#that's not the way i want to carry myself.

[jaesblogstuff]

Here me out (mentions of pregnancy) From the moment Simon put a ring on your finger, you’ve been bent over every surface in the house. kitchen counter, dining table, even the washing machine mid-spin (i make myself laugh LOL) So it’s no surprise you ended up knocked up. Honestly, it was kind of the point. He wanted to see you like this. Full. Round. Swollen with his baby.

Now, months later, your back aches, your belly's heavy and your husband’s hands are right there, soothing, lifting, holding you together with a kind of reverence that makes your knees weak.

Because if it was his goal to get you like this… then it’s his job to take care of you now that you are.

-------

From the moment Simon put that ring on your finger, he made a quiet, devastating promise with his body as much as with his words.

You’d been bent over every surface in the house. The kitchen counter, hallway wall, the back of the couch, his lap in a dining chair, gasping his name into the crook of his neck, legs trembling while he kept you right there.

It was no surprise, really, that you ended up pregnant.

He'd wanted it. Wanted you round and full with it—his. Not out of ownership, but out of something deeper. Legacy. Healing. The need to build something softer than the war-torn world he came from.

Now, months later, your belly swelled gloriously with the proof of all that want. His want.

And tonight, it hurt.

Your back screamed from the weight, pressure clinging low and stubborn as you leaned over the kitchen counter in the dim glow of the fridge light. You were trying not to cry, not to wake him. But Simon always knew.

You heard his footsteps before you felt him, that quiet shuffle down the hall. And then—

“Back again?” came the rasp, sleep-heavy and warm behind you.

You nodded without turning. “It’s… too much tonight. I can’t get comfortable. I feel like she’s pulling my spine apart.”

Simon stepped closer, hands coasting over your hips, then around to your belly. He didn’t ask, just moved with quiet knowing, slipping his hands beneath the curve of your stomach and slowly lifting the weight off your aching back.

Your knees buckled slightly from the release, from how the ache dissolved under his touch. A long, broken sound fell from your lips, something between a sigh and a whimper and you melted into him completely.

“Oh my God,” you exhaled, your head tipping back to his shoulder. “Simon…”

Simon didn’t say anything at first, just held the weight of you both in his hands. His lips pressed to your temple, then down to your cheek.

“You carry her all day,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Let me carry you.”

Your heart ached in the best way as he held you there, hands beneath your belly, supporting all the strain, all the pain. You let yourself sag into his body, trusting him completely.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, arms curling back around his waist.

Simon was quiet for a beat, his voice soft as velvet when it came. “You gave me a home I didn’t know I wanted. You gave me this…” His hand splayed gently across the side of your belly, where your daughter shifted softly beneath the skin. “I’d do anything for you.”

The silence that followed was heavy with love. The kind that needed no words.

Eventually, he helped you back to bed, slow and careful, cradling your body like a sacred thing. And when you curled into his chest, belly pressed to his side, you swore you heard him whisper thank you into your hair.

Like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

[moonstruckme]

One of my favorite little details about your poly!marauders works is how fit and strong James is, especially with how often, and how easily, he picks up or carries around y/n. Could I request a fic with the four of them but he gives the same treatment to his boys as well for whatever reason? Both sounding so exasperated but secretly loving every second of it because they love their sweet strong boy so much and love being babied as well? 🥺

Ahhh yes I can't believe I haven't done this more! It will definitely have to become more common in the poly marauders drabbles, thanks angel <3

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 670 words

By the time the credits roll, you’re all drifting off. Sirius’ eyelids are drooping where his head rests on your chest; Remus is snoring softly on James’ shoulder. You and James share a fond look as you turn off the telly. 

You sit in silence for a few moments, your sitting room dark but for the orange glow of streetlights coming in through the window. Unwilling to end the peaceful night. 

“Alright,” James sighs after a moment, worming his arms underneath Remus’ legs and torso. Remus begins to rouse as he does, but he’s in the air before he catches onto what’s happening, hoisted up against James’ chest. 

He makes a sleepy, demurring sound. 

“You’re alright,” James reassures him in a soft voice. Your heart thumps, smitten. “We’re only going to bed.” 

Remus mumbles something like, “You don’t have to…” 

James shushes him. Remus is easily mollified, letting his head settle in the crook of James’ neck as he’s carried down the hall. You watch them go with a warm, goopy feeling in your chest and a tickle of amusement at your own fascination with the way James’ arm looks hooked under your boyfriend’s knees. 

You coil a piece of Sirius’ hair around your finger absently. “That was rather fit,” you murmur to him, “wasn’t it?” 

You could swear Sirius’ breathing evens out only just then. His head weighs heavier on your chest. 

You give a soft laugh. “Fraud,” you whisper. 

Sirius begins to snore. 

You sigh. “James,” you call quietly. 

No answer. 

“James.”  

Heavy but considerate footsteps sound in the hall. “Hm?” he asks as he peers around the corner. His expression softens when he sees Sirius. “Oh.” 

“I’m trapped,” you say. 

“I can see that. Never fear, I’ll rescue you.” James stoops, lifting Sirius as he had Remus. Sirius puts on a very good show of acting groggy, nuzzling James’ shirt a little as he turns into his chest. 

James smiles. You see his thumb sweep over Sirius’ shoulder. “I’ve got you, love,” he promises. 

You snort, and he gives you a funny look, but you know you see Sirius�� lips twitch before he’s taken down the hall. 

You consider feigning sleep yourself for a handful of moments. It probably wouldn’t be very convincing, but you think James would likely play along anyway. In the end, he comes back to the sitting room without prompting, giving you a puzzled look. 

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” he asks. 

You wet your lips, shy but unable to contain your smile. “I am,” you admit. “I just don’t know if I have the energy to walk there all by myself.” 

James, for the indignant air he tries to put on, is unable to hide his smile either. “You want a lift too, do you?” 

“Please?” you ask sweetly. “Everyone else got one.” 

Your boyfriend—your sweetheart—doesn’t even feign reluctance. He kisses the top of your head as he bends to get his arms under you, and you twine yours around his neck happily. His chest is warm and reassuringly solid. If you weren’t already home, you would be now. 

“Are we tiring you out?” you ask, somewhat contritely, as he lifts you from the sofa. 

James makes a quiet pffting sound. “You lot? Angel, I bench two hundred.” 

“You know I don’t know what that means.” 

“It means that I could lift the three of you together, and it wouldn’t be as much as I lifted at the gym yesterday.” 

“Doesn’t that mean you’re already sore, though?” 

“Not so sore,” James kisses your hair, sounding amused, “that I can’t help my loves to bed. Alright? Don’t worry about me, lovie.” 

He places you in an empty spot at the end of the bed, rounding it to lie in his spot by the nightstand where he leaves his glasses each night. As you roll over, getting comfortable with your head on the pillow, you hear a murmur so quiet it might only be air. 

“You were right,” says Sirius. “That was very fit.”

[hard-core-super-star]

(they long to be) close to you [W.Maximoff]

pairing: baker!wanda x college student!reader

summary: after months of pining after the lovely owner of westview's best cafe, you finally get a chance to get to know her better.

warnings: none, just fluff and pining; MILF!wanda because my hand slipped; is cute tension a thing?; gay panic; bad flirting; mentions of stress and tense family dynamics

wordcount: 1.8k

a/n: this idea came from a brief conversation with one of my favorite people [@katehopecore] and i wasn't able to get it out of my head so now it's here! and it'll probably end up as a series because i can't help myself. anyway, hope you enjoy <3 [oh AND, the cranberries version of this song is the best one, you can't change my mind]

* * * * * * *

Life in Westview had become a weird sort of predictable by now. Same routine, same people, same comfy booth at the best café in town.

Ironically, you didn't even live in said city. At least, not anymore. There was a time in your life when you'd known nothing except that small town in New Jersey and the neighbors you'd seen your whole life. It was easy, familiar, and so comfortable it became uncomfortable.

And so, to your parent's dismay, when you graduated from high school, you'd decided to leave. You chose to go to college in New York, trading the world you knew for a shining, new, incredibly loud, alternative. As overwhelming as the change had been, it was everything you'd wanted and more.

That being said, you still came back home as much as you could, more out of routine than anything else. At first, you'd left your visits reserved for holiday breaks and three-day weekends. When things got busy at school, the last thing you wanted was to be cooped up with your parents, avoiding their questions and listening to them rant about the neighbors.

Things had taken a turn, however, when you'd accidentally stumbled across Wanda Maximoff and her quaint, yet cozy, café. The lovely owner had moved into town right when you were graduating high school, so even though your parents had attended the house-warming party, you'd never met her.

Maybe that was why you were so drawn to the space. Why your feet carried you there instead of your usual hiding spots. Well, they were technically study spots. At least that was what you told yourself, even though most of the time, you were just looking for an excuse to get some fresh air away from your childhood room.

You weren't sure how it happened, but somehow, Wanda's bakery had become your safe heaven. The one place you could always run to for a warm pastry and a comforting smile.

Okay, maybe you were more fond of the beautiful owner than the fantastic coffee and pastries, but that was beside the point.

What truly mattered, at least right now, was the fact that you'd chosen to leave New York for the weekend, swearing you were going to study and prepare for your midterms next week. Of course, that was easier said than done.

Especially when you'd spent most of the morning drooling into your coffee since Wanda was working the counter today. She had no business looking as good as she did in a flannel and suspenders, her lovely red hair falling into soft waves over her shoulders.

It was a little comical how unaware of the effect she had on other people Wanda seemed to be. It was almost like she was in her own little world. One filled with croissant recipes and the weirdest ways to keep an old espresso machine from breaking down.

She was the most enchanting woman you'd ever met and she didn't even know it. Didn't even notice the way all the teenage boys that came in tripped over themselves for a second of her attention.

As much as you wanted to make fun of them, you were just the same.

Except more mature…at least, you hoped.

You're in the middle of another study session, the most recent drink you'd ordered forgotten on the table among the chaos of notebooks, books and of course, your struggling laptop, when you hear footsteps approaching.

You don't look up from your textbook until you hear the sound of a plate and a glass being placed on the table. A question is on the tip of your tongue when your eyes meet Wanda's. There's a softness in them that speaks volumes.

"You've been here for a while," she says with a small shrug. "I thought you might be hungry."

It's only then that you fully realize what she's placed on the table. A glass of water with a few slices of lemon and a plate with a warm ham and cheese croissant. It's not the most extravagant of meals by any means but, considering the growling of your stomach, it's exactly what you need.

"Thank you," you mumble, your voice coming out slightly hoarse. "This is really nice of you."

"Oh, it's nothing, sweetheart." The warmth that spread across your chest stops you from seeing the blush on her cheeks. "Just a little something to keep your energy up."

You're not sure what compels you but you close your laptop and move your stuff out of the way. "Would you like to sit for a little? You've been working hard all morning too."

A small smile tugs at the corners of the older woman's lips. "I shouldn't but…I'm sure the boys can manage for a few minutes."

You sneak a glance up at the counter, watching as the young boys behind the counter scramble to help the working adults preparing coffee orders. Even though you don't want to pry, a question falls out of your lips once you take in the similarities between the two boys and the woman sitting in front of you. "Are they…your sons?"

Wanda nods before you can think too hard about the embarrassing question you just asked. "Yeah, Billy and Tommy. They come help out on the weekends before going to their father's for a few days."

Thankfully, you were barely reaching for your water when she said that, otherwise…you might have made an even bigger fool of yourself by choking like an idiot. That being said…you still didn't push down the urge to keep asking questions.

"You're married?"

"Was married," she corrects. "Things didn't work out, but we share custody and are still good friends. It makes it easier on the boys, I think."

It's hard to hide the smile that starts spreading across your face. You hate how instantaneous it is, how insensitive it makes you feel, and more importantly…how relieved you feel. You barely know this woman, and yet here you are, wrapped around her finger so tightly that you can't stop yourself from hoping there's a chance.

A chance for what? Only time will tell, you suppose.

"Do they like baking too?" You ask as you dig into the croissant, steering the conversation away from something that might make you gay panic.

Your question makes her laugh, the sound sharp with surprise yet filled with warmth. "Oh no, the second they see flour anywhere, they start throwing it at each other."

"Can't say I blame them. I probably wouldn't be much better."

"That's disappointing," Wanda teases. "I was looking for an apprentice."

You giggle in response and concentrate on not appearing too flustered. You're not sure you succeed, though, considering the way the older woman looks at you. "I would if I could, midterm season doesn't give me much free time."

"An even better reason to give baking a try," she replies. "It's what I do when I'm stressed."

"So you decided to open a bakery? How does that work?"

She shrugs. "Divorce is stressful."

All you can do is shake your head and laugh again, feeling warmth bloom in your chest as she joins you. You're pretty sure you can get used to making her laugh like this.

"I might have to give it a try then," you say once your laughter dies down. "It sounds much better than what I've been doing."

"Which is?"

"Ignoring my problems and drinking too much coffee."

"Oh."

To ignore the soft concern in her features, you go back to eating. Thankfully, she doesn't press you or ask any more questions. She simply sits with you, keeping you company and helping you stay grounded.

It's…nice having her with you, you find. Even though all she's doing is sitting with you, her presence is calming. Comforting.

And maybe you should unpack that, but you'd rather not ruin the peace that's settled over you.

Wanda seems just as comfortable as you, since she doesn't move from her spot until she's sure you've finished eating, and she's coaxed you into finishing the glass of water. Even then, she isn't in much of a rush. At least, until one of the twins (you're still not sure which one is which, since you're too embarrassed to ask) tells her the oven went off and the newest batch of cookies is ready.

The smile on your face falters some at that and the older woman must notice because she turns back to you with a certain sparkle in her eyes. "Would you like to come help? I know you're probably busy but-"

"Yes." You rush the words out before you can second-guess yourself. "I'd love to."

Her surprise turns into glee and before you know it you're putting your things away and following her into the back. Somehow, even though the entire café always smells sweet, the aroma coming from the ovens is magnificent. You're not sure how you're going to help her without eating half of the batch.

She seems to read your mind because she motions for you to sit on a counter while she takes the cookies out of the oven. You're more than happy to watch her work, munching on whatever sweet treat she hands you to keep you from getting bored. You're pretty sure it's impossible to be bored in her presence but you don't mention that.

Some time passes before Wanda speaks again. "Sorry, I'm usually better at multitasking."

You instantly shake your head. "It's okay, I don't mind the quiet. It's nice watching you work."

"You're too sweet," she says, looking up at you with a mock glare.

You stifle a laugh as you notice the faint streak of icing on her face. "Actually, I think you have me beaten."

Her eyebrows furrow, more out of confusion than annoyance, though. "What's so funny?"

Instead of answering, you slide off the counter and reach out to wipe the icing off her face. There's still space between you, but it feels suddenly small…like if you just stepped forward…

The sound of the oven going off again stops you before you can do something truly idiotic.

Your hand drops as Wanda turns. "You should help me decorate this next batch. My hand's a little tired."

You have a feeling she's not at all tired, considering this is her passion, but you see the offer for what it is. A chance to spend more time with her.

"Deal."

It's not until almost an hour later that either of you acknowledge what happened. The soft touch and the even softer looks exchanged.

It's subtle, like the smell of her perfume that starts lingering on your clothes.

"You know, if you want to come back tomorrow, I would appreciate the help."

And you do.

The next morning. And the next Saturday. And the one after that.

You come back each and every weekend until you accidentally carve out a space in her heart reserved just for you.

[l-starsz]

a/n: finally got around to this😛 i hope this is good, i got a bit carried away writing this.. also it won’t let me tag so i left the @ in🥲 (also last request done!!! still not taking any rn though since i still have loads added to my list of things i need to write and post😋)

billie knew how to get a girl. and it showed. she knew the right things to say and when to say them. although she hadn’t been with many girls, she knew the right way to get a girl without making her uncomfortable. and that’s what she did to me.

i’d had men approach me in the past who definitely didn’t know how to properly make a girl feel right, let alone treat one right. but there was something about billie. probably because she was a girl herself, but i could tell that i wouldn’t regret getting her number. she was sweet, and caring, and she knew that. she knew that she could probably get any girl she wanted with just a few simple words.

from that night forward, billie and i talked a lot, and ended up being friends. but there was always something more there. i fell for her the night i saw her, but i didn’t want her to know that. there were obviously feeling on her part too, though.

like the time i told her i’d never actually had an orgasm when someone touched me. i’d been fucked before, but not well. the people i’d been with just waited until they came, and didn’t bother about me. and billie took it upon herself to advise me i guess? well it was more like an offer to help me out. i laughed it off, i thought she was joking, but then she added onto her words.

“baby, when you need the job done, you can call me.” it was a whisper, but loud enough for me to hear.

my cheeks turned pink and i attempted to change the conversation, but her words lingered in the back of my mind. since i didn’t know she liked me back, i was trying so hard to forget about her. i tried talking to people, but they weren’t like her. i even tried to push her away, but it didn’t work. we had plans, and i could barely cope without her.

the day came, i was seeing her for the first time in a while. i’d missed her. and i felt so bad for pushing her away. i was just finishing getting ready when i heard her car revving outside. i knew the sound of her car. i knew it was her. i was going to her house just to hang out for a while, but she insisted on picking me up.

i ran downstairs and after locking my door, i hopped into her car with a smile on my face.

���hi bil!!” i smiled, hugging her tight, and as best i could sitting down, before buckling my seatbelt.

“hey angel! i’ve missed you.” she pouted and pulled off the curb.

“i missed you so much more.” i giggled, leaning back slightly in my seat.

we spoke for a few minutes before i mentioned something.

“it’s so difficult finding good people around here. i swear things will be going well then all of a sudden they’re either a horrible person, or they can’t be bothered to make me finish.” i rolled my eyes and crossed my arms.

“well you know that if you’ve never had the one, you can call me, baby.” she smirked, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shifter.

of course, my cheeks turned pink again, just like the last time she said something like this. the day went smooth after that, we watched movies, had dinner together, and when it was getting a little late, she drove me home again. i told her i’d get a taxi, but she wouldn’t accept that, she wanted to drive me home.

when i’d got into the house, i immediately showered, trying to clear my mind. i needed her so bad. i couldn’t get her to leave my mind. when i finished my shower, i did some self care, and immediately got into bed. my favourite tv show was calling to me when i turned my tv on, but even with it playing i couldn’t get her words to leave my mind.

when it reached 1am and her words still hadn’t left me, i knew to the only option was to call her. i was soaked just thinking about her, i was desperate. i’d pushed my feelings away for way too long and i couldn’t help myself any longer.

i unlocked my phone and found her contact, clicking on the ‘call’ button with shaky movements. she answered in the first ring, her voice keeping the usual soft edge to it. the one that she only used when she was talking to me. i could hear the smile on her face as she spoke.

“hey pretty, everything okay? i only dropped you home a couple hours ago.”

“i.. billie.” i breathed out. i didn’t even know how to word what i needed.

“tell me, love. what’s the matter?” she sounded more concerned now because of my lack of words.

“i.. need you.” i admitted quietly, closing my eyes, worried for her response.

i knew she wouldn’t react badly, she told me to call her, but i was just nervous to admit it.

“i’m on my way.” i heard her smirk.

“hurry. please.” i groaned, laying my head back and listening to her moving around her room.

i heard her grab her keys, put her shoes on, lock her door, the slam of her car door. the whole time she was driving to my house, we stayed on call making small conversation. it felt like forever before i heard her car pulling into my driveway. i didn’t even need to unlock the door for her, she already had a key.

once i heard her walk into my house, i ended the call and waited for her to come to my room.

the second she was in my room, her lips found mine. her hands were all over me, finding the waistband of my shorts almost immediately.

“bil.. i haven’t-“

“shh, it’s okay i’ve got you. no need to tell me, just let me take care of you.” she cut me off.

i nodded and allowed her hand to slip lower, under my shorts and into my underwear. her fingers slid through my soaked folds, my wetness getting on her knuckles just from brushing against my underwear. the tips of her fingers pushed inside me, causing me to let out a breathy moan.

her thumb was resting over my clit, and when her fingers pushed completely inside me, her thumb applied more pressure.

“please billie! please touch me more.” i pouted and scraped my nails along the sheets.

“no need to hurry, baby. let me make you feel good, take my time, yeah?”

i whined in response. as long as she was here i was happy, so i nodded, but my back still arched up, longing for more. her fingers weren’t too quick, nor too slow. they were perfect.

she knew what i needed. like she’d had my body memorised for years. as if this wasn’t the first time she’d ever touched me this way. i could feel my walls clench perfectly around her fingers, my juices getting all over them.

she found the perfect spot soon enough, making me cry out her name, practically begging for her. that was when her thumb moved away. her fingers kept working inside me, but her tongue replaced her thumb. this was going way better than i could’ve imagined, and i thought that my constant daydreaming about her was perfect.

she flicked, sucked, and carefully bit on my clit, giving me as much pleasure as she could without overwhelming me. that was what got me close. ready to cum.

“that’s it, pretty girl. let go for me.”

she moved away from my pussy, just for a moment to speak, before going right back at it. when my walls were basically crushing her fingers, she worked faster to make me finish. and it worked. i was sent straight over the edge, moaning out her name loud. i tried to stay quiet, considering the time, but she was just too good. too perfect.

“there you go. so perfect for me. took my fingers so good.” she spoke against my lips, carefully pulling her fingers out at the same time, using her words as a distraction.

we got cleaned up after a few minutes of laying in each others arms, and when we were curled up together under my blankets, freshly showered. and i was falling asleep, i heard her speak.

“i get the job done, hm baby?”

“definitely. thank you billie.” i mumbled, before falling asleep with my face pressed against her chest.

[pink-o-muwh]

It feels daunting and welcoming, and I want to be unapologetically daunting and welcoming.

I feel like I judge myself for the beautiful emotions that has allowed me to interpret this picture from that lens.

I used to interpret people saying "You're intimidating" as "I need to soften up." "I'm too shy." "I'm being rude," and that's only because the majority of the time, the follow-up sentences would be along those lines.

I am still here existing, interpreting you , thinking my own thoughts. Why are you entitled to my nervous system and emotional compass.

I feel as if I should be an actress, because all of these years I have been convincing myself that I actually feel the ways others have projected that they want me to feel.

That's how communes start bitch.

How can one have its individual mind if such large ideas are carried throughout a society and expected to be adopted?

How can I be my own person, if another individual's feelings and thoughts are more right than mine by default?

I know this thought process, when adopted to the highest degree, can cause "chaos", but one's arrangement of their own mind is not chaotic unless they say so. How do you know that your version of chaos isn't someone's peace?

I think that's the scary and both beautiful part of this world, its duality, its ideas that can drag you left to right? To the point where I believe Nirvana is where I took this perfect fence-sitting position. And then I realized with Nirvana comes pain and peace. Because without one there was never another.

The thing is I currently am the way I am, and I feel like being so will allow me to allow others to be the way they are.

I want to continue molding myself to be authentically me. So that means yes, today I am hot, or yes, today I am cold. So fucking what?

Now I interpret when people say that as "Your emotions aren't what I want them to be right now." Which I feel like is easier to not internalize.

I don't want to subject myself to only one emotion to make people comfortable anymore. I don't care if you met me as happy and extroverted, everything has its seasons bitch. Nothing stays the same, but everything is the same at the same time.

Who are you to judge?

[julietsf1]

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle.

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so goes whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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

You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed like he was solving a maths problem with emotional consequences.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a clown.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If you’re into that, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something bigger—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting. You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle. Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips. You don’t hear it. You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil. No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again. Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you. The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath. ("Excuse me,") “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” ("Did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.")

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” ("A notebook… like a journal?")

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” ("Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.")

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous…” ("Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you…")

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. ("Alright… thanks anyway.")

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. ("No worries.")

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm. You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “You’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“I mean… you sure it looked like this?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He looks down again.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “Is this… a crime scene?”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that… jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “I notice stuff.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You’re really gonna make me wait for it, huh?” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “I’m not.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

[snoopygirlsblog]

Protected by the Ackermans.

The afternoon sun projected long shadows on the training field while you and Eren shared a moment of respite, sitting on the edge of the clearing. They spoke in a low voice, finding common land in the peculiarity of their Ackerman protectors.

"It's frustrating, right?" You commented, sighing slightly. "Sometimes I feel that Levi doesn't let me breathe. I understand what he wants to protect me, but ..."

Eren nodded vehemently, his frown. "Totally! Mikasa is the same. Anything I want to do, any risk I want to take ... she is always there, ready to get in. As if I couldn't take care of me alone!"

Both shared a look of understanding, united by the common experience of being subject to intense and constant protection. In the distance, supported against a tree, Levi and Mikasa watched the scene with expressions that, although stoic, betrayed an underlying tension.

Levi, with his arms crossed on his chest, kept his look fixed on you, analyzing each of your gestures, every nuance of your conversation with Eren. A stab of an unknown, sour and possessive feeling, was twisted inside when seeing that verbal intimacy with another.

Mikasa, meanwhile, did not separate his dark eyes from Eren. His posture was slightly tense than usual, his right hand near the handle of his blades. Eren's closeness with another person, especially someone who seemed to understand his frustration with his care, aroused a sharp concern.

"Sometimes," you continued, "I feel that I don't trust me. As if I were a little girl who needs to be constantly guarded."

"I know," Eren replied with a sigh. "Mikasa acts as if I were the only one capable of staying safe. But I want to show that I can use myself!"

While they shared their frustrations, without realizing the intense looks that watched them, an uncomfortable silence hovered on Levi and Mikasa. The connection they shared with their protected, that visceral need to take care of them, felt threatened by this incipient mutual understanding between you and Eren.

Finally, Levi couldn't stand it anymore. A quick and determined movement separated it from the tree. Without saying a word, he walked towards you with a determination that did not admit discussion. Before you could react, he lifted you from the ground with surprising ease and placed you on his shoulder, holding you firmly.

"We have already finished here," it was his only explanation, his rough and possessive voice, addressed to anyone in particular while he began to move away.

At the same moment, Mikasa acted with an almost chilling synchronization. With feline agility, he approached Eren and, without giving him time to protest, he also lifted him on his shoulder, holding him with unwavering firmness.

Eren flicked, surprised. "Mikasa? What are you doing?"

Mikasa did not respond, his fixed dark gaze on Levi's back while he moved away with you. There was a silent intensity in its action, a tacit message of possession and a clear demonstration that Eren's closeness with another person would not be tolerated.

You, on Levi's shoulder, you felt slightly ashamed and confused by his sudden outburst. You tried to protest, but his firm grip immobilized you.

"Levi, do me! I was talking to Eren."

"You've already talked enough," he growled, without stopping his passage. The jealous possessivity shone in his gray eyes.

While both Ackerman moved away by carrying their respective protected ones, leaving them speechless and with a feeling of being treated as naughty children, the scene did not go unnoticed by the other recruits. Some exchanged funny looks, others simply shook their heads at the peculiar dynamic of the group.

The lesson was clear: mutual understanding between you and Eren about the overprotection of their ackerman had triggered an instinctive and possessive reaction in Levi and Mikasa, reminding them, in the most literal way possible, who their protectors were and who belonged to their loyalty. The echo of his care, although sometimes suffocating, was a powerful force that did not tolerate the proximity with others.

[nooneinparticularrrr]

DAYDREAMING

I often find myself daydreaming about the day I get to come home to the love of my life. In that quiet little world we build together, I’d take care of the bills, and she’d handle the grocery shopping—not because it’s her job, but because I loathe it and secretly love carrying her bags, watching the way she lights up when she’s picked out our favorite things.

She’d have a job she loves—something that fills her soul, not just her wallet. Something that gives her both freedom and passion, and a little extra to spend on herself. Because even though I want to provide for her, I also want her to feel empowered, independent, alive in her own right.

If life goes according to plan, maybe we both get to retire early—sometime in my 40s, or 50s at the latest. And after long days where I have to wear a hardened exterior, coming home and melting into her arms would feel like the greatest gift. A sacred softness in a world that demands so much toughness.

I dream of creating a sanctuary with her—a peaceful chaos all our own, where nothing outside really matters. Where I get to care for her in ways only I can, learning her rhythms, her thoughts, her little tells. I want to study her—not just her body, but her mind, her soul. To understand how she sees the world, how she feels loved, and how I can meet her there, every time.

I crave a kind of intimacy that feels insatiable, the kind that scares me with its depth. I crave her—not just the version she shows the world, but the one she hides. And I know that to earn that vulnerability from her, I have to give her mine, completely. It’s terrifying—how deeply I want to love and be loved like that.

But God, how beautiful it would be to fall into something so wild, so raw, so exquisitely fragile. To risk everything for something so rare. That’s the kind of love I want. That’s the kind of love I’m holding out for.

-T

[keiiaq]

things to script: soft beauty ˚.🍨༘⋆

hey lovelies!! I have some good news coming up, so I thought i’d share it alongside a small apology.

i’m so sorry I haven’t posted as frequently as I normally do, I haven’t had much motivation on posting and I don’t want to push myself cause i’d most likely get into burnout which sadly takes long for me to recover from 🙁

now, for the good news.. i’m finally getting an ipad !!! i’m super happy about this cause I can now introduce some of my drself art on this account and it’ll be more accessible for me to use rather than having to keep everything on my phone! after this does happen, i’ll also probably change my theme too.

I actually have this for one of my dr’s so I thought i’d share it rather than gatekeep it since I know a lot of you guys enjoy the series :)

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢

“but I still love you babe. I know I shouldnt, but.”

✿* 🎼 : there’s a softness in you that makes the world hush without even realizing. you feel like quiet meadows, like the breath before a baby animal falls asleep. your presence is tender, warm, and doesn’t need to be loud to be felt. you calm the world like dew on petals or lace-filtered sunlight. your energy is like a forgotten lullaby — gentle, beautiful, and lingering. there’s something rare and comforting in the way you exist. people feel safe near you. they feel like they can rest.

✿* 🍨 : you move like a warm memory, like the scent of something familiar and loving. you’re not fragile, but delicate in a way that makes people want to treat you carefully. you are the kind of soul people don’t forget—not because you asked them to notice you, but because your softness stays in the room even after you leave. your presence makes people speak softer, move gentler, feel deeper. you make chaos slow down. you feel like early morning rain, chamomile fields, and lullabies without words. you remind people of kindness that doesn’t need to be spoken.

✿* 🩰 : you don’t demand anything — you just are, and that’s enough. people lower their voices around you out of respect for how sacred your softness is. your kindness isn’t something you perform. it’s something you radiate. and that softness has gravity. the kind that makes hearts lean in. you’re calm in a loud world. people feel fluttershy in you — not because you mimic her — but because you naturally carry that same sacred gentleness, that same quiet strength. your energy feels like a forest glade where nothing bad can reach.

✿* 🎼 : people don’t just think you’re sweet —they feel held in your presence. your vibe feels like early spring, like a trembling fawn standing up for the first time. you remind people of the warmth of holding something small and alive in their hands and knowing they must be gentle. you have fluttershy’s courage — the soft kind, the kind that stands trembling but still stands. your presence feels like satin wings, like sunlight through lace curtains, like whispering to animals who understand.

✿* 🍨 : your aura is like a love letter written in sparkly gel pen, like the hush after a lullaby, like bedtime stories whispered with too much heart. you remind people of old books with pressed flowers, of honey in warm milk, of whispering “thank you” with a voice that cracks. you are the kind of beauty that doesn’t shout — it glows. people want to protect you without knowing why. you’re the girl who wears lip balm more than lipstick, who says sorry to plush toys when hugging them too tight.

✿* 🩰 : you move like an edit in motion. like an anime lullaby on a rainy day tea party with stuffed animals. your softness doesn’t need to explain itself — it just wraps around people and makes them feel safe. you are vanilla-scented fur and cherry blossom wings. people don’t just see fluttershy in you — they feel her in the way your presence holds them gently. your energy is a whispered wish, a warm blanket, a soft tear from too much love. you're sacred, delicate, unforgettable.

✿* 🎼 : you remind people of whispered dreams, trembling hearts, and warm rooms full of quiet love. you are a flicker of pink in a gray sky, the hush before a vulnerable truth, a pause in someone’s chest that says “this is safe.” you make people want to believe in things again — guardian angels, love notes, and magic in the quiet. people don’t just notice you — they feel softened by you. you’re not loud, but you change the room. you are sweetness that still matters. the kind that heals. the kind that saves. you are this energy. you are this softness. you are this sacred.

✿* 🍨 : this isn’t just “you’re sweet” energy. it’s “you’ve been blessed by something ancient and gentle and people don’t know how to look at you without softening” energy. it’s forest-that-remembers-your-name energy. cottage-wrapped-in-fog energy. you feel like fluttershy if she were real and people accidentally fell in love with her soul.

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

thanks for reading!! this was a little lengthy but I just have a super specific mind when it comes to this aesthetic since I luv it sososo much :) the aesthetic and music just resonates with this so well.

happy shifting my lovelies!

[archangeldyke-all]

read and sevs reaction to lil fuckers labor 🤚🏻🤚🏻😭

HELL YEAH HELL YEAH HELL YEAH

men and minors dni

"BABYYYY!"

you shoot up from the couch, running into the bedroom, your heart in your throat as your mind conjures up images of sevika in pain. "what? what's going on?" you ask as you enter the room.

sevika's scrambling around the room like a wild animal, her eyes panicked. at the sight of you, she blinks, then a giant grin spreads across her face. "it's happening." she says.

you blink. "what's happening? a fire!?"

"no, baby, it's happening!" she says, reaching forward to grab your shoulders and shake you a bit.

you blink at your wife in confusion. she snorts, kisses your nose, and returns to her manic scrambling, throwing random clothes and supplies on the bed.

"sevika... are you having a stroke?" you ask.

she cackles a little hysterically, then looks at you. "smooches just called, my love. little fucker's water broke."

you gasp. sevika giggles again. "you mean...?"

"our baby's having a baby, baby." sevika finishes for you, nodding rapidly.

you burst into action beside your wife, running to your closet to find a duffel bag to carry all your belongings.

thirty minutes later, you and sevika are in the labor and delivery wing of the local hospital, waiting nervously in the lobby.

smooches finds you with a tired, proud smile on her face.

you swarm her the second you see her.

"is everything okay?"

"is she alright?"

"how are you doing, honey?"

"how far along is she?"

smooches laughs and holds up a hand to cut off you and sevika's barrage of questions. "she's alright. doctors say it'll be a few more hours 'til fucker junior joins the world. got 'er hooked up to a bunch of drugs, she's happy as a clam. i'm okay. just... i dunno. excited? nervous? feel like i might throw up at any moment but... in a good way?"

sevika snorts and ruffles smooches' hair. "i felt the same way when this one went into labor. you'll get used to it."

"it doesn't go away?" smooches asks.

sevika cackles. "oh, honey, that's the feeling of being a parent. it never goes away."

smooches snorts. you reach out and grab her hand. "did you tell your dads?"

she nods. "they're on the way."

"tell 'em to bring a pack of cards. me 'n your pa got a game of poker we gotta pick back up."

smooches laughs and shakes her head at sevika. "alright. are you gonna be okay out here? you can wait at home, y'know."

"please. our baby's having a baby. you're lucky we're not in that room right beside you." you say. smooches laughs, then leans forward to kiss both your cheeks.

"alright. thanks for comin' out moms. i should get back in there... i guess i'll see you when i'm a mom." she says with a shy smile.

your heart bursts, and you squeal as you and sevika hug smooches in for a tight hug.

smooches dads find you an hour later. the four of you camp out in the waiting room, passing around magazines, playing cards, sharing pictures of your daughters when they were young. at one point, while sevika's playing poker with one dad, the other nudges you.

"did you tell your other kids yet?"

you giggle. "little fucker made us promise not to tell 'em until the baby's actually here. apparently, she didn't want to crowd up the hospital with her big ass family. considerate little shit. i love her so much."

he laughs and hands you a tissue as you start to tear up. "it's hard to believe we're old enough to be grandparents, huh?" he asks. you laugh and nod as you blow your snot into the tissue.

"i swear, just yesterday i was in this very hospital givin' birth to the kid myself."

"mmm. then five years later i was here pushin' out the twins." sevika mutters.

time passes agonizingly slow. occasionally, smooches will come out to the waiting room to give you all updates. you sleep on sevika's shoulder, then she sleeps on yours. you do laps around the hospital, trying to burn away some of your nervous energy. sevika even bums a smoke off a nurse, breaking her twentyfive year streak without; trying to calm her nerves.

you giggle as you join her in the parking lot, watching her try and fail to take any real hits off the cig.

"you're horrible at smoking now." you tease. sevika glares at you, then bursts into a round of coughs.

"i used to be so much cooler than this."

"you're gettin' old, granny." you tease again. sevika flicks the mostly unsmoked cigarette away and pulls you in for a kiss.

you spend an eternity in the little waiting room, waiting for your baby to have her baby. and then, at three in the morning...

"wake up, ma." smooches whispers, shaking your shoulder. you snort awake, elbowing sevika and kicking mr. and mr. smooches awake.

"what-- what's going on?" you ask, rubbing your eyes and blinking up at your daughter in law. she grins.

"c'mon." she says simply, nodding her head to the long, winding hall of rooms.

the four of you practically sprint to the delivery room, chattering and whispering nervously. sevika nudges you. "you think the kids'll be awake to get a message right now?"

you laugh. "wait 'til the morning to tell the family group chat. i'm sure the new mommies will want some proper sleep before introducing baby to all her aunts."

"and uncle!" mr. smooches reminds you of ekko. sevika snorts.

"nah, he's used to bein' grouped in with our girls by now, isn't he love?"

you don't answer, because you've finally reached the room.

your heart swells at the sight of your daughter, exhausted, sweaty, and smiling bigger than she ever has in her entire life.

mr. and mr. smooches swarm their daughter and the little crib in the corner of the room, but you and sevika make a pit stop before seeing your grand baby.

you both practically crawl into little fucker's hospital bed beside her as you shower her with kisses. sevika bursts into tears the second she hugs her daughter. you aren't far behind.

"are you okay, my baby girl?" sevika asks with a wobbly voice.

little fucker laughs. "hi mommies. i'm okay."

"oh, honey, you look so fucking beautiful." you coo, cupping her face in your hands. she laughs.

"do i? smooches says i look like a wild animal."

you kiss her sweaty forehead. "a bit." you tease.

"or like you got in a fight with one." sevika adds on, laughing through her tears.

your daughter laughs, and your heart sings.

she's okay. she's okay and healthy and she's a mom now.

"she was a stubborn little shit. didn't wanna come out. i get now why you gave me and the twins such unflattering nicknames. kids are fucking assholes." little fucker says.

you and sevika cackle, peppering your eldest daughter with kisses. "y'know we call you little fucker out of love, right?" sevika asks. little fucker snorts and nods.

"of course. smooches has already nicknamed babygirl 'fucker junior.'"

smooches appears at the bedside, a little bundle of baby wrapped up in her arms. "you wanna meet your grandmas?" she coos down at the baby.

tears well up in your eyes as little fucker reaches out and grabs her kid, pulling her to her chest. sevika's muffling her sobs with the back of her hand. and then you both burst into laughter at the sight of your granddaughter's face.

"janna, sev, how fuckin' strong are your genes?" you cackle.

the beautiful baby girl looks exactly like your wife, just like her mama and her twin aunties. "you're only a quarter of her genetic makeup! how is this possible!" you laugh in admiration.

"what's her name?" sevika asks, hearts in her eyes as she peers down at her fourth mini-me in the family.

"well, fucker junior here came before we could settle on a name, but once i saw her... she just looked so much like you mommy... so... we decided on ximena."

you sob, kissing little fucker's scalp, and sevika blinks at your daughter in shock.

"y-you mean...?"

"like your mom, right?" smooches asks, rubbing sevika's back.

sevika blinks, a tear running down her cheeks, and then she lets out a loud, shaky sigh. you grab her hand, and she launches herself across the bed to kiss you, squishing your daughter and granddaughter between the pair of you.

little fucker bursts into laughter, and baby ximena babbles. when sevika pulls away, she shoots down to kiss little fucker's head.

"is that okay? i know you don't talk about her much but--"

"it's the best fucking thing i've ever heard in my whole life, shut the fuck up." sevika sobs.

the room bursts into laughter, and sevika carefully grabs the baby, staring down at her with stars in her eyes.

"hi ximena. beautiful baby girl. you gave my baby a real hard time gettin' here but... fuck you're fuckin' perfect, aren't you? can't even blame you when you're so fuckin' sweet."

it's a beautiful moment, one that you're certain will stick with you until the day you die.

and then baby ximena farts, and the room bursts into laughter again.

kofi

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette @ellieslob

@xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp @iamastar

@sevikitty @butchchase @nhaaauyen @notlores @mirconreadzztuff22

@veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @strawberrykidneystone @vkumi

@fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25 @sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown

@ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite @teethinamber @blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion

@dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth @leeidk87 @cinnamowor1d

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @runawaybaby3 @vikasfemme @lesbones

@chezze-its @lez-zuha @vikashoneybee @shanesevikasfuckdoll @imheadintothemountains

@ferxanda @helaenabugmom @spookymomfriendtm

[mangionebabymama]

omg college luigi would be obsessed with thighs, especially if you have thickness for daysssss. he would smack them, hold them, caress them, squeeze them, jiggle them, so insufferable with him around. if you are wearing jeans on he will softly smack your ass or hoist you by the thighs to just carry you anywhere. if you’re wearing shorts, especially really short shorts, he will plop his head in between your thighs and lay there in your lap. he will expect you to softly play with his hair while he loses himself in the softness and warmth of you. sometimes, if he’s cuddled in your lap and you’re reading a book or watching tv, he’ll lift his head up, making instance eye contact with you, looking like such a cute grizzly bear wanting your attention. if you don’t notice him, he’ll just grumble out, “hey baby, how was your day? just wanted to talk to you.” he’s so in love with you and your body

oh 😩 I myself got some thickness for days so I’m gonna indulge in this one gladly

I’ll never forget how @fligniuz once said they’ve never known a nerd who didn’t love thighs, and it’s safe to say Lu sits nice and pretty in that category. He’d admire how perfectly they complement the curve of your waist and the wideness of your hips, how luscious they look no matter what you wear, even when they’re bare and soft to the touch—and what a blessing it is to feel that touch. Whether you’re in the car while he’s driving, or you are, or even just sitting side by side at a table, his hand always seems to find its way onto your thigh. And considering your thighs offer quite the spacious landing, and his hands are pretty big themselves, it’s almost mesmerizing how his palm stretches across the thick, plush spread of your thigh, making them look smaller than they are. He can’t help but keep touching, squeezing, and stroking. There’s nothing he loves more than when you settle your pretty self down somewhere and your thighs just spill out even further, like molten lava melting over everything in their path. And when he’s lucky enough to lay his head in your lap, nestled right between them, he’s endlessly grateful just to be in your space. He’d be a fool not to admit that he’s imagined what it would be like to rest his face there, really rest his face, or better yet, to be completely smothered and suffocated by your thighs, having the near life and viable source of oxygen squeezed out of him while you’re sitting on his face.

[circumscribitwrites]

Growth Opportunity

“Hi, Ryan! I’m reaching out to you about an exciting new position…”

Ugh. I’d gotten dozens of messages since I started looking for work, and this one was just as unoriginal as the rest. I could guess what came next: Company, Inc. is looking for a motivated self-starter to accelerate our synergy by applying their talents and passions to our growth-focused family of entrepreneurs…

It’d almost be funny if I weren’t so desperate.

I quit my last job after my manager pulled me into a meeting. “You don’t seem very happy here,” she said. “Have you thought about working somewhere else?” 

And that was that. 

No more paychecks, no more health insurance, no more free sodas from the office mini-fridge. Now, I was stuck searching LinkedIn every day, hoping to find something that covered my rent. I hadn’t been very successful.

Worse, it felt like every job recruiter on earth had my email. 

My eyes drifted over to the message in my inbox. Couldn’t hurt to at least open it. 

“Hi, Ryan! I’m reaching out to you about an exciting new position. This is an immediate temporary role with an up-and-coming magazine, and it’s a great way to get your foot in the door. It’d be a mix of customer service and administrative work. Please call me for more details.”

A magazine? Well, that was better than stocking shelves or waiting tables. This could work. 

The recruiter told me that “Men’s Monthly” - some upstart version of GQ - was looking for an administrative assistant. I’d be a warm body to man the front desk, answer the phones, and tell any visitors which couch to sit on while they waited in the lobby. I just had to sit there and look pretty. Or handsome, I guess. It sounded easy enough. I’d be getting paid more than I was before. Plus, the benefits were great. There was even an on-site sauna and gym.

“So, Ryan, just one last question for you,” the recruiter said. “Sure, no problem.” “I’d just want to make sure you’re a good fit for the role. Are you ready to be the face of Men’s Monthy? Do you think your lifestyle, the way you carry yourself, reflects their brand?”

I paused, taking a moment to think. What exactly did he mean? 

“Yeah, I would say so. I mean, I think I am.”

“Okay, great! I’ll get your resume over to them, and we’ll be in touch soon.” 

And just like that, I got the job. I was a little surprised, honestly. I skimmed some of the fine print in the contract and handed it back with my signature. My first day was Monday.

I spent the weekend worrying about every possible detail. What should I wear? What should I bring to lunch? What if I couldn’t find a place to park? Who were my co-workers? I was so stressed that I went to bed on Sunday with a splitting migraine.

I woke up feelin’...weird. 

My head was kinda, I dunno, tingly? Like, it didn’t hurt. Kinda felt good. My headache was gone. I was a little cold, but my sheets were all drenched in sweat. Guess I had a fever? Good thing it broke. Didn’t wanna miss my first day of work.

My phone went off. I grabbed it with my thick fingers.

“Yo?”

“Hey, Ryan! Good morning. Just wanted to make sure you’re ready for today. Once you get there, one of the guys will give you a quick orientation and help you settle in.”

“Sweet! Thanks. I’ll be there soon. Just gotta take care of some stuff.” My voice was deep. Not just, like, morning voice deep. Like a bass. It was kinda sexy, not gonna lie, haha… 

I sighed, my whole chest heavin’. Time to get up. But, uh…maybe just a little…self-love first. I was pitchin’ bad in my briefs - blanket looked like a damn tent. I moved my hands down my waist. 

Ungh, fuck…  

I loved bein’ this big, this hard. I mean, those guys were fuckin’ smart to give me the job. Men’s Monthly? I’m a dude every damn day.

I just sat there, pumpin’ myself, moanin’ and pantin’. And then finally, release. It just kept coming, gushin’ out all hot and sticky. I didn’t wanna stop, but I knew I had to. 

Shit, can’t be late. 

I waddled into the shower, still drippin’. For real, it took a lotta willpower not to have another round in there, haha. Got dressed. My clothes were, like, way too tight. Watch barely fit over my damn wrist.

But I don’t think anybody was gonna mind me showin’ off… 

Just need some coffee, and then I’m out the door.

'Cus I'm ready to work.

Ready to be a man.

Like the story? Want to support me? Check out my Ko-fi!

[dark-l-angel]

hiii! I actually never made a request before, so I am a little nervous lol so, can you write about a really petite reader with bruce? I am really petite myself, and even if I am pretty much a grown adult (I'm in college, save me), people sometimes think that im a middle schooler, and it kinda hurts my pride, even more because I like cute things and don't want to change who I am just for other people to perceive me in another way. so, can you write about bruce with a petite reader who is feeling a little self-conscious about her body? it can be fluff or shut, I don't really care. oh, and I'm sorry if you are not comfortable writing about it, it is totally fine <3

A/N: Hey, hey.. first of all, thank you for trusting me with your first request. That nervous lil' sparkle you brought in? Adorable. And don’t you dare apologize for being your soft, cute self. Being petite and loving sweet things doesn’t make you any less grown, powerful, or worthy. You’re multi-faceted, like lace with a switchblade hidden underneath. Very Bruce Wayne coded, actually 😂.

Just My Size

Bruce Wayne x Petite!Reader

The penthouse was silent except for the quiet hum of the city outside and the occasional sound of Bruce flipping a page from his book. You sat curled on the edge of his oversized leather couch, drowning in one of his button-downs, knees tucked up under your chin.

He noticed it before you said a word.

The way your usual sparkle was dulled. How you were quieter than usual, picking at the fraying cuff of your sleeve instead of teasing him or climbing into his lap like you always did. Bruce lowered his book and watched you for a beat.

"Talk to me" he said softly, voice deep like velvet and stormclouds. His eyes blue and sharp as steel.. never missed a thing.

You hesitated, then exhaled.

"It's dumb."

"Try me."

You bit your lip. "It’s just... I hate how small I am sometimes. People treat me like a kid. Today someone literally asked if I was lost. Lost, Bruce."

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. Not at you.. for you.

"I’m a college student, not a middle schooler. I pay rent. I drink coffee. I swear like a sailor when my phone charger breaks. And still... people talk to me like I’m made of sugar and crayons. And the worst part? I like cute things. I like bows. I like plushies. But then I feel like I have to be less me just to be taken seriously."

You weren’t crying, but your voice cracked enough to twist something in his chest.

Bruce set the book aside and stood. Silent, calm, and precise in every step until he was in front of you, reaching down to gently coax your legs down and pull you into his arms. You practically disappeared against him.. your head barely reached his sternum.. and he held you like you were made of stardust and silk.

"You don’t need to be bigger to be taken seriously" he said against your hair. "You command a room when you walk in. People just haven’t caught up to you yet."

You snorted. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Six-Foot-Three."

"Doesn’t matter how tall I am. You terrify the board of Wayne Enterprises more than I ever have."

A laugh bubbled out of you. God, he knew exactly how to take the heaviness and tilt it, make it lighter just long enough for you to breathe.

Then he leaned down and kissed the crown of your head.

"I love that you're small" he murmured, fingers sliding under the shirt to trace along your bare waist. "Means I can hold all of you. Means I can do this.." He hooked an arm under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bedroom. "And you look way too good in my shirts. It’s unfair, honestly."

Your face flushed, but the warmth of his voice smoothed over every sharp edge of your insecurity.

"You ever notice how quick people are to underestimate the things that are actually dangerous?" he said once you were laid out gently on the bed, his body braced above yours, eyes dark and soft. “You’re cute. And that’s a weapon, baby.”

You blinked up at him.

“I mean it. They’ll never see you coming.”

And with that, he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep.. like he had all the time in the world to remind you just how powerful, beautiful, and seen you were.

Even when you were small.

Especially because you were small.

[starsoverbrooklyn]

just the headline, doll: fleeting augustine. (bakery au) starring... post-war!Bucky Barnes x f!baker!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: a flip-switch of fluff to angsty. mention of Steve's canon ‘death’. topics of loss, grief, silent comfort. inked just for you: 2,284 a word from yours truly: a bit of a longer piece to sandwich in between the daily drabbles. inspiration pulled from @elixirfromthestars's cafe writing challenge! i started this on my main blog back when the challenge first opened, ambitious in wanting to make it a longer piece that delve into more of a 'August' by Taylor Swift vibe between the characters, eventually... (hence the title that i got too attached to, to change), but i heavily siked myself out. better late than ever & just in time for my heal-write journey. hope you enjoy! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

“How much for fresh strawberries?”

Mrs. Cardinal’s voice lilts across the counter, soft and honeyed like sun-warmed tea. Her eyes peer at you from over the rim of her glasses, the corners crinkled with a smile that carries decades of warmth. She looks down at the paper catalog, her fingers brushing over the glossy image of a frosted cake as if it were something sacred.

You return her smile, one corner of your mouth hitching higher than the other. “Eighteen cents for the full top, six for decorative placement… but for you? I’ll cut it in half. Sound fair?”

Her breath catches with delight. “Bless your soul,” she coos. “My husband loves the darn things. I’ll take the full top.”

You nod, scribbling her request on the order form, the scratch of your pencil soft against the hum of the ovens. “He’s a lucky man,” you remark, eyes still on the paper. “Can’t remember the last time someone came in just because. I’d wager it’s never happened.”

Her chuckle is low and tender, like a secret between friends. She pats the counter with a weathered hand. “When you’ve been with someone as long as I have, you don’t wait for birthdays to say you’re thinking of ‘em. Time’s a fragile thing, sweets—especially these days.”

You offer a quiet nod, your smile faltering just slightly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Oh, it’s true,” she insists, her voice turning fond but firm. “You’re young. This place keeps you busy, I can see that. But if you’ve got someone—someone who makes all of this make sense—you hold onto them.”

You lift your gaze to her, polite, appreciative… but the smile you give her is hollow at the edges. That topic always finds its way to you, carried on the backs of women who see too much.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why her next question lands so heavy.

“How’s that friend of yours? The sergeant.”

Your jaw tightens. One eye twitches, a betrayal of calm. “He’s fine,” you answer, too quickly. “We’ve been writing.” Half-truth. Whole ache. She beams at the news, unaware—or choosing not to be.

You reach for her arm, fingers warm against her sleeve. “When would you like to pick this up?”

She hums, tilting her head in thought. “Tomorrow at noon, dear?”

“Perfect.”

You tear the carbon copy from the pad and hand it to her. She cups your hands in hers, gratitude spilling from her like petals from an overripe bloom. Then she’s gone, out the door with a flutter of her shawl, and the bell above the entrance chimes one last, gentle note.

You sigh, swiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, the kitchen’s heat pressing against your skin like a second body. The scent of baking croissants coils through the air, a thin consolation. You slip behind the swinging door, half-ready to disappear into flour-dusted solitude.

You reach for a tin of sugar balanced precariously atop a bag of almond flour—just a quick tidy, just to feel in control of something—but the moment your fingers graze the edge, the whole tower of ingredients gives out beneath your touch.

Flour erupts like smoke in the air. A bag bursts open on impact, powder dusting your shirt, your arms, your lashes. Sugar scatters in a crystalline spray across the floor. A metal canister rolls under the counter, clattering in protest.

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move.

Then—

The bell rings again.

A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

“Shit,” you mutter, voice low with guilt as the word slips. “Coming! Just a minute!”

You push up from your crouch, white dust blooming from your apron like snowfall. The floor groans beneath your step, flour slick and treacherous beneath your boots.

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.”

That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

You spin, startled, your foot catching the edge of a flour pile. Gravity pulls, sharp and cruel—

But it never lands.

A strong hand snatches yours, jerking you forward and into the solid wall of his chest. His hands find your shoulders, steadying. Anchoring. The heat of him seeps through your apron, and your breath stutters from the proximity.

You don’t dare look up. Not yet.

The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

“When a girl says ‘one minute,’ she usually means from outside the swinging door,” you mutter, your voice tight with residual panic.

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again.

You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune.

You are not.

“Lucky I didn’t wait,” he says, stepping back just far enough to take in the disaster of flour and sugar. He whistles, low and unimpressed. “Jesus, Dot. You sure this isn’t a cry for help? I know some gals who swear nursing’s their true calling.”

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

He follows you to the broom, walking backward like a devil in uniform. When you reach for it, he beats you there, grabbing it with a smug little flourish.

“Just looking out for you. Should’ve said something after you put Dots on a cake,” he teases, his distaste for the gumdrops evident by the scrunch of his nose. He rests his chin atop his stacked hands on the broom’s tip.

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.”

“Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

You hold out your hand. He feigns compliance, then snatches the broom away, sauntering toward the radio perched on the shelf.

“Bucky—don’t you dare.”

He shushes you with a finger to his lips, twisting the dial. Static crackles, and then—guitar, soft and lazy like a summer afternoon.

He turns. Broom raised to his lips like a mic.

“I’m gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own…”

You groan, backing away, but he follows. Swaying. Singing. Off-key and utterly relentless.

He catches you by the waist the moment you’re within reach, pulling you in with an easy strength. You press against his chest in mock protest, but the smile curling your lips betrays you.

“A doll that other fellows cannot steal,” he croons, the melody curling from his mouth like campfire smoke, warm and familiar.

“Let me sweep,” you protest, half-hearted and breathless—before a sudden squeal escapes you as he lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you like a record.

“And then the flirty, flirty guys,” he sings, voice dripping with exaggerated charm, “with their flirty, flirty eyes will have to flirt with dollies that are real—”

“Sing with me!” he laughs, cutting off his faux vibrato with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“When I come home at night, she will be waiting,” you deadpan, rushing the line like you’re trying to outrun the song itself. You toss your head back in mock defeat, groaning as he twirls you right through the minefield of flour and sugar. “Bucky, you idiot!”

“She’ll be the truest doll in all this world!” he bellows, now fully off-key and entirely unapologetic, relishing your exasperation.

“I’d rather have a paper doll to call my own…” 

He dips you low, grinning like a fool, pointing the makeshift microphone to your lips. His eyes are sparked with mischief as he juts his chin toward you, brows raised in expectant encouragement.

“Than have a fickle-minded, real live girl,” you sing in surrender, shaking your head even as your lips twitch with laughter.

“Beautiful!” he declares, lifting you upright and twirling you with flourish as the music swells. He spins you out with a theatrical flare, launching into a sloppy, exaggerated swing routine. You burst into laughter, and the sound only spurs him on—he kicks through a puff of flour like it’s part of the choreography, his every move more ridiculous than the last.

“Your boots and trousers!” you gasp, pressing both hands to his chest in a futile attempt to stop him. He only grins wider, undeterred, spinning you faster than the music can keep up.

Flour kicks up with every misstep, but his joy is uncontainable—reckless and radiant, impossible to resist. His laughter rings out, infectious enough to melt any scolding you had planned. Just as you’re caught in the pull of it, his arms sweep beneath you again, and you’re lifted in a dizzying whirl.

Then the floor decided it’d endured enough abuse.

You feel the moment his balance falters—see the flicker of panic in his eyes just before his shoe skids across the floor and the broom clatters down beside you.

And then you’re both falling.

Your body collapses into his with a startled yelp, and his back hits the floor hard enough to shake the cabinets. A sharp thud, a choked grunt—and suddenly, you’re tangled together in the wreckage of sugar and song.

He groans, half winded, half laughing, breath hitching through coughs and fractured chuckles. You scramble upright, flustered and flinging flour from your clothes, but he stays down, one knee bent as he props himself up with an elbow.

With his free hand, he rips the visor cap from his head and tosses it into the mess around him, the gesture as dramatic as the rest of his performance. The last bars of the song warble through the static of the radio, comically triumphant.

You lurch for the dial and spin it down before the next tune can start, your heart still racing as silence spills into the room.

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.”

“You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills.

“I’ve missed you.”

It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

But something shifts.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker, a change in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes drift past your shoulder like he’s watching something no one else can see. The air pulls taut between you, as if it senses what’s coming.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

Your brows knit, confusion tugging at your features—but he doesn’t give you time to ask.

“A Valkyrie,” he adds, hollow. “One of theirs. He intercepted every bomb meant for American soil. Saved everyone.”

Your mouth parts. No sound comes.

And still, he keeps going. Not for you—for himself—like he’s trying to force the words out before they strangle him. “He called from the cockpit before it happened. Didn’t say goodbye. Just… made a promise to his girl.” His voice falters. “You could hear it—how scared he was. He knew he wouldn’t make it.”

The world narrows, the kitchen shrinking around you, suddenly too small to hold the weight of what he’s saying.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a ghost of a protest, thin and useless. You know better. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t need to be believed—he needs to survive saying it out loud.

“He thought it was over. Thought he’d make it back. But the Valkyrie was still locked on course for New York. No backup. No way out. He just… accepted it. Like a man who’s known his whole life he was on borrowed time.”

His lips twitch—not a smile—something else. A wound reopening.

“He got what he always wanted. Fulfilled his duty right to the end. Like a soldier. Like a hero.”

Your hand finds his arm, fingers pressing in like you could anchor him here. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.”

You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.”

He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.”

His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

“Don’t,” you say, the word trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s not fair.”

“He was Captain America,” Bucky says. His tone isn’t reverent—it’s bitter. Blistering. “And I’m what’s left.”

You step forward, unable to bear the space between you any longer. His face is hot under your palms, flushed with grief and guilt, tears already brimming and unshed.

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.”

He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

His fingers fist in your apron like a drowning man clinging to shore. His body trembles against yours—not with weakness, but with too much feeling crammed into a frame never meant to bear it all.

And when he finally breaks, when the sobs come rough and ragged against your collarbone, you don’t shush him. Don’t try to make it okay.

You let him cry. You need him to cry.

Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind.

And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone.

Because he’s here.

He came back in pieces, but he came back.

And you will love every shattered one.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

Thank you for tagging me, @irandial 🖤

But alas, here comes the hard part—perhaps the cruelest challenge for any writer: choosing favorites among your own children. Doubt clings to our creations like fog on a moor, doesn't it? Still, in the spirit of self-love (and self-indulgence), here are three stories that carry pieces of my heart, some more bloodier than others:

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐮𝐦 𝐎𝐩𝐮𝐬 : 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐲 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 [ 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 ]

My soul lives in this one. It's soft and tragic, obsessive and reverent—an artist’s descent into love and madness, painted in longing and dusted with starlight. I wanted to write something that ached, and I still return to it like a confessional.

"I don't paint you," he said, His voice dark with ache, eyes burning with something too human to name. "Because I can't share you." His gaze didn't waver. "Not even with a canvas"

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 [ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

My first love. The story that poured out of me like it had always lived just beneath my skin. I’m endlessly grateful to the anonymous soul who requested it—whoever you are, thank you. Without knowing it, you gave me permission to speak. To put into words the lore, the ache, the weight of Sylus’s heart—all the things I had been thinking about for so long without realizing I’d been thinking them. It was the first time I saw my own world so clearly. And it was the first time I understood how much of my own longing I had stitched into his.

"He wanted her touch more than air. More than absolution. More than anything that would make him human again. Because if she touched him— It wouldn’t fix him. But it might make the ruin feel Holy."

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 [ 𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ]

This one? My guilty pleasure. I actually had fun writing it. Zayne has always felt like such an uptight character—controlled, precise, composed to a fault. So I loved peeling that back. Letting him come a little unhinged. I imagine MC teasing him in every way possible. Sending naughtier and naughtier photos is just one of them, and oh, he breaks so beautifully.

"He tried to count his breath, tried to impose rhythm, control—but it wasn’t breath anymore. It was need. It was humiliation. It was rage masquerading as restraint. “Pathetic,” he muttered, a breathless sneer. “You’ve dissected neural tissue under pressure, and this is what ruins you?"

There are more stories I hold close, but these are the ones that still breathe against my ribs. Each one taught me something—about craft, about character, about myself. I write because there are feelings too vast for speaking, too sacred for silence. And somehow, these stories made room for them.

To anyone who’s ever read, commented, or whispered I saw myself in this—thank you. Truly. You remind me why I keep doing this.

Tagging @laddelulu30, @sxswriter, @sleepylittlestarwrites – I’d love to see the fics that carry your heart.

fic authors self rec! reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love!

thank you for tagging me @mangostarjam 🩷

is it casual now? (hinata shoyo)

notes: probably my favorite shoyo fic I've written, there's just so much of how I imagine him to be in this one and idk I just love the charming, flirty, kind, slightly possessive picture of him I painted here

surreal, but nice (miya osamu)

notes: I wrote it for bloomy's romcom collab and it was sooo much fun to put osamu in a notting hill setting! I still wanna write a part 2 really bad

like real people do (itoshi rin)

notes: I'm really happy with how the dialogue/dynamic in this one turned out, I got to balance sincere love, angst, complicated sibling relationships and hopefully gave rin a break lmao

et nunc et semper (aiku oliver)

notes: ancient rome au is so special to me! I also really love the dialogue, settings and dynamics in this one. I thought no one would be interested enough to read it but everyone has been so immensely nice

should've known better (rengoku kyojuro)

notes: hurt quite a lot of people with this one, sorry! I still adore it

rain is bad luck (shinazugawa sanemi)

notes: my first tumblr fic!!! also first fic I wrote in english :')

all eyes on you my magician (jjk various characters) (dark content)

notes: the secret history au my beloved!!! dark academia my most beloved!!!!! I love this one so much despite the heavy content, this fic probably has my favorite gojo

no pressure tags: any writer who wants to join + @strawberrystepmom, @nagumoan, @heavenlyakin, @tohruies, @lvmimis, @kweenkatsuki-fics, @gojoest, @yuujispinkhair, @ms0milk, @comatosebunny09, @chimielie

[vidavalor]

Irregular

"I've been looking back upon your prior exploits and, it seems that, in a number of them, you formed a de facto partnership with the demon Crowley. Now, if you wanted to work with him again, that might be considered irregular..."

What an interesting choice of words this is...

The original meaning of irregular was something which does not conform to the rules of a church.

If our coffee-wielding villain's job offer to Aziraphale was at all genuine, there shouldn't be anything that would be considered irregular about it in any way. Crowley coming to Heaven shouldn't be considered odd or outside the rules of the church because, well... isn't all of this supposedly coming from God if it's coming from The Metatron? 😉

He's supposedly the (self-proclaimed lol) Word of God. Whatever The Metatron says goes because, he claims, he is just the voice of The Almighty. Why would Aziraphale working with Crowley be considered irregular if the mandate okaying Crowley's status change came from God? It wouldn't be.

Note how this villain very carefully does not say that he'd actually back Aziraphale doing this. Aziraphale could try to do anything he wanted as Supreme Archangel and claim anything within his jurisdiction but it would carry no real political weight if The Metatron wasn't willing to rubber stamp it. This is why there was always a limit as to how much Gabriel could manage to change-- the job is bullshit. In their system, whatever The Metatron says is what flies.

If Heaven was serious about change, this offer would have been that the entire concept of a demon was something that would be in the power of Aziraphale as the Supreme Archangel to change. The offer wouldn't have just been for Crowley, it would have been a blank check to fix whatever Aziraphale thought was broken. It would have been an offer for Beez or Furfur or Dagon or anybody else to have their own status reviewed, too, and reassurances that Gabriel was safe. None of those things were mentioned, though.

Our villain's word choice suggests that he is saying: You could go ahead and restore Crowley's status and you could claim the role that gave you the power, but it'd still be considered against Heaven's rules because not like any of us are going to go to bat for your demon boyfriend. Even in presenting this offer, I still can't bring myself to actually say that I would do that because we loathe him and the rest of you.

I only offered this because it's all I've got since you can't be tempted with anything else. You're in love with him and your desperation over his safety is the only thing that would ever tempt you to get into this elevator with me, which I need you to do so I can kill you to start to get you and your friends out of the way of our Armageddon plans.