun and take a shower, i can't tan in the shade amor." you chuckled and exhaled happily as she stepped aside and your face was once again bathed in the warm cancun sun.

"oh a shower? good idea, gracias bebé." her slightly chapped but still soft lips pressed sweetly against yours as she ducked down and slipped your stolen sunglasses back on your face before you smacked her ass with one hand as she passed, sending her a cheeky grin.

"niña traviesa." your wife clicked her tongue disapprovingly though you could see the corners of her mouth tug upward in amusement as she stripped off the singlet leaving her only in shorts and a sports bra, her well defined tattooed back disappearing into the villa.

you assumed that meant your peace and quiet resumed, how wrong you were.

"oh dios mio jennifer!" you groaned in annoyance as suddenly footsteps smacked against concrete and there was a brief pause of silence before a body met water with a loud splash and droplets rained down on you one after the other.

"sí precioso?" the girl popped up at the edge of the pool, tattooed arms crossed and her chin resting on them with a wicked grin as you glared down at her and wiped yourself off with a towel.

"idiota." you grumbled, tossing the now damp towel down on the ground and lying back down with a huff. "you suggested a shower no? i just wanted to share mi amor." again droplets rained down as her hand smacked at the water sending a small tidal wave across your legs.

knowing she was just egging on for a reaction you refused to give her one, only standing to turn your lounger around to face away from her before flopping back down on your stomach now which made her laugh, your wife pushing off the side of the pool and floating around humming something to herself as you settled yourself again.

but of course that too didn't last long.

"cari?" the striker called out, still floating on her back with her eyes closed, having changed into a brightly colored bikini which left very little to the eye or the imagination

you hummed in response, the noise muffled as you were still laying stomach down on the lounger a few feet away. "if you are in a competition with yourself, do you come first or last?" your wife asked as you only sighed, all too used to the strangely wonderful but weird way her brain worked.

"neither, no opponents means no winner or loser." you answered without moving a muscle, the older girl making a noise of surprise at your answer, quiet falling again as she took a moment to reflect on it.

"cari?" again you hummed in response, readying yourself for whatever was to come next. "can you daydream at night?"

"no mi amor, thats just thinking." you chuckled slightly at that one, jenni making another pleasantly surprised noise as again a beat of peace passed.

"cari?" a hum again. "if you clean a vacuum, do you become a vacuum cleaner?" you could hear the obvious grin in her tone at that as you snickered quietly. "no you'd actually become useful." you quipped as your wife scoffed in offence and kicked water at you, the few icy droplets which hit your back making you wince slightly.

"cari?" another hum. "if you drop soap on the floor, is the floor clean or is the soap dirty?"

"why?" you finally pulled your head up, sitting up at peering at her over the top of the lounger as she continued to float around the pool. "why not?" she rebutted, ducking under the water and doing a backflip beneath the surface as you rolled your eyes.

"show off." you shot at her, sunglasses slipping just down your nose as you watched jenni pull herself slowly out of the pool, sitting on the edge of with her legs still dangling in the water, wringing out her hair and stretching as she scraped it up into a bun atop her head.

your gaze found home on the way her soft tanned skin tensed and flexed with each movement, water drops cascading down her like she was stuck in a rain storm as she exhaled deeply and rolled her neck.

catching your eye she winked as you shook your head and laid back down as she stood and made her way over, disregarding the unoccupied lounger to your right and instead sitting on the edge of yours.

"so, is the floor clean or soap dirty mi todo?" you flinched ever so slightly as a cold finger traced down your spin, a smile forming on your lips which faced away from your wife who was writing out i love you on your back.

"both, the floor becomes clean where the soap hits it but the soap becomes dirty as it touches the floor." you answered simply as she hummed, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "smart and beautiful." the girl complimented, twisting around and trailing kisses down your shoulder blame as you sighed happily.

"i knew you married me for my mind." you teased. "no, for this." jenni grinned, one hand cupping a handful of flesh on your ass and squeezing before patting it affectionately as you reached out and pinched her thigh making her chuckle.

"again, idiota." you shook your head resisting the urge to smile, knocking her with your knee a little as you wriggled and flipped onto your back again, sighing as your glasses were once more snatched off your face.

"there is another chair there." you reminded as your wife scooched you across with her hands and laid down beside you, both of you near hanging off either side of the small lounger as her wet torso pressed against yours, though as the sun rose higher in the sky and the temperature soared upward the slight reprise now wasn't unwelcome.

"very observant mi vida, bien!" jenni grinned as your eyes opened and winced slightly from the sunlight hitting them, your wife quickly sliding your glasses back over them with a kiss pressed to your cheek.

"jenni i am going to fall off!" you laid in silence pressed against one another for a few minutes before she grew restless, sitting up and moving about nearly shoving you off.

but as you opened your eyes to tell her off further your words died in your throat, mouth running dry as the footballer tossing her soaking wet bikini top over her shoulder and smirked at the way your eyes clearly fixed to her now naked chest though disguised behind the glasses.

her breasts sat to attention, perfectly round and staring you right in the face as your wifes look of utter delight and amusement only grew.

"oh you wanted more space bebita? of course." you barely had time to process her words before her leg was swinging over your hips and she settled herself on top of you, shaking her head as her chest bounced and droplets rained down on you ironically only causing your mouth to dry up further.

but as you reached out eager to touch them her hands caught yours, interlocking her slender fingers with yours and pinning them down to the lounger as she leaned down, the feeling of her wet naked chest pressing against yours nearly having you moan.

"can't have you moving around too much ángel, you might fall off." her pearly white teeth bore down at you in a wolfish grin, sloped nose tucking into the crook of your neck as your eyes fluttered close at the special attention she gave the taunt skin there.

you felt her grin widen as your hips bucked ever so slightly up against hers as she suddenly bit down on the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw, sucking on the tanned flesh until it had turned dark red and sent your head spinning.

"mi niña bonita." jenni purred, kissing softly over the mark and trailing her lips across your jaw before finally pressing them against yours, a slight grind of her hips down into yours causing your breath to hitch with a gasp and her tongue to slip past your defenses, easily taking control of the kiss.

you barely had time to enjoy it before suddenly she was using her strength to easily pull you up and swap your positions, sliding beneath you as you now sat on top of her catching your breath momentarily.

unrestrained now you wasted no time gliding your hands across the firm ridges of her abs, bending down to press feather light kisses across her collarbone, tongue darting out to flick across the H tattoo on her sternum as she exhaled and tangled a hand in your hair, tugging your head up and into her neck.

"niña buena." the striker sighed as your hands finally found her chest and squeezing right as your lips sucked your own mark into her neck, normally not something your wife so easily allowed but too distracted by your hands kneading away at her chest to stop you.

but right as sudden as everything had started, in true hermoso fashion it was just as quick to stop, your hands grabbing onto her shoulders with a cry of surprise as suddenly she stood and hauled you up with her, legs wrapped around your waist.

"jenni no no no por favor amor i washed my hair last night!" you begged and tried to get down as you quickly realised what was happening.

but all you got in reply was a grin as you held your breath and your wife launched the two of you off the edge, icy water engulfing your body as her long tattooed legs hit the bottom and pushed off, the pair of you resurfacing as you coughed and spluttered slightly in shock.

"you looked hot cari, just wanted to cool you down." the brunette teased still holding tightly onto you as you smacked her forehead with a huff.

"estúpido idiota!" you hit her shoulder as she only laughed, pushing over to a more shallow spot where she could stand a little taller, hands squeezing at your ass in a silent attempt at an apology.

"pero tu estúpido idiota." jenni cooed with a smile that was softer, kissing your lips slowly and sweetly as your anger melted away, really unable to stay mad at the endearingly dopey grin on her face as she pushed a wet strand of hair out of your face with a lovesick glint in her eyes.

"well lo siento mucho but you are stuck with me forever and ever and ever now mrs hermoso."

[xxsp3llb0undxx]

A Day To Remember

Jasper Hale x Fem!Reader [989+ Words]

Summary: Jasper takes his human mate back to his home state, Texas, for some time away from their families.

Disclaimer: Please do not repost my work to other sites or claim as your own, this is purely written from my imagination and from the help of the franchise. All rights of the main storyline goes to the writers and producers of Twilight.

WARNINGS: FLUFF // JASPER BEING A GENTLEMAN // USE OF Y/N // UNEDITED

Jasper hadn't been back to Texas in almost 200 years, not after everything that had happened. Not after what he had done. But it seemed he couldn't deny the request of his mate when she asked to see the state where he grew up, where he became the man she valued and loved. So he did just that.

Jasper had planned everything secretly, with the help of his sister Alice of course. Packing up the car with all the essential things Y/n might need before getting in the car and driving all the way across town to pick her up.

Driving cross-country wasn't the best thing in the world but Jasper was thankful he didn't need to sleep or eat, otherwise the journey would've taken longer. As Y/n slept peacefully in the passenger seat, Jasper held her hand ever so delicately, tracing soft patterns into her knuckles. To say he loved her would be an understatement, he was infatuated with her. The way her lips parted ever so slightly as she breathed, how her eyes would flutter every so often, the soft rosy pink tint across her cheeks. Jasper felt things for her on a whole other level, it was like he was consumed by her.

By the time they made it to the hotel Alice had booked for the pair, it was midday. The sun hiding away behind thick, grey clouds as rain pitter pattered against the windshield. Jasper gently shook Y/n, careful not to startle her. She opened her eyes, blinking a few times until her vision was no longer blurry. Looking up at Jasper, a small smile tugged at her lips almost instantly. She leaned over the centre console, pecking the blonde vampires lips ever so softly. Jasper let out a quiet hum of content, his hand trailing along the underside of her jaw as he pulled her closer, savouring the taste and feel of her lips before pulling away.

Jasper, being the gentleman he is, got out the car first, holding up his forefinger to Y/n as if telling her to stay there as he rounded the car and opened her door, holding out his hand for her to take. Y/n slipped her hand into Jasper's, slowly getting out the passenger side of the car as Jasper shut the door behind her. His arm wrapping around her waist as he lead her inside the hotel lobby. As they got their room situated, the bellhop took their luggage to bring it up for them, though Jasper insisted he could do it.

The following day, Jasper and Y/n headed out for a little sightseeing trip around Texas, starting in Houston. Jasper took Y/n out for breakfast, telling her all the stories about when he was a young lad running around this specific part of the city. After breakfast, they had gotten back into the car, driving all the way down to Orange County. Y/n was unbeknownst to anything Jasper had planned, the young girl just going along with everything he said or did.

After an hour or so, the car stopped outside Shangri La. A botanical garden and nature centre. The weather hadn't cleared up, still the same gloomy sky as yesterday but Y/n didn't mind, it meant less people being around and Jasper wouldn't get found out for being a vampire.

The pair walked throughout the gardens hand in hand, Y/n pointing out the array of flowers growing all around. Jasper just smiled, watching her ramble on about her favourite flowers with a smitten look on his face. God he loved her, how did he get so lucky. The blonde vampire had lead his mate to a more secluded area, the pond of the blue moon, sitting down on the wooden platform as they looked out at the deep blue water around them.

"It's beautiful.." Y/n breathed out, her voice soft as she spoke. Jasper hummed in return, his topaz eyes glued to her face. "It sure is." He said, his voice barely above a whisper. Jasper gently cupped the side of her face, turning it so she could look at him. His thumb rubbing small circles into the skin of her cheek.

"I want to ask you something, something I've been dying to ask you from the moment I met you.." Y/n looked at Jasper in confusion, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side before she nodded her head, urging her mate to speak. Jasper let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, not like he had lungs that even worked, before he grabbed her hand and held it lightly in his own.

"I have loved you from the moment we met, I knew you were the one I wanted from the very first time I felt every ounce of your emotions swarm my head like a plague. You accepted every part of me, being a vampire, playing a part in a war that took thousands of lives.. you loved me even when I didn't believe I could be loved. I want to spend the rest of our lives together, whether you want to grow old or you would prefer to go through the change, I want to be there for it all. What I'm trying to say is.. will you marry me?"

Silence. Pure silence. Before Y/n threw her arms around Jasper's shoulders as she squealed in happiness. He could feel the joy radiating off her. The raw, unfiltered euphoria coursing through her like a wildfire. Her soft rants of "yes, one thousand times yes" falling from her lips as she hugged the vampire closer, clinging to him like a lifeline. Never in a hundred years has Jasper felt this content, this at peace within himself and it was all down to the girl wrapped tightly within his arms, like armour protecting her from anything and everything.

[vagabond-umlaut]

Your Sukuna fic recs? pretty please? 🥺🥺

ofc nonnie! i nvr ever turn down an opportunity for showing (few of) my fave authors their much well-deserved love, respect & attention! 😊😊🫶🫶

ryomen sukuna x reader fic recs (I)

‣ this is merely a list of works i've enjoyed reading. kindly heed the tags and warnings in each of them and consume content responsibly, at your own discretion. ‣ that being said, i own neither these fics nor the characters. enjoy reading! 🥰

⇌ Conquest (SukunaXReader) (series) by JellyBelly531 on ao3 [I can't say anything on this series here, except, to request you to read this— provided you're fine with the tags and warnings the author has given. This is an absolute delight for those who love Trueform!Sukuna set in a canon-y historical backdrop. A 200% masterpiece, I'm tellin' ya! :))]

⇌ Sukuna with reader whos just dumb (hcs) by @poe-daydreams on tumblr [Humor, Fluff, Humor, Fluff, Humor— Comedy at its finest :D]

⇌ rhymes (oneshot) by @tender-rosiey on tumblr [Tooth-rotting fluff ft. Dad!Sukuna and his adorably menacing attitude xDD]

⇌ Tribe leader/Viking Sukuna (hcs) by @yuujispinkhair on tumblr [Terrifying 'Kuna + Charming 'Kuna + Protective 'Kuna + Soft 'Kuna + Husband 'Kuna + Dad 'Kuna— what more do you need, hmmm? ^_^]

⇌ Black Magic (twoshot) by sukirichi on ao3 [Arranged Marriage with Enemies-to-Lovers dynamics and Scary™️ Househusband 'Kuna— an ALL TIME FAVOURITE FIC of mine, for sure ^_^]

⇌ Little Monster (oneshot belonging to a series) by @lemonlover1110 on tumblr [A sweet combination of the tropes: Dad!Sukuna & Sukuna being Sukuna. I really love the way 'Kuna is in-character in this fic :))]

⇌ to satiate, seduce, and to sin. (oneshot) by @poe-daydreams on tumblr [For the twisted-yet-loving!Sukuna fuckers lovers like me ;)]

⇌ To the end (7 chapters) by @yuujispinkhair on tumblr [One Of THE very best Zombie Apocalypse AUs I've ever read. Please keep tissues close to you for the sad tears, then the happy tears. I ugly-cried while reading this, no kidding :))]

⇌ 7/11 (oneshot) by astreaborn on ao3 [Perfect way to lift your spirits, if you're ever feeling down. The characterizations are so well written... Just go read it, please. You will not regret it— I'm 10^10 times sure of this!! :))]

⇌ "make me (yours)." (oneshot) by @ancient-vivarium on tumblr [Age gap romance with rich older bf!Sukuna, ft. slow burn, fluff and SPICE— this is what one should call GIRL BREAKFAST, LUNCH & DINNER! ;DD]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Death Wish 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

You close the cupboard and nearly jump out of your skin as Adrienne stands on the other side of it. She stares at you soberly before she cracks a sheepish smile. You show your fright with a hand on your chest. 

“Ade,” you huff. 

She laughs, “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to.” 

“No problem,” you assure her. “What’s up?” 

Her nostrils flare and her smile dulls, “it’s been a week.” 

One week. Your father’s been away for a whole week. He’s rarely been gone that long. His jobs are never more than a couple days. And you haven’t heard from him, but that’s not unusual or disappointing. 

“Hopefully it will be another,” Kitty says as she walks into the kitchen with a half-finished glass of water. “It’s calm around her. Isn’t it?” 

You nod. A silence rises around the three of you. You think back to the one memory you have of a peaceful house. When it was the three of you and your mother. 

“He got that kidney stone,” Kitty says. “Had him in the hospital for days. Ma said it was barely the size of a bead.” 

“Best days of my life,” you agree. 

“I don’t remember,” Adrienne says. 

As the youngest, she doesn’t remember everything and you sometimes think that’s better for her sanity. Even your memory is splotchy. There are fractures of noise and vision. Sometimes you only see, other times it replays like a record on a player and crawls through your ears. 

“So, Ade, why are you so concerned?” Kitty inquires. 

Adrienne hesitates. She shrugs and looks away guiltily. She’s a bad liar. You all are despite the typical consequences. 

“Mitzi wanted to see a movie. They’re screening Breakfast at Tiffany’s at the Golden Reel.” 

“Audrey?” Kitty preens. “My favourite.” 

“You can come. I was going to ask both of you but I thought if daddy came back--” 

“And we’re all gone...” you add. “You two go. I can deal with him.” 

“That’s not fair,” Kitty says. 

“Really, go. I can’t focus on a movie right now.” You insist. “Have some popcorn for me, alright?” 

“He probably won’t be back,” Kitty argues. 

You wave her off, “really, it’s fine. You know I hate crowds. That theatre is tiny and it’ll probably be packed on a Friday night.” 

“Okay, but I’m bringing you back raisinettes. I know you love them.” Kitty insists. 

“Have fun. Tell Mitzi I said hello,” you turn back to the cupboards and run your hands over the laminate.  

You’ve been restless. You clean just to keep yourself busy. To keep from thinking. And when you lay down at night, you’re not kept awake by your usual dread. It isn’t your father standing on your chest, it’s Barnes. In your dreams, he doesn’t strut into the bakery, but into your house. And he sits at the table where your father would usually be and sits silently, waiting. 

That’s why this calm unsettles you. There’s always a storm to come after the quiet. It will unfurl soon enough. 

“Hey, you okay?” Kitty’s gentle touch makes you wince. 

“I’m good,” you assure her and nearly gag on your tongue. For a moment, it wasn’t your voice, it was your mother’s. That same lie she told for so long. You both hesitate at the echo of your lifetimes. “Really,” you face her, “you know I’m dying to have this place to myself. When does that ever happen?” 

She stares at you then smiles. “Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts.” 

She falters again. It’s what you’re all thinking. You want to milk every bit of joy out of your father’s absence.

Kitty turns and grabs Adrienne’s hand, quickly redirecting from the threat of inevitability, “Ade, what are you gonna wear?” 

You take out the flour and all the other ingredients you need. For once, you can afford to spare a bit extra. When you were really young, your mother made her own bread. That stopped shortly after she had Adrienne. She changed after that. She was exhausted with all three of you. 

You measure out every part before you begin. Your precision has always tied you in knots. You find it hard to get anything done unless it’s entirely orderly. In a house full of chaos, that means often you don’t get much done at all. 

As you knead the dough, Kitty and Adrienne’s voices garble on the stairs. They stomp down to the first floor and call a goodbye to you through the doorway. You holler back but keep your hands working. 

You get the loaf in the oven and clean up the mess. The empty house is eerie. You can’t remember the last time you were all alone. Really alone. Ever, if at all. 

You wash the bowls and the whisk and the roller. You put it all away, step-by-step, running through every single detail. The timer counts down, the small windable egg-shaped device your mother always had going for one way or another. Tick, tick, tick. 

It goes off and you jump. For a moment, you’re back in your memories. You’re a little girl at the table, watching your mother rush around the kitchen. Kitty’s beside you with a colouring book and Adrienne’s in her high chair. 

Your mother limps from the fridge to stove. She doesn’t let it deter her. She bends to take out the pan of food as the timer buzzes. Adrienne wails at the noise as you cover your ears. The smell of cigarette smoke singes in your nostrils. 

You twist the timer so it goes silent as you return to the present. The scent of tobacco fades as the fresh baked bread wafts through the kitchen. You open the creaky oven door and use the stained oven mitts to take the pan out. Your mother always wanted a new stove. You assume she wanted a lot of things that she never got. 

You put the pan down and shut off the oven. The doorbell pierces the air and you spin, your back hitting the counter. It wouldn’t be your father; he wouldn’t ring the door. He always comes in screaming, even in the middle of the night. 

You put the oven mitts on the table as you pass and step out into the hall. You near the door, a shadow on the other side of the marbled glass. It’s a man. Your heartbeat spikes. Your father is a criminal and a strange man knocking at your door could be dangerous. 

Is death so bad when living is terrifying? 

You open the door. A wash of deja vu flows over you. It isn’t a strange man, it’s Steve Rogers. Again. That doesn’t ease your worries. 

“You. Come.” He orders you. 

You hold your breath. That is unusual. Your father’s associates come and go, most times they barely acknowledge you, they’re just there to talk shit with him or drag him off on some caper. This is different. Different is dangerous. 

“Yeah, you,” he snaps his fingers. “Look, I don’t got all day. Let’s go.” 

You look down. “My shoes...” 

“Get ‘em,” he sighs and crosses his arms. 

You step back and leave the door open. You step into a pair of scuffed flats and turn back to him. You don’t even grab your keys as you step outside. You’re shaking. 

“Is it my father?” You ask. 

“No questions.” He snarls as he turns and marches down the narrow walkway. 

You follow him at a bouncing pace, struggling to keep up with him. He leads you to the car and opens the back door. It’s then that you notice the woman in his front seat. Her eyes are skittish as she peers back out at you. 

“Get in,” he opens the door. “And be quiet.” 

You put your head down and obey. The look on that woman’s face is enough to keep you in line. Besides, your father prepared you well. There’s an order to things and you’re at the very bottom. So keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told.