#the lighting and the framing is everything

[rametarin]

They cite medievalist work schedules, falsely, because like all "anti-capitalists," they're actually pro-socialist dressed up as anti-bad-thing.

By framing it this way, they say capitalism is responsible for things being bad, even if they aren't prescribing socialism (or syndicalism, or communism) in that exact post. They then refuse to acknowledge any response to that post as "missing the point," and demand they defend capitalism in light of the context of the conversation. IE, "play devils advocate for real life maximalist bad conditions vs. these romantic, incorrect takes on how medieval peasants lived."

Anti-capitalism posts are synonymous with support for something to fill the void. It's just a matter of exactly why someone wants to have an anti-capitalism argument. And guess what? No one accidentally wants to have an anti-capitalism argument, unless they have something they want to fill the void.

The same way your very very obnoxiously religious family member keeps trying to tear down whatever you're doing or thinking about while whooping up how wonderful and magnificent her religion is. She may not be evangelizing or preaching at you about her religion she wants you marching lock step with proactively, but she's ready to tear down and shit on everything you're doing that IS NOT bending your knee to worship at the altar of whatever she believes. She's ready to badmouth and slander and smear all competition or rival organization to her religion, and then go, "This conversation isn't about my god!" if you point out her hypocrisy for stanning her religion while badmouthing everything that isn't her religion.

Anti-capitalists know that it's because of capitalism that we have these science, technology and engineering feats. They believe putting the state above the individual and making everybody's private property subject to the needs of "society" (the state) and redistributing their wealth for social benefits, supersedes even individual civil rights. But always, "oh, based on common sense, of course!" Whose common sense, Edith?

But the medievalism is bait. As soon as you show up to explain feudalist life being shit and not actually better than life under capitalism, they pivot and go, "That's exactly my point! It's because of social organization and evolution that we aren't spending all our time toiling under an overprivileged lord anymore! So its evolve again and do whatever some pseudo-intellectual romanticist thinks is better, more evolved, more civilized, more fair than capitalism!"

girl help they're putting "modern people under capitalism work more than medieval peasants" posts on my dash again

[aniisol]

The poetry of the universe echoes endlessly around everything, etched into walls of chapels and doors of dungeons and light-seared into the backs of your eyes when you fall through the void. It's all in a language you can't understand and you aren't meant to learn, because if you did, you'd understand the terror of it. The wretched human soul that resides within your skin would cry out at the injustice of it.

The nether is not meant for you. Your blood boils and the sand you stand on cries out and grabs at your feet. It's just as lawless as the land above, but the evils of this world are as striking as a match. They do not shroud themselves in leaves and sea and earth, hiding from your human eyes. The nether is not meant for you.

But perhaps it wasn't meant for the creatures here, either. Perhaps the land turned them vile and bitter, instilled in them a taste for blood as red as the fire in which they were born.

You hold this creature in your hands now, one you found abandoned within the remains of its kind, and you can see the humanity in its withered white frame. The poetry that echoes around everything, that the universe is kind, and you are the universe itself. Within this creature is the part of yourself that aches to leave.

You can save a ghast and you can set it free.

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 13

A/N: Hello lovelies!! I added some writing its mixed up in all the photos so don't miss it!

The bakery stink still clung to your clothes like a clingy ex, even after you’d practically power-scrubbed yourself in the shower. Sugar and yeast – the perfume of failure, as far as you were concerned. You were a solid twenty minutes from the sweet, sweet embrace of your aunt’s couch when your trusty (read: rusty) vehicle decided to throw a tantrum. A truly delightful thump-thump-thump started up, a rhythmically annoying sound that was definitely a new addition to your car’s already impressive repertoire of questionable noises. You sighed dramatically and pulled over, the sinking feeling in your gut doing the cha-cha as you got out to survey the damage. Yep, bingo. Flat as a pancake on a Tuesday. Because of course. Your life was just one extended exercise in Murphy’s Law. You popped the boot, a tiny, idiotic sliver of hope flickering that maybe, just maybe, a spare had spontaneously generated. Nope. Nada. Zilch. Why would you, in your infinite wisdom, actually have a spare? Or, for that matter, any of those medieval torture devices they called car tools?

You glanced at your phone – a glorious 5% stared back, practically flipping you the middle finger. Fantastic. Just when you needed to Google “how to hotwire a tow truck.” You flopped back into the driver’s seat with an Oscar-worthy groan, your forehead connecting with the steering wheel in a dramatic thud. The only semi-competent human being you knew who could possibly MacGyver this situation was John B. Perpetual Twinkie-Breakdown himself. The guy practically had a PhD in keeping that rust bucket on the road with sheer willpower and duct tape. And you vaguely remembered seeing a sad excuse for a spare tire crammed in the back of his vehicular disaster zone.

You sat there for what felt like approximately three centuries, the internal debate raging like a toddler denied candy. Call him? After the whole spectacular implosion of your friendship? It felt like waving the white flag of surrender, like willingly reopening a festering wound. But the alternative – spending the night serenaded by crickets and the distant hum of traffic, waiting for your saint of an aunt to finish her shift – was about as appealing as a root canal. Just as you finally caved and reached for your phone, your thumb hovering over his annoyingly familiar contact, a sharp, sudden KNOCK on your window made you jump so hard you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Heart doing the tango in your chest, you snatched your empty coffee flask – your trusty weapon of self-defense against the world’s many annoyances – clutching it like your life depended on it. Through the glass, all you could see was a ridiculously bright beam of light. Someone was clearly trying to blind you with their superior phone flashlight technology. Rude.

Then, the light moved away, no longer assaulting your retinas. And standing there, his silhouette framed against the fading evening light, was John B.

He called out your name, his face etched with a familiar furrow of worry that used to make your heart do a little flutter-kick. Now, it just felt… complicated. “Everything okay?”

You begrudgingly stepped out of your car, the evening air suddenly feeling cooler. “Just peachy,” you muttered, giving the offending flat tire a not-so-gentle kick. “Having a grand old time communing with nature and waiting for the sweet release of death.”

“Need some roadside assistance?” John B’s lips twitched, a hint of that goofy, endearing smile you used to adore threatening to break through. You had to admit, even with everything that had happened, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners was still kind of… cute. Ugh. You just huffed out a nod, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full sentence. Without another word, he was already rummaging in the chaotic abyss that was the back of the Twinkie, a symphony of clanking tools and questionable debris preceding the triumphant, if slightly wheezy, roll of a spare tire that looked like it had seen better decades. Honestly, the fact that thing still held air was a minor miracle.

He worked with a practiced ease, the familiar sounds of the lug wrench echoing in the quiet evening air. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly from the corner of his mouth – a habit you’d always found endearing, much to your annoyance. You sat down heavily on the curb, watching him, a strange mix of gratitude and lingering resentment swirling within you.

“So,” John B said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, not looking up from his task, “long day?”

“One could say disastrous,” you muttered, rubbing your forehead wearily. “The new hire at the bakery put salt in the cookie batter. Ruined the whole damn batch.”

“I probably wouldn’t have even tasted the difference,” he chuckled, finally looking up briefly, a playful glint in his eyes.

“You could eat a pile of shit and not know the difference,” you laughed, the sound feeling surprisingly natural, a small crack in the wall of your forced indifference.

He finally looked up fully, a small, hopeful smile gracing his lips. “How’s… everything been?” He gestured vaguely with the wrench. “You know.”

It was seriously messing with your head how much easier it was to not be a total bitch when he was actually being helpful. Like, his presence was this weirdly comforting thing, even after all the shit that went down. It was almost like stepping back into some old, slightly worn-out but still familiar pair of shoes. He was your John B. Annoying as hell most of the time, but still… yours. God, the amount of history you two had was actually embarrassing. That time you tried to build a raft out of driftwood and duct tape and it immediately capsized, leaving you both looking like drowned rats and him blaming you for the ‘structural integrity failure’ even though he was the one who insisted on using glitter glue? Or that Halloween where you both decided to dress up as conjoined twins using a single oversized t-shirt and spent the entire night bumping into walls and tripping over each other? And who could forget the Great Water Balloon Fight of ‘09 that somehow escalated into a full-blown neighborhood sprinkler war, resulting in Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias getting utterly annihilated? 

The sheer volume of shared memories was nauseating. There just wasn’t enough room in your brain to hold onto this much anger and all that stupid nostalgia at the same time.He was like family, and family fought and eventually, usually, made up. And to be brutally honest, you were just so fucking over being mad at him. It was like this constant low-grade ache, a tension headache that wouldn’t quit, a knot in your neck that no amount of stretching could fix. Ugh.

“Yeah, other than the whole flat tire debacle,” you said, rolling your eyes, the sarcasm still there but maybe a little less sharp. “Everything’s been… an adjustment. Just getting used to being back.”

He chuckled softly, then went back to tightening a lug nut. “Well, at least you didn’t end up in a ditch this time.”

You rolled your eyes again, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. That had been one particularly memorable night, and definitely not in a good way. “Hardly a high bar to clear.”

“Hey, progress is progress, right?” He looked up again, his smile a little wider this time. “Besides, look at it this way – free tire change courtesy of yours truly.”

“Don’t expect a thank you card,” you mumbled, but the twitch in your lips betrayed your attempt at indifference.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his tone light. “Just glad I happened to be driving this way.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a familiar suspicion creeping in. “You just ‘happened’ to be driving down this random road? This is nowhere close to your house, JB.”

He shrugged, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he finally stood up, dusting off his knees. “Okay, fine. I… uh… I still have your location.” He looked away, a sad little smile flickering across his lips as he gave your newly attached spare tire a pat. “All done. You should be set now.” He cleared his throat, the silence suddenly feeling heavier.

He still had your location. He knew. You knew he knew. And the unspoken weight of where that location was last night– Rafe’s place– hung heavy in the air between you.

“John B, wait.” The words tumbled out before you could overthink them, a sudden, desperate plea. You practically ran towards him as he was about to slide into the driver’s seat of the Twinkie. Without a second thought, you threw your arms around him, your face burying itself against his chest. He was still for a beat, maybe two, a surprised tension in his shoulders. Then, slowly, his arms wrapped around you, a familiar, comforting weight you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed. He still smelled like him – a mix of salt, sunscreen, and something uniquely John B that was achingly nostalgic. He held the back of your head, your hair brushing against his neck, and just held you tight, a silent promise not to let go, not to lose you again.

You pulled away slightly, your hands instinctively reaching up to cup the back of his neck, your thumbs resting just below his hairline. Your eyes were brimming, the unshed tears blurring his features. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he murmured, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of your cheeks, his gaze full of concern.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, “please just don’t say anything.” You swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I’m just… I’m exhausted, John B. My mom is exhausting. Going to rehab was exhausting. I’m so behind on all my assignments, that’s exhausting. And you… hating you, being mad at you… it’s the most exhausting thing of all. I just… I don’t want to do it anymore.” You leaned forward slightly and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

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[yourlocalmushroom]

The Amulet

dpxdc

Damian was nine when his brother died.

Danny had been twelve—older, taller, faster. Wiser, even. At least, that’s how Damian had always seen him. He was the one who ruffled his hair when he was annoyed, the one who taught him the best way to land a hit when sparring. The one who, even in their grandfather’s suffocating world, still managed to make Damian laugh.

And then, one day, he was gone.

Not just gone—erased.

By the time the grief had settled like dust over his shoulders, Ra’s al Ghul had made sure no trace of Danny remained. No files. No photographs. Not even a whisper in the League’s archives. It was as if he never existed.

But Damian remembered.

And he had the amulet.

A small, smooth crystal set into a metal frame, strung on a fine, worn chain. Danny had pressed it into Damian’s palm the night before he disappeared, closing his fingers around it like a secret.

“Keep it close, Dami. No matter what happens—don’t lose this. Promise me.”

Damian kept that promise. Through every sparring match, every mission, every moment he stood as Robin beside his father. He wore it beneath the collar of his suit, hidden but always present. When the world felt heavy, the amulet reminded him he hadn’t imagined it all—hadn’t imagined Danny.

And over time… it started doing more than that.

At first, it was just a feeling—a presence. Every time Damian found himself in danger, the amulet would glow, just barely, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t think much of it. Probably just a trick of the light.

But then the near-misses started.

A blade that should have sliced through his side—dodged at the last second. A bullet meant for his skull—tilted just an inch to the right. A collapsing beam during a mission—falling just shy of crushing him.

Every time, the amulet pulsed, and the next moment, he would move—without thinking, without reason. It wasn’t skill. It wasn’t luck.

It was something else.

And the family noticed.

Bruce had narrowed his eyes every time, watching him with the same calculating look he used when analyzing evidence. Tim had outright asked if he was cheating death. Even Jason—who didn’t believe in magic or miracles—had muttered something about the brat being “too damn lucky.”

Something was wrong.

But then, the real nightmare began.

It started like a whisper—stories of strange phenomena, ripples in reality, beings phasing in and out of existence in small towns and quiet corners of the world. Then the whispers turned into chaos. Entire cities blinked through moments of freezing cold, electronics failed, shadows moved when they shouldn’t.

The Justice League investigated.

What they found wasn’t a rogue metahuman, but an open wound in the fabric of their dimension—and something trying to crawl through it.

Ghosts. Entities. Creatures that bent light and space, beings of ectoplasmic energy that grew restless, aggressive. Some were merely curious. Others were cruel.

And they were looking for someone.

“The King,” one of them rasped through Zatanna’s containment ward. “He is here. We can feel him. His heart beats in this world once more.”

The JL pressed for answers. The ghosts spoke of a kingdom—the Infinite Realms—a place of dimensions layered like veils. Their king had fallen, and now the throne trembled beneath the feet of a usurper. The war had spilled over into this reality in search of the one who might reclaim it.

The king, they said, had been reborn.

But time was running out.

In the weeks that followed, the world became a battlefield. The League, the Titans, the Bat-family—all fought with everything they had. Cities were scarred. Skies turned green under rifts of swirling ectoplasm. And still, the invaders came, stronger, bolder.

Until one night, Damian found himself face-to-face with death again.

He’d leapt in front of a civilian—reckless, impulsive, the way he always was when his blood ran too hot. The specter’s blade moved too fast.

There was no time to dodge.

But the amulet around his neck blazed to life.

Light burst outward in a pulse that made the air shatter. The ghost reeled back, howling in agony, while every other entity across the battlefield froze. A shockwave rippled through them—not of force, but of recognition.

And fear.

Every spectral eye turned toward Damian.

The king is here.

Some screamed in fury. Others dropped their weapons and fled. Those who lingered felt the surge of power that poured from the boy—not his own power, but something ancient, something buried deep in the amulet that now burned white-blue against his chest.

Everything stopped.

The ghosts froze, eyes wide with horror.

"The King," one of them whispered.

Damian barely registered it.

The energy surged through him, crackling under his skin, pulsing with something ancient and vast. He could hear voices—distant, echoing, familiar. The ground trembled beneath him, and for the first time, the invaders fled.

The war was over.

And Damian collapsed.

The League called an emergency summit in the days that followed. Damage had been widespread, but miraculously, there were no major civilian casualties. As cities began to rebuild, questions remained. Chief among them: What exactly had happened?

Robin sat in the meeting chamber, surrounded by the most powerful beings on Earth, saying nothing. His fingers drifted toward his chest—only to find nothing there.

The amulet was gone.

His breath caught, just slightly.

The warmth that had always been there—the anchor to his brother, the quiet hum of protection—it was gone.

Panic swelled in his throat before he even realized he was standing. The conversation around him blurred. Someone called after him, but he was already halfway down the hall, footsteps echoing through marble and steel.

He burst through the balcony doors, heart hammering—and stopped.

The sky was clear. The stars shimmered like tiny mirrors.

And there, leaning against the railing, arms folded, gaze turned upward… was Danny.

Whole. Real. Alive.

He hadn’t aged a day.

The same snow-silver eyes. The same wild black hair that defied gravity. That same presence Damian had only remembered in fragments, in dreams.

Danny turned at the sound of footsteps. His expression softened.

“Hey, Dami.”

Damian felt like the world had shifted beneath his feet.

Danny’s voice was exactly the same. Not older. Not changed. As if he had never left.

"You grew."

The words were soft, fond.

Damian’s breath came sharp and uneven. His body screamed at him to move, to do something—to attack, to demand answers, to hit Danny for making him think he was dead.

But he couldn't move.

Because suddenly, that warm thing in his chest, the one he had ignored for years, the one that had flared to life when he had blown out the candle that morning—

It broke open.

Flooded through him like fire and light, grief and relief, memory and something else—something too big to name.

He had spent years pretending he didn’t feel the ache. Years telling himself it didn’t matter. That his brother had been erased. That he was alone.

And yet, here he was.

Standing in the moonlight. Smiling at him.

Danny existed.

The amulet—the core—had never just been a memory.

It had been Danny.

Waiting.

Returning.

And Damian didn’t know what to do with that.

So he did nothing.

Just stared.

Just breathed.

And Danny just smiled.

Like he had never been gone at all.

[cigsaftersuh]

polaroid love ⭑ pics he keeps of you <3

gender neutral reader + idol niki

৻ꪆ heeseung carries a photo of you from your anniversary dinner. it was taken right after he slipped the necklace around your neck, the one he spent weeks choosing with you in mind. in the picture, you’re gazing at him with that soft, loving smile as your fingers gently brush the pendant like it’s the most precious thing. he remembers how you whispered, “i love you,” right after the photo was snapped, and how everything felt so perfect in that moment. whenever he pulls it out, he runs his thumb over the edges, thinking of how lucky he is to have you in his life.

৻ꪆ jay keeps a framed photo of you on his desk at the office, taken on your birthday right after you blew out your candles. the warm glow of the remnants of the flames flickering against your face, your smile wide as you looked at him. your wish already granted just by having him there. whenever he gets lost in his work, his eyes drift to the picture, and a heat of warmth spreads through his chest. it reminds him of what truly matters, of how much he wants to work hard — not just for himself, but for the future he’s building with you.

৻ꪆ jake keeps a photo of you tucked safely in the back of his phone case, taken on a summer evening when the two of you snuck onto the rooftop of his apartment to watch the sunset. you were sitting with your knees pulled to your chest, the golden light casting a soft glow over your skin, eyes half-lidded as you looked out over the city. he remembers just how peaceful the moment was and how you had leaned your head against his shoulder, fingers brushing against his without a word, as if the whole world had stopped just for the two of you. now, whenever he pulls out his phone, he catches a glimpse of the photo and feels that same warmth spread through his chest, a reminder that no matter where he is, you’re his favorite view.

৻ꪆ sunghoon keeps a photo of you from first your ice skating date tucked inside the clear pocket of his bag, where he knows it won’t get bent. it’s a candid picture he took with your cheeks flushed from the cold, a determined pout on your lips as you wobbled on the ice, reaching for him without hesitation. he remembers how tightly you had clung to his hands, how you trusted him completely to keep you steady. every time he sees the photo, his heart aches in the softest way, a reminder of the way you look at him: with absolute, unwavering trust.

৻ꪆ sunoo keeps a photo of you inside his journal, pressed between the pages like a delicate secret. it was taken on the night of the lantern festival, right when you looked up at the sky, eyes full of wonder as the lights flickered above you. he remembers how you had squeezed his hand, whispering that you’d never seen anything so beautiful, completely unaware that he had been thinking the same thing about you. sometimes, when he’s alone, he flips open his journal just to see that picture, tracing the edges with his fingers and reliving the moment over and over again.

৻ꪆ jungwon keeps a photo of you on his nightstand, framed neatly beside his lamp so it’s the first thing he sees in the morning when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before bed. it was taken during a picnic on a perfect spring afternoon, the wind catching your hair as you laughed, eyes crinkling in the way he’s come to love. he remembers how you had looked at him that day, how peaceful and happy you had been, and how all he wanted was to keep you in that moment forever. sometimes, on nights when the world feels too heavy, he reaches for the frame, holding it close, letting the warmth of the memory lull him to sleep.

৻ꪆ niki keeps a photo of you taped inside his locker at the practice room, carefully placed where only he can see it. it was taken after one of his late-night practices, when you showed up with his favorite snacks and sat patiently on the floor, waiting for him with the softest smile. he remembers how you had held out a drink for him the second he walked over, telling him he worked too hard, and that he needed to take care of himself too. he had snapped the picture right then, as your eyes were full of concern, the way you always looked at him like he was worth slowing down for. now, whenever he’s drained from endless rehearsals, he glances at the photo and feels that same warmth, a silent reminder that no matter how tough it gets, he’s never alone.

with love,

© cigsaftersuh

[r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e]

THANK YOU i have been thinking about this constantly. buck says he “”knows a great place”” and takes Gen Z Landlord Ravi to what is aesthetically speaking i’m assuming the worst boston irish knock-off of the bar from cheers bar that exists in los angeles. LOOK at this place. this place is called o’shaughnessy’s. it’s been exactly the same since 1984. the leather booths. one single tiny television playing wrestling. exposed brick. the most disgusting beer-drenched wall-to-wall carpet you’ve ever been stuck to in your life. smoking inside hasn’t been legal in 20 years and it still smells like nicotine because it’s basically soaked into the wood. a framed jersey over buck’s head. and yet it’s full of YOUNG PEOPLE in PATTERNED SWEATERS and LEATHER JACKETS???????? A PONYTAILED DYKE BARTENDER IN A BASEBALL SHIRT???? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!!!!!!!!

like this is absolutely Tommy’s Local. buck “knows a great bar” ahshdhshdbdhdj ITS TOMMYS BAR!!!!!!!! this is tommy’s Sad Old Man Drinking Alone At The Bar Watching Wrestling And Longing For the Intricate Rituals Bar because he hasn’t been touched outside of a fistbump or a backslap at work in months!!!!!!!!!!

ok after meditating on it i think this is tommy’s local in tommy’s neighborhood that tommy discovered when he bought his little bungalow in 2008 when the market crashed and then trying to get the lay of his new neighborhood he was wandering around one night and heard the dulcet tones of steely dan and glasses breaking and was immediately hit over the head with a miserable and agonizing sense of being Home, because this sad old dive bar smelled and looked exactly like the sad old dive bar his father had dragged him into as soon as tommy was old enough to stand upright on his own two feet - the one right down the street from the first house he’d grown up in, the one where he’d spent long, empty afternoons playing hide and seek with his sister under the booths and eating maraschino cherries plucked carefully out of drinks by women with long nails and too much eyeshadow with names like Wanda and Tootsie and trying to make himself useful by emptying ash trays and offering to fill up the ice. tommy stumbles blindly into Johnny Malone’s and orders whiskey on the rocks, which he doesn’t even like!!!!!!! at all!!!!!!! but if he’s going to be punted back in time to the most miserable days of his childhood he might as well complete the whole picture. also probably The Harp and Hound has like five beers on the menu, ranging from Guinness to Coors Light and everything in between is Heineken.

and THEN! old johnny finally retires after running the bar for five decades and his young nephew Mark is moving from pasadena to take over the operation, and when tommy is hears about it one night in 2019 while nursing his bi-monthly The Ancient Loneliness Is Going To Consume Me This Time he’s like HAHA GREAT! FUCK! can’t even have ONE THING IN THIS WORLD!!!! he stews and sulks and thinks they’re going to landlord special the place and it makes him unimaginably sad and angry. and pissed at himself because he doesn’t even LIKE the bar it’s HIDEOUS and reminds him of all of the worst parts of himself!!!! he ends up at the muay thai studio four days in a row and imagines he’s slamming his fist into the brick behind the bar just like his father had when tommy was thirteen years old instead of his sparring partner donny’s pads. he doesn’t even — it shouldn’t MATTER if it’s different, or gone, it SUCKS, that’s the whole POINT —

but mark from pasadena is a gay visionary and has a preternatural ability to see into the future and leaves the bar literally exactly the same except he rips out the carpet and hires only competent lesbian bartenders and knocks out a wall in the back in order to put an actual kitchen in and spends months carefully, obsessively curating the most beautiful beer list tommy has ever seen in his life. it makes tommy so, SO mad. it’s almost exclusively microbreweries and brewpubs from the west coast, a couple places from the southwest, one place in upstate new york. the first night tommy sits at the same old sticky bar and drinks an organic amber ale from humboldt county elbow to elbow with a group of septum-pierced kids that are pleading with jess the best bartender in the world to please please turn the wrestling to drag race, he feels so dizzy with cognitive dissonance he has to go outside and bum a cigarette from shawn the doorman. he smokes his first cigarette in two decades and he pretends his eyes are stinging from the smoke and thinks about — just — maybe — maybe you don’t have to gut a place down to the studs. maybe you bring in someone with fresh eyes. a little optimism. elbow grease. a new carpet.

“a cara cara orange lager? that’s insane, i’m getting it,” evan says five years later, slapping the menu shut and pushing it aside. tommy nods at jess the bartender briefly, his usual whenever you get a chance eyebrows, barely managing to take his eyes off evan, who’s already on to the history of citrus cultivation.

“this place is great,” evan says, looking around, after he takes a sip of his orange lager and makes a face and remembers he doesn’t like orange and pouts at tommy to share his belgian draft with him. “do you come here a lot?”

they’ve been dating for three weeks. tommy could tell him. all of it. or part of it. the feeling of rugburn on his sister’s hands. watching obama getting sworn in, the second time, three seats down and a dozen years ago. old johnny. mark. walking out into the blazing sunlight of a summer afternoon after hours in the dark, feeling like his whole life was slipping away at eleven years old.

he could. or.

“couple times a month,” tommy shrugs, taking a sip of his beer, watching evan watch the way his throat works. “great neighborhood place.”

“yeah, you don’t really get a lot of those anymore,” evan agrees absently, hooking his foot around the leg of tommy’s stool and leaning in.

has anyone mentioned the invisible string that brought them to the same bar at the same time yet?

[myharkness]

MOMMY'S BUNNY

3k words. summary: agatha is a workaholic—she likes getting things done before resting. sometimes, however, you miss her. you just want her to come to bed with you. and you find a way to make that happen. tags: sub!reader, fem!reader, dom!agatha, established relationship, age gap, pet names, enchanted strap, reader is a little oblivious/innocent, pet names, praise kink, accidental seduction, enchanted strap, nipple play, hands-free orgasm, blow job, mommy kink, creampie, slight pain kink, mild overstimulation, size kink, dacryphilia, bulging, degradation, accidental seduction, etc.

The rain falls lightly at night, the trees rustle with the force of the wind, and the cold comes in waves. The tapping of the computer's keyboard echoes in the house, steady and melodic, stopping for the occasional sip of tea from the steaming mug. Agatha sits at the dining table, darkness surrounding her aside from a soft, yellow light above her. She's been working all day long—and she'd started typing away from the second she arrived home from work.

You, as always, never complained. She's the one bringing home the money, making sure you stay home so she can see you every day at any time she wants. Instead, you do your best to be supportive, bringing her meals to ensure she's well-fed, bringing her tea whenever she appears too stressed, and reminding her to take short breaks every once in a while to avoid being burned out.

And as supportive as you want to be—you also need her at your side. Especially at night, when you're tired. When you know she's tired. You want to feel her next to you, like every night, nuzzle into her neck, sink into the heat of her body, and sleep safely in her arms. But you're alone instead. So you slide out of the comfort of your bed and step outside, watching her work diligently.

"Aggie?" Your voice flows through the air, entering your lover's ears. You watch her glance up at you, peeking over her glasses as you bite down on your lip nervously.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Agatha replies gently, glancing at the time. She removes her glasses and sets them aside, eyes wandering over your body appreciatively, unabashed. She knows you're too oblivious to realize what you're doing to her—what your body is doing to her. You just dress comfortably around the house, she just happens to find everything you wear delicious.

You're clad in one of your soft, more snug shirts. It's dark purple, her favorite color, and the chilly air makes it obvious you're not wearing any underwear. The fluffy black shorts you wear hang loosely around your waist, threatening to dip too low at any given moment. She can see the v-lines on your lower abdomen, and her eyes trail up to your chest, firm and round—plump. She can almost feel them in her hands.

"Are you coming to bed soon?" You ask gently, leaning against the door frame. Your hair is fluffy and messy, framing your face and barely interrupting your line of sight. Your eyes are tired, watching her expectantly, swimming with a hint of diffidence. Agatha lifts her finger and motions for you to come to her, moving her chair away from the table.

Your legs move before your mind processes the command. The second you're directly in front of her, she points the tip of her finger downwards, eyes still on the computer screen, and you sink to your knees. You keep your hands on your lap, fingers curled as you look up at her, pretty and doe-eyed. Her lips stretch into a smile, fingers gently pinching your chin as she looks down at you.

"What did you think was going to happen when you came in here looking like that, angel?" She murmurs, brushing past your previous question. Your eyes shimmer with confusion, and you tilt your head to the side curiously.

"Like what?" You ask softly, watching her pupils dilate.

"Oh, bunny," Agatha sighs condescendingly, and her thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "This pretty head of yours is just so silly sometimes, huh? Can't even understand the simplest thing, can you? So dumb and innocent, baby—and all mine, right?"

"Yes," You answer, heat crawling up your neck. Your cheeks burn a light shade of red, eyes shifting down. "Yours.."

"Who's?" She asks in a soft whisper, gripping your chin. Her smile feels dangerous, and her eyes shine with a silent warning.

"I—I'm yours, Mommy," You answer, swallowing thickly.

"Good girl," She coos. "Mommy still has some work to do, bunny, but I'll let you spend some time here with me. Would that make you happy, pretty girl?"

You nod quickly, "Mhm. Yes, please.."

Satisfied, Agatha hums and places down her pen. Your eyes are glued to her hands as they slowly undo her belt, making your eyes fall onto the action, lips parted. You shuffle forward and the corners of your lips glisten as you watch her undo the button slowly. You bite back a whine, hands moving to her thighs as you kiss the tips of her fingers. Your eyes are already wet, and you shift as you catch her zipper with your teeth, tugging it downwards.

She watches you, jaw flexing as she clenches her jaw. Her hand dips into her boxers, pulling out the purple dildo she'd let you get acquainted with. You glance up at her, seeking her permission, and she nods briefly, brushing your hair away from your face. You lick your lips and part them obediently before leaning forward. She slides the strap into your mouth, and you watch her inhale sharply.

"Atta girl," She breathes out. "Just be good 'til Mommy's done.."

She returns her attention to the computer, and you hear the mouse click occasionally, the tapping of the keyboards echoing once again. Your tongue presses on the underside of her cock, and your cheeks hollow as you slowly bob your head. You can hear her breaths above you, quick and heavy, and the speed of the keyboard taps slow.

Slowly, you sink your mouth further down experimentally, until she stretches your throat and she's nestled comfortably there. Her hand falls on the table and she gasps, her fingers tangling in your hair at the action. Your eyes sting with tears, but you breathe in through your nose to avoid gagging.

"Fuck," She groans, and her hips buck. You gag, sniffling, "Fuck, sorry, baby. Sorry—jus' stay there. Be g-good for Mommy.."

You let out a choked groan when she begins thrusting her hips. Your fingers grip her thighs as you focus on bobbing your head, listening to her moans, feeling her fingers tug at your hair firmly. She's already close—you can feel it in the desperation of her messy thrusts. You've never had her so far down your throat before, you know it's driving her crazy.

You push down, nuzzling your nose into her pelvis. A loud moan rips through her throat, thighs trembling beneath your hands, and she squeezes you tightly into her. You swallow around her cock and lift your hand up, wrapping around the slight bulge in your throat and squeezing. You choke and splutter as her hips buck desperately, and she reaches the orgasm she's so desperately been chasing.

She watches you, mouth parted and eyes wide. Her fingers dig into your scalp, and tears stream down your cheeks as you bob your head up and down, helping her fuck your mouth through her orgasm. She falls back against the chair, moaning loud and unabashed as she pushes your head down, the tip of your nose pressed against her skin once again.

You can feel her fill up your mouth, her legs twitching each time you swallow her release. Finally, she lets go of your hair and allows you to pull away from her strap. Your lungs burn, and your jaw aches, but your return to her cock, grasping it delicately with your fingers, looking up at her with wet eyes and tear-stained cheeks as you lick the cum off the shaft. Her head falls back as she tries catching her breath, but her eyes never leave yours.

"Shit," She sighs, chuckling breathlessly. "Fuck, bunny. That's a nice trick you got there, huh? Where'd you learn that?"

Your cheeks flush, "Well, I—I was just ... thinking 'bout you. I wanted to make you feel good, and I through I'd try it.."

She runs her fingers through your hair, "Just wanted to make Mommy feel good, huh?"

You nod, still flushed. Your eyes are still wet, and the strap stands straight, brushing against your cheek as you look up at her. Your knees begin to feel sore, and the cold catches up to you, leaving goosebumps to appear on your skin.

"I think you've earned yourself a reward, bunny. Why don't you get on the bed, hm?" She hums softly, and you perk. You stand on your feet, ignoring the pain in your knees as you make your way to the bedroom, sitting on the bed obediently.

You can hear her in the kitchen, likely returning her empty mug. Her footsteps move in your direction, slow and careful, leaving you to squirm in place. You rarely receive a reward or punishment—you have a tendency to stay in the middle, on her good side, but with the occasional bratty acts that keep her on her toes.

"Ready, bunny?" She asks as she walks through the door. Her lips curl into a smirk as your cheeks turn red beneath her attention, but you nod quickly, expressing your desire as your eyes travel to the unbuttoned pants, the bulge leaving a wet stain on her crotch.

"Yes, Mommy," You swallow. She chuckles and walks slowly.

"You're unusually eager," She murmurs thoughtfully. "Excited?"

"Uh-huh," You nod. "Want you.."

She beckons you over to the edge of the bed. You obey instantly, sitting on the corner and letting your legs hang over the bed, barely brushing against the floor as you look up at her. Her lips catch yours in a gentle kiss, something soft in comparison to the passion-filled kisses she usually gives you when she's eager to devour you whole.

Your hands reach up, grasping her shirt as your eyes close, opening your mouth to let her tongue slide in. Her lips are as soft as they usually are, and her tongue is kinder as she sucks in your bottom lip. She moans lightly, and her hand grips your jaw lightly, allowing her to work her tongue inside your mouth. She continues to kiss you, hands moving down to the hem of your shirt.

"Arms up," She murmurs against your lips. You whine and pull back briefly, raising your arms and allowing her to slide your shirt off. She groans as she watches your breasts appear from beneath the soft material. Her hand pushes you back softly, guiding you to lay back on the bed. She kneels on the mattress, draping your legs over her thighs as her fingers knead at your breasts.

You whine briefly, the back of your hand coming to rest over your mouth. Your face feels hot as her fingers gently pinch your nipples. She smiles wide at your reaction, pulling your hand away from your mouth.

"Let Mommy hear you, angel," She murmurs, chuckling. "You think I forgot how sensitive you are here?"

You twitch, lips parting in a needy, breathy groan. Your eyes cloud over as she leans down, taking a nipple in her mouth while she toys with the other one. You whimper, breathing heavily as her teeth gently nip at your skin.

"Mommy," You moan, wrapping your legs around her waist. She chuckles and sucks harshly at your nipple, making your body jolt as a high-pitched squeak leaves you, looking up at her with teary eyes.

"Hm," She mumbles. "Wonder if you can cum like this.."

You cry out when she bites down on your nipple, panting heavily. She moves to the swell of your breast, sucking a mark on it. You can feel a coil tighten in your abdomen—it feels strange. Weaker, but still pleasurable. She moves her mouth to the other nipple. Tears sting your eyes—like there's a connection from your nipples to your clit. Your legs tighten around her waist, your eyes shoot up to the ceiling and your fingers curl around the blanket as you focus on chasing the feeling.

"M'gonna cum ," You choke, and your hands hoot to grab at her shoulders. "Please, Mommy—can I?"

She hums in approval, biting down on your nipple once more. Your eyes fly to her, hands tangling in her hair as you moan loudly, hips moving as you chase the high you feel as the coil in your abdomen snaps. Your mouth waters, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. You came so fast—with your pussy untouched.

"My sensitive little bunny," She murmurs softly, releasing your nipple with a pop. You sigh, slumping against the mattress as you try pressing your thighs together. You're wet between your legs, and your clit pulses angrily, arousal soaking your thighs.

She taps your leg, "Open."

Your legs part obediently, but your mind barely processes. You feel a little spacey, your head is fuzzy and you feel a little sluggish. But you're so turned on, so needy for her. She cups your cheek, and you realize you've been lost in your head, catching your breath.

"How do you want me?" She whispers, and her fingers gently pull your shorts aside. Her fingers nudge at your clit. "Talk to me, angel."

You whine, "Want your cock, Mommy..."

"Yeah?" She asks softly. "Want Mommy's cock inside you, huh?"

You clench around nothing, nodding quickly. Her lips twitch into a smirk, and her fingers dip into your cunt. You groan, walls fluttering around her fingers as she fills you up nicely, moving her hand in slow, gentle thrusts. She has an idea—you know she does because of the smirk she wears, the glint in her eyes.

"Wanna try something new, baby?" She asks, her grin never faltering. You nod along, eyes fluttering closed as you focus on the feeling of her fingers inside you. She slides them out and you whine, but she positions the strap against your entrance and sinks into you. You pussy wraps around it the way it always does, and you gasp as the ridges massage your walls, leaving you pulsing.

"F-fuck, Mommy—so good," You pant, groaning breathlessly. She doesn't answer, doesn't even move before you feel a stretch inside you that almost makes you lose your mind. Your eyes snap open and you look at her—your mouth falls open when another stretch makes a moan fall from your lips, making you feel fuller than ever.

"Look at that.." Agatha chuckles, her hand moving to stroke your belly. There's a bulge there—you see sweat trailing down the side of her neck. You don't know how she hasn't cum inside you yet—you're already so close to losing yourself. She moves her hands under your thighs and lifts them, letting your legs rest on her shoulders as she shifts her position.

"Ohmygod—" You gasp, and she moans loudly. She pulls her hips back and snaps them forward, making your eyes roll back as she begins a steady pace. She doesn't ease up, and her hand moves to your belly again. When she pushes down on the bulge, you sob loudly and let your back arch off the bed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Agatha hisses sharply. "Fuck, bunny. So fucking tight—m'gonna fuckin' cum already.."

"Mommy—" You sob, pulsing around her. Your cum slides out, coating her cock, acting as a lubricant as she keeps fucking into you. The new size of the toy makes you burn, but it hurts so good. You wiggle your hips, and the movement causes a guttural moan to leave Agatha's lips, still fucking you roughly.

"All mine, bunny," She whispers breathlessly. "You're all mine, okay? Mommy's your first and your last—nobody is going to touch you."

"Yes, Mommy," You whine, flushing. She increases the pace of her thrusts. She's usually much more silent when she's fucking you, but she's moaning out with every thrust, breathing heavily, ragged and desperate. Her hand remains pressed against the bulge. Her thighs shake as you push your hand over hers, adding more pressure to the bulge. Your eyes water and your mouth drops open as she fucks into your sweet spot again, and again, and again.

"Oh my—fuck, Mommy, it's so good!" You moan gutturally, feeling her fingers dip into your hips as she fucks you harder, Her panting and moaning drive you so much closer to yet another orgasm—but the way her eyes gloss over when you press down on the bulge makes you want to burst. Your hands slide up her arms, eyes falling shut as you clench tightly around her.

"Fuck!" She groans, jackhammering into you with more vigor as her fingers rub tight circles on your clit. Your mind goes blank, your mouth dropping open as you reach your third orgasm. You see stars behind your eyes, feeling her release inside you. She slows the thrusting, filling you up to the brim—but she doesn't stop thrusting. Her fingers on your clit make you writhe, lower abdomen trembling as tears stain your temples.

"Too much—" You choke out, legs shaking. She pulls her fingers from your clit, hips moving slowly inside you as she slowly finishes filling you up. She nuzzles into your neck, breathing heavily. You're still trying to catch your breath, but she's lost in another word. You wince as you sit up, and she pulls you up as she sits on the bed.

She's still inside you, and you rest your head on her shoulder, relaxing your body as you shift. It makes you accidentally pulse around her, making her choke out a moan and thrust harshly, sensitive from the intense orgasm.

"Fuck," You whine. "Sorry, m'sorry.."

Agatha breathes out and gently lifts you, making you wince. With a bated breath, she lays you back on the bed and unhooks the strap, sighing as the sensitivity eases. She watches cum soak your thighs, and the bedsheets beneath you.

"How're you, bunny?" She asks softly, kissing your brow.

You hum, eyes closing, "If I wasn't tired before, I am now."

Agatha laughs lightly, kissing your lips briefly. She brushes your hair away from your face. She watches you eyes droop faintly, but your arms wrap around her neck and pull her in for a tight hug.

"If you get up to do more work, I will throw that fucking computer in the pool."

[...]

[shall-we-die]

What about a timeline when dazai × fem! Reader adopted atsushi and maybe kyouka?

Or when chuuya and reader adopted aku and gin?

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{We're a family now.}

☰[Main list]•⊰ Bungo stray dogs

↬[A/N]•⊰ I really loved this request 🫂

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[Dazai]

When Atsushi was a child, you and Dazai took him out of the orphanage and took care of him. He was a lovely child who always looked at you with his bright eyes. Perhaps, it was a small window of light and hope for Dazai.

"Can I call you Daddy?" Okay, Dazai's heart melted completely.

It was probably the first time he felt he had to protect something, and that was his new family. Something not to be missed at all. He clung to you or Dazai most of the time, trying to learn new things and enjoying everything. Most nights he slept with you and Dazai. and you had to calm him down after his nightmares. Atsushi was afraid to let go of you and Dazai. So Dazai also tried to keep the bad things out of his mind by making him happy. Of course, he tries to put aside his scary, strange and suicidal side for the sake of this child as well. Dazai and Atsushi often get along. They like to read books together and then Atsushi runs to you happily and explains to you about the new book that Dazai has given him.

When Atsushi grows up, Dazai tries to do dangerous and strange things, you always have to shout at him or reprimand him. In fact, Atsushi has now become Dazai's father and has to take care of him all the time. Bath time is the best time for them, I mean... for Dazai. He jumps into the bathtub with Atsushi and they play together like children. You also have to bathe 2 children and dry their hair and give them clean clothes. Atsushi can cook food, and clean in the best way. In fact, he's more useful for the house than his father! Dazai also just walks around the house, or tickles you or annoys Atsushi in different ways.

When you send him to school, he's over the moon. Learning new things and making friends is like a dream for him. You and Dazai know about Atsushi's ability, but you don't say anything to him, as long as Dazai is there, you don't have to worry about these things, right? After a while you meet Kyoka, Atsushi is happy to finally have a sister, but Kyoka is just super cold. It's difficult to talk to her and she's depressed for a long time. But after a while, Kyoka gets used to you and spends most of her time with you. She goes to school with Atsushi and they both learn a little bit of martial arts from dazai. Of course, you threatened Dazai that if he bothered the children, you would divorce him.

Sleeping together as a family, is definitely one of your favorite activities. Going to the amusement park? Every wekend? this is fabulous! Kyoka likes to sit on Dazai's shoulder and look at people from above. After all, these long legs should have a benefit, right? Lots of family photos! you find a whole room filled with photos and family movie frames. Rabbit dolls, flowers and plants can be seen everywhere in the house. Now you have to take care of three children. Of course, two of them grow up very soon, and in the end, you and the two grown children have to take care of Dazai, because he's a child who never grows up. Dazai isn't allowed in the kitchen. Instead, Kyoka seriously asks him to sweep the house. But in the end, you find Atsushi sweeping the house, because Dazai has run away from home! Kyoka's demon usually wanders around you, maybe she wants to know that you are a good mother for Kyoka or not? But, by seeing your husband's behaviors, sometimes she massages your shoulders. Poor y/n, who can really endure Dazai all these years? You really have unlimited patience. Dazai... really tries for the family, when he visits Oda's grave, he asks him to guide him in his dreams. And he wishes to be a good father. I think it would be interesting for everyone in the agency to see a happy family, although Kunikida and Yosano always comfort you as if you were married to a sick lunatic and your life has been ruined.

And they'll do their best to help you raise two children.

┣━━━━━━━━━━━━━┅┅┅┄┄

[Chuuya]

Chuuya was constantly smiling with excitement, he was very stressed. cause you two were supposed to take care of two kids. every five minutes he would take his hat off his head and put it on his head again.

You happened to see two young Akutagawas on the street and decided to take them home with you. (they're about 10 yo) (Well, I wrote this because Akutagawa can have a happy family)- At first he was very wild and wouldn't accept to live with you at all, but by seeing Gin's face... he's an older brother And considered securing his sister. Gin was a quiet girl who clung to her brother most of the time, but when you took her hand and gave her a supportive smile, she was able to feel very secure. At least she could enjoy the hot chocolate you bought for her. Chuuya, on the other hand, was very happy to have become a father, almost crying over the idea of a happy family.

But, older Akutagawa was like a nervous kitten who didn't like Chuuya's caresses very much. Maybe he liked it and secretly enjoyed it? After all, only beauty, glory and love are emitted from Chuuya fucking Nakahara. He buys everything for them, even things they don't need. when you and kids enter the house and you want to show them their new room, you're faced with a mountain of different devices. And Chuuya, who's proudly waiting to hear the screams of children's joy, but .... Well, these children don't know many of those toys at all! Maybe Chuuya is a little upset now. The first night, when you help them take a bath, give them new clothes, and put them to bed on a large bed, Ryunosuke watches your movements all the time so you don't try to hurt them.

It may take a long time for these kids to trust you. Especially Ryunosuke. You may have to remind him over and over that you love him. Of course, these children get closer to Chuuya by seeing his skills in fighting. It seems that both of them want to learn something from Chuuya. it's difficult for Chuuya to hurt the children during training If they get hurt, Chuuya will suffer the most. And surely seeing the eager eyes of these children, to go to school, and to see the stationery, will cause Chuuya to have a heart attack. And little by little, you realize that you have become a family. Every day you and Chuuya help each other make breakfast for them and take them to school.

On holidays, you can watch Chuuya cooking and enjoy its beauty. Of course, Ryunosuke still has trouble bathing, so Chuuya has to spend a lot of time hugging him and going to the bathroom. Gin loves to learn about plants, she calmly helps you to water the flowers, sweep the house or make a to-do list... And Ryu and Chuuya? Well... now Chuuya is Ryu's father and his role model, so... he certainly likes to spend more time with him. Surely there are many times when Chuuya is embarrassed in front of Ryu. If you've watched bsd wan, you'll understand it better. Ryu doesn't care at all about seeing Chuuya's dancing in front of the mirror, tbh. Or, when he turns red due to drunkenness? Ruy doesn't care, but it's certainly embarrassing for Chuuya.

These kids are always thinking about the relationship between you and Chuuya. And they think it's very beautiful. Because in any case, children want to see a good relationship between their parents. When they get sick the situation becomes very difficult for you, especially Chuuya. He sits near their bed all night and takes care of them. Sometimes Ruy loses his self-confidence because of his illness, but daddy Chuuya is here, daddy Chuuya ya supports him and hugs him, caresses his head and says kind words to him. In your home, there's certainly a lot of love, there's no big punishment for small mistakes, no beating and humiliation.

There's not a Ryu who likes someone like Dazai Osamu! Chuuya does his best not to let anyone in his family join the Mafia. But if his children still want to do it, Chuuya supports them behind the scenes. Calling Chuuya "Dad"? Well, Chuuya fially had a heart attack. Maybe after a few years, these kids finally accepted you as their real parents. All three of them are strong, and you?... It doesn't matter at all that you're strong or not, these three are your bodyguards forever. "Mom is an important person, you dare to look at her, I will pull your eyes out of the socket." your children and your husband are super overprotective... they'll be upset just by one small "ouch" from you.

Ryu and Gin are shy, just caress their head and they only turns their faces immorally, but their red cheeks are still visible. Family dinner time? No one misses it! Even if you're super busy, you still sit around a small table at the appointed time, talking about simple things. A cool family? Yeah... you can go to the mall and buy different clothes for them and die peacefully from the intensity of their beauty. Just imagine that you could have such ahappy family.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

some body dysmorphia comfort but make it spicy! he’s sweet,caring, taking his time to show you that he loves every inch of you and you should too

made for me - rafe cameron

⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ content: 18+ MDNI insecure!reader, body dysmorphia, body worship, oral (f. receiving), praise, mirror sex, fingering

⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ yap: i love writing for insecure reader

⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ word count: 2.1k

You stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, the dim light casting soft shadows over your bare skin. You’d slipped out of your clothes moments ago, a rare moment of vulnerability spurred by a quiet night in with Rafe. But now, staring at yourself, the familiar wave of dread crept in—body dysmorphia tightening its grip. Your eyes darted to every flaw you’d convinced yourself defined you: the curve of your stomach you swore was too soft, the stretch marks faint across your thighs, the way your hips flared more than you wished. You hugged your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, to hide, the voice in your head screaming that you’d never be enough—not for Rafe, not for anyone.

He’d been sprawled on the bed, scrolling through his phone, but he noticed the shift—the way your shoulders tensed, the quiet hitch in your breath. “Hey,” he said, voice low as he sat up, tossing his phone aside. He was behind you in an instant, his broad frame filling the space, his warmth pressing against your back. “What’s going on in that head of yours, baby?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes in the reflection, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I just… I don’t get it,” you murmured, voice small. “How you can look at me and not see everything wrong.”

Rafe’s hands settled gently on your hips, his fingers splaying over your skin, firm but tender. “Look at me,” he said, not a command but a quiet plea. You lifted your eyes reluctantly, meeting his in the mirror—blue and steady, locked on you like you were the only thing in the room. “You think I don’t see you? I see every damn inch of you, and I’m fucking obsessed.”

Your breath caught as he slid his hands up slowly, tracing the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. “This,” he said, voice dropping to a husky whisper as he cupped them, his touch reverent, “these are perfect—soft, real, mine.” He squeezed lightly, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you gasped, a spark of heat shooting through you. “Love how they fit in my hands, how they feel when you’re pressed up against me.”

You shifted, self-consciousness warring with the way his touch lit you up, but he didn’t let you pull away. His lips found the side of your neck, kissing slow and deliberate, his stubble grazing your skin as he moved down to your shoulder. “And here,” he murmured, one hand sliding over your stomach, flattening against it as he pulled you tighter against him. You flinched, instinctively wanting to cover up, but he held you there, his erection pressing hard against your lower back through his jeans. “This right here? This drives me fucking crazy. You’re soft, yeah, but that’s what makes you you—makes me wanna bury myself in you every chance I get.”

“Rafe…” Your voice trembled, torn between doubt and the heat pooling low in your belly. He ignored it, his other hand slipping down to your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh there as he spread them slightly, forcing you to see what he saw.

“Look at these,” he growled, his grip possessive, kneading the skin. “These thighs—fuck, baby, they’re gorgeous. Strong enough to wrap around me when I’m fucking you, soft enough I wanna sink my teeth into ‘em.” He dropped to his knees behind you, and before you could protest, his lips pressed to the back of your thigh, kissing the stretch marks you hated. “These lines? They’re proof you’re real, proof you’ve lived. I’d trace every one of ‘em with my tongue if you’d let me.”

You whimpered as he did just that, his tongue dragging slow and hot over the faint marks, his hands guiding your legs apart. In the mirror, you saw yourself—naked, flushed, trembling—and him, fully clothed, worshipping you like you were a goddess. He didn’t stop there, his mouth moving higher, kissing the curve of your ass before he nudged you wider, his breath hot against your core. “And this,” he murmured, lips brushing your slick folds, “this pussy—fuck, it’s everything.” He licked a slow, broad stripe up your center, tasting you, groaning low in his throat as his tongue flicked over your clit. “So fucking sweet, baby. Love how you taste, how you feel.”

“Rafe—oh God,” you gasped, hands fisting in his hair as he ate you out, slow and thorough, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you open. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, before dipping lower to push inside you, fucking you with it as he hummed against your skin, the vibration making your legs shake. He pulled back just enough to look up at you in the mirror, lips shiny with you, eyes dark with hunger. “Look at yourself,” he said, voice rough. “Look how fucking gorgeous you are like this—wet and needy for me.” He sucked your clit hard, drawing a cry from your lips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he devoured you, relentless, until you were trembling on the edge, hips bucking against his face.

He stood again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, pressing himself against you, his hands roaming now, one slipping between your thighs to find you dripping. “See this?” he said, fingers sliding through your slickness, teasing your entrance as his eyes held yours in the reflection. “This is what you do to me. You’re so fucking beautiful, you’ve got me hard just standing here.”

He turned you slightly, angling you so you could see the way his fingers worked you, slow and deliberate, dipping inside just enough to make you clench. “Every inch of you,” he whispered against your ear, his free hand cupping your breast again, pinching the nipple until you arched. “This body—your body—it’s mine, and I love it. I love how it feels under me, how it moves when I fuck you, how it looks when you’re coming apart.”

Your knees buckled, but he held you up, his chest pressed to your back, his voice a steady anchor. “You should love it too,” he said, softer now, his fingers curling inside you, coaxing a moan from your lips. “You don’t see what I see, but I’m gonna keep showing you ‘til you do.”

He pulled his hand free, and you whined at the loss, but then he was unbuttoning his jeans with a quiet urgency, shoving them down along with his boxers until they hit the floor. His cock sprang free, thick and rigid, the tip flushed and leaking as he gripped it, giving it a slow stroke before pressing it against your ass. “Look at us,” he rasped, dragging the head through your folds, smearing your wetness over himself, teasing you with the pressure. “Look at how fucking perfect you are for me.”

He notched himself at your entrance, circling your slick heat with the tip, letting it catch and slide just inside before pulling back out, drawing a desperate whimper from your throat. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his hands clamping onto your hips, fingers digging into the flesh as he lined himself up properly. He pushed in slow—agonizingly slow—stretching you open, the thick head breaching you inch by inch, your body yielding to him as he filled you. Every ridge, every vein dragged against your walls, and he hissed through his teeth, pausing halfway to let you feel him throb inside you. “You’re so tight—shit, so fucking good. You feel that?”

You moaned, head tipping back against his shoulder, the stretch intense, his heat searing as he sank deeper, bottoming out until his hips pressed flush against your ass. “Rafe—oh God,” you gasped, your hands reaching back to grip his thighs, needing something to hold onto as he held still, letting you adjust to the fullness. He was so deep, so thick, your body trembling around him, and in the mirror you saw it—his cock buried inside you, your stomach slightly bulging from how far he reached.

He started to move, pulling out slow, the slick drag making your toes curl, before thrusting back in with a controlled, deliberate force that rocked your whole body forward. “Look at your tits,” he growled, hands sliding up to cup them, squeezing hard as he fucked into you again, watching them bounce in the reflection. “Fucking love how they move—look at ‘em, baby.” He pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers as his hips snapped forward, the wet smack of his skin against yours echoing in the room. Your breasts jiggled with every thrust, the sight making your core clench tighter around him, and he groaned, feeling it.

He shifted his grip, one hand flattening over your stomach, pressing down just enough to feel himself moving inside you. “This belly,” he panted, his voice rough with lust, “so fucking soft, so sexy—love how it feels when I’m fucking you deep like this.” He thrust harder, the pressure of his hand amplifying the sensation, his cock hitting that spot inside that made your vision blur. Your slickness coated him, dripping down your thighs, and he cursed under his breath, his fingers digging into your stomach as he pounded into you, relentless now, the mirror showing every shudder, every bounce of your body.

“And this ass,” he grunted, his other hand sliding back to grab it, smacking it hard enough to leave a faint red mark before gripping it tight, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. “Fuck, baby, the way it shakes when I slam into you—makes me wanna fuck you all night.” He angled his hips up, driving deeper, the head of his cock brushing your cervix with a sharp, delicious ache that had you crying out. Your ass jiggled with the force, the sight in the mirror obscene—his hands kneading your flesh, his cock stretching you wide, your body trembling under the onslaught.

He slowed for a moment, pulling out until just the tip rested inside, teasing your entrance with shallow pumps, watching your face in the reflection as you whined, desperate for more. “Look at that pussy,” he murmured, reaching around to spread you open with two fingers, exposing your swollen, glistening core to the mirror. “So fucking pretty—look how it grips me, how it begs for me.” He thrust back in hard, a single, brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt, your walls spasming around him as you gasped, hands flying to brace against the mirror.

“Rafe—please,” you begged, voice breaking, and he grinned, dark and hungry, his pace picking up again, ruthless now. He lifted one of your legs slightly, hooking his arm under your thigh to spread you wider, giving him a better angle to fuck you deeper. “These thighs,” he growled, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, “fucking heaven when they’re around me—shaking like this, so damn strong and soft.” His cock drove into you, the new angle letting him hit that sweet spot over and over, each thrust sending a shockwave through you, your slickness soaking him, dripping down his thighs now too.

He reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he pounded into you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. “You’re so wet—so fucking tight, so mine,” he rasped, his hips slamming against you, the sound filthy and wet. “Watch yourself—watch how your body takes me, how it fucking loves me.”

You couldn’t look away—the mirror showed everything: his cock glistening as it slid in and out, stretching you wide, your breasts bouncing wildly, your stomach flexing with every thrust, your thighs trembling, your face flushed and wrecked. His fingers worked your clit faster, the pressure building, unbearable, and he leaned closer, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Love this pussy—love how it feels wrapped around me, sucking me in like you can’t get enough.”

Your body tightened, the coil snapping as you came hard, a scream tearing from your throat, your walls pulsing around him, gushing slick down his cock. He groaned, low and guttural, his thrusts faltering as he chased his own release, the sight of you unraveling pushing him over. “Fuck—baby,” he growled, slamming in deep one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his hips jerking with each pulse until he was spent.

He didn’t pull out, just stayed buried inside you, panting against your neck, his arms wrapping around you tight to keep you upright. “Every inch,” he whispered, kissing your sweat-slick skin slow and soft, from your shoulder up to your jaw. “I love every damn inch of you. And I’m gonna keep fucking you, keep showing you, ‘til you see it too.” He turned you gently, still inside you, his lips finding yours in a deep, messy kiss, tasting of salt and heat, anchoring you in the afterglow as your bodies pressed together, spent and whole.

taglist: @littlelamy @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt

[brklynbxby]

Claire’s hands stilled for just a second as Harmony muttered her weak reassurance, the words so unconvincing they barely held weight in the air between them. A crazy ex-girlfriend. Claire wasn’t stupid—there was more to the story, something darker lurking beneath Harmony’s hesitant words, beneath the way she trembled. But Claire didn’t push. Instead, she nodded, her fingers tightening slightly around Harmony’s hand, just enough to ground her, to remind her that she was there. Her eyes flickered toward the scattered petals on the floor, the twisted beauty of them making something cold settle in Claire’s stomach but she bent down and cleared them up anyway, being careful with the thorns before throwing them out. Claire exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay steady. "You don’t have to thank me," she murmured, keeping her voice even. Harmonys words were calm, controlled. A performance, just like the rest of her duties on set. Claire didn’t buy it, but she let it go, reaching for a brush as she turned her focus to the task at hand.

Meanwhile, on set, Nate was in his element. He moved with effortless precision, adjusting the camera angles, checking the lighting, his mind completely immersed in the technical details of the scene. The director spoke in hushed tones beside him, going over the next shot, but Nate only half-listened as he focused on framing—on making sure everything was perfect before Harmony stepped in front of the camera. Every so often, his gaze flickered toward his phone screen just to make sure she hadn't messaged him.

Harmony sat there, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts, her heart still racing from the encounter. She couldn’t stop her hands from trembling as Claire gently dabbed the wet wipe against her palm, the coolness of it a sharp contrast to the fire of fear burning in her chest. The blood seemed so surreal to her—so out of place, like something from a different world. This wasn’t just some petty fight, this wasn’t a random moment of chaos. No, this was something darker, something she wasn’t sure she could handle alone. She couldn’t help but flinch slightly as Claire’s soft touch brushed against her skin. The tenderness in her movements was a strange comfort, but it only highlighted how much she didn’t want to be in this situation, didn’t want to drag anyone else into it. She had always managed to handle her own problems, but this was different. It wasn’t just a fight—it was terror disguised as a roses.

“I-I’m fine... I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the apology a reflex more than a real reassurance. Her gaze flicked up at Claire, her eyes haunted, as the girl asked who the psychopath was. Harmony swallowed, unsure of what to say. Should she tell her the truth? Could she tell her? But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she couldn’t drag Claire into her mess. “Just… a crazy ex-girlfriend,” she muttered, her voice lacking conviction. She wasn’t sure if that was enough, if Claire would be satisfied with it, but it was all Harmony could give. She didn’t want to scare her, but the warning was already there, hanging in the air like a shadow. Harmony hesitated, her gaze flicking to the bouquet of flowers that now lay abandoned on the floor, petals scattered like the pieces of her shattered calm. She offered a weak smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was so tired of pretending everything was fine. “Please,” she continued, her voice a little stronger but still fragile. “The next time... don’t accept anything from anyone you don’t know. I—I don’t know how far she’d go to have Nate back.” The thought of what Lily was capable of made her shiver. She couldn’t let anyone else get hurt because of her.

Her smile faltered as she looked down at her hand, “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, a little broken. She looked at Claire, at the girl who had stepped in to help without hesitation. Harmony took a deep breath and tried to refocus. The job needed to get done. She had to pull herself together. "Let's get this makeup done. It's going to be a long day," she said, forcing herself to sound calm, to pretend like everything was okay, even though nothing was. As Claire set the brushes down and began to prepare, Harmony closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on her chest. The thought of telling Nate crossed her mind again. But no—he was already so worried about her, she couldn’t add to it, not yet. She’d tell him later, after work. There were people around, she wasn’t alone. Lily wouldn’t dare do anything with so many eyes on her, right?

[writingadjacent]

“I’m tired of this,” Steve said, his eyes a little bit glazed over. He had taken a single drag of the join in Eddie’s hand so he couldn’t be that high. But the feeling of warmth was probably jetting through his body. “Of feeling like this.” 

Eddie, sitting next to him on the grass by the quarry, turned to look at Steve. The joint in his hand puffed in the air. “Feeling like what, Steve?” 

“Tired. Feeling tired and achy,” Steve said, reaching for the joint and inhaling deeply. The smoke exhaled his mouth in swirling tendrils, Eddie found it to be the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Every time he saw it was hotter than the last. “And just… done. I want to wake up rested.”

“It’s been so long since I woke up rested,” Eddie mumbled, his eyes moving from Steve’s silhouette to the horizon line. The trees were dark and the stars in the sky were sparkling in a way that Eddie was sure wasn’t real and was more a reflection of what Eddie wanted to see than reality. 

Steve nodded. “I want to sleep well and I want to wake up feeling invigorated. Is that something I’ll never get again?” 

Shrugging, Eddie took the joint offered by Steve. His hand shook for a second, simply from the tension Eddie was carrying in his hands. They just did that sometimes. 

“Dunno.” 

Eddie really didn’t. Who in the world would know the answer to that? It was something so unknowable about yourself that it was impossible to try and figure out someone else's. He wondered, for a second, his eyes on Steve’s profile, if maybe he could fix it for Steve. If he could figure out what was wrong about sleeping and fix it. 

“What sucks about sleeping?” 

“What?” Steve asked, turning to look Eddie in the eyes for a quick second before looking away just as Eddie’s skin started to crawl from the attention. 

“Like, what makes sleeping not right for you?” 

“Sleeping is right, it’s nice. It’s the only time everything is quiet and I get to be nowhere. I don't really know what’s wrong that makes me tired all the time,” Steve said, responding with a bit of a sigh. He looked back out over the quarry and Eddie followed his line of sight. 

It was just dark trees and the soft orange of the sky in the direction of the town. It wasn’t real light pollution, not like Indianapolis’ yellow in the sky. But it was the small-town equivalent. “So you don't know.” 

“Nope.” Steve exhaled roughly. Eddie watched as Steve just, gave up on holding his body up and flopped down on the blanket they sat on. His hair framed his face like a halo, beautiful and heavenly. Eddie’s brain always thought Steve was angelic when it was high, probably because Steve was, angelic. “How could I, I’m asleep when it’s happening.” 

“What if you slept next to someone who could tell you?” Eddie said, his voice probably a little rough as he took a drag. 

“Sure.” 

Well, Eddie wasn’t sure what he’d just done. Did he agree to something? Did he proposition something? What just happened? The sky was dark and Eddie lay down next to Steve. “Sleep at my place tonight, or we could go to yours, whatever you want. I’ll tell you if you’re, like, sleeping weird or something.” 

“Yeah, okay. Tonight?” Steve asked, his voice sounding kind of far away.

Eddie shrugged, “Why not.”

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto's obsession p.11

Hey guyss, I hope you enjoy this part and if you've missed part 10 or if you want to read it from the beginning here's my masterlist :)

I know it's been a while since the last part but I didn't know how to continue and I've finally got an idea, let me know your thoughts

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the luxurious hotel suite. You stirred in the warmth of the bed, still wrapped in the lingering scent of Toto. The space beside you was empty, but the sheets still held the imprint of his body. A moment later, you felt the familiar press of his lips against your forehead as he leaned down, brushing a hand over your hair.

"Go back to sleep, darling," Toto murmured, his deep voice still laced with the remnants of sleep. "I have a meeting, but I'll be back soon. Enjoy your morning, hmm?" His fingers lingered on your jaw before he pressed a final kiss to your lips, slow and possessive, as if reluctant to leave.

You smiled, your hands instinctively reaching up to hold onto him, but he gently pried them away with a chuckle. "I'll make it up to you tonight, I promise."

With a sigh, you let him go, watching as he left the room, his broad frame disappearing through the door. Left alone, you stretched lazily across the vast bed, relishing the rare quiet. After the chaos of the paddock, the never-ending attention from the media, and the overwhelming rush of emotions surrounding your engagement, you welcomed the solitude.

Deciding to take his advice, you got up and padded towards the bathroom. The marble bathtub beckoned, and you filled it with warm, scented water, sinking into the soothing heat. Closing your eyes, you let yourself unwind, savoring the rare moment of peace.

Meanwhile, across town, Toto sat in a sleek office, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was sharp and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation.

"Three months. Not a day more," he said, his Austrian accent thickening as he emphasized his point. "I don’t care what it costs. I want everything perfect. The venue, the flowers, the security."

The wedding planner on the other end hesitated. "That’s a very short timeframe, Mr. Wolff. We will need—"

"You will get it done," Toto interrupted, his tone final. "I want the most exclusive location, something secluded. No press, no leaks. The guest list will be minimal. And I want her to have whatever she desires."

His fingers drummed against the desk as he listened to the planner scramble to assure him that it would be handled. Satisfied, he hung up, a smirk tugging at his lips.

It was all coming together. Soon, you would be his in every way that mattered. His wife, his world. But there was still one thing left to do.

A family.

The thought made his chest tighten with longing and possessiveness. As soon as the wedding was over, he would make sure of it. He could already picture it—you carrying his child, the perfect symbol of your bond. There would be no more distractions, no outside forces trying to pull you away from him. Certainly not George.

His jaw clenched at the thought of your brother. George had always been a thorn in his side, always interfering, always questioning his intentions. But it wouldn’t matter soon. Once you were married, once you had a baby, George would have no choice but to accept it. You would be too devoted to your new life, your new family. And George… George would finally understand that you weren’t his to protect anymore.

What Toto didn’t know was that George had overheard everything.

Hidden just outside the office, George clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his chest. He had never trusted Toto completely, but this—this was beyond anything he had imagined. His stomach turned at the realization of what Toto was planning.

He knew his sister. She was smart, kind, but painfully oblivious to just how deep Toto’s obsession ran. If he went to her now, she would never believe him—not without proof. And he needed proof.

His mind raced. He had to act fast.

Taking a deep breath, George straightened, his expression hardening with resolve. He might have lost the battle, but the war wasn’t over. If Toto thought he could control you, manipulate you into his perfect little world, he was wrong.

Because George Russell was about to change the game.

[lelengerine]

Hii! Wanted to make a request for youth lovesome, Anton + serenade, and also love your work it's so cute 💗💗 I'm so excited to see these drabbles!

͙͘͡★ sunbeams and serenades

song prompt. “you’ve been pacing in front of my house for the past ten minutes, mumbling to yourself and looking like you’re about to pass out. i think it’s about time i go down to meet you and ask what you’re trying to do”

pairing. neighbor!anton x reader

tags. plot inspired by serenade [boynextdoor], a lot of yearning and second guessing (mostly by anton), just them being all lovey dovey honestly, no prns used for reader!

wc. 0.9k words

notes. thank u sm for the kind words!! i think anton paired with this song is just so cute aaaaa i had sm fun writing this one and i hope u like it >< likes, reblogs, and feedback are very much welcome!

꒰ m.list | event m.list ꒱

the late afternoon sun spills its honeyed light over the neighborhood, speckling the ground with small shimmers. anton stands at the edge of your driveway, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he shifts from one foot to the other. his guitar case hangs heavy on his back, but what weighs heavier is the secret he’s been carrying for months now—the feelings he’s too afraid to say out loud.

the house at the end of the pavement feels like a universe away. your house. every step closer feels impossible, like he might stumble into the orbit of something too bright, too warm, and burn before he ever gets the words out. he presses his fingers against the strap of his case, knuckles white, and exhales shakily.

this is stupid. the thought spirals through his mind, looping like the melody of the song he wrote last night. it had seemed so clear then, in the quiet of his room—the chords, the lyrics, the idea of playing it for you, a confession wrapped in melody. but now, standing here, he can’t seem to move. 

he mutters to himself, voice raw and barely audible. “what if she doesn’t…?” he doesn’t even finish the thought. the answer feels too heavy to consider.

he’s about to turn around—just one more day, maybe tomorrow—when the porch door creaks open. the sound cuts through the still air, and his head snaps up, heart pounding in a rhythm so erratic it drowns out everything else.

“anton?”

your voice reaches him like a melody all its own, soft and curious, carrying the warmth that’s haunted his dreams for longer than he’ll admit. you’re standing on the porch, the golden light framing you like something out of a painting. the sight of you—hair slightly frazzled as if you’ve just woken up from a nap—knocks the air from his lungs. he freezes, caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to stay rooted forever.

“are you… okay?” you step closer, the tilt of your head both cautious and amused as you watch him. there’s something so tender in your gaze, so unguarded, it makes his chest ache.

he forces a smile, though it feels fragile, like glass held too tightly. “oh, hey.” his voice cracks, and the blush that blooms on his cheeks is immediate, spreading like wildfire. he looks away, running a hand through his hair as if that might somehow make him less transparent.

your lips curve into the smallest smile, and you lean against the porch railing, eyes flicking down to the guitar case on his back. “what are you doing out here?” you ask, voice laced with quiet curiosity. “you’ve been pacing for… a while.”

his grip tightens on the strap of the case. he glances down, the words tangling in his throat before he manages to get them out. “i, uh… i was going to… do something, but now i’m not so sure.”

you step off the porch and closer to him, the distance between you shrinking until it feels like he might suffocate from the nearness of you. “with the guitar?” you ask gently, your gaze lingering on the case.

he nods, barely. his heart is beating so loudly he’s sure you can hear it, but you don’t say anything, just wait with that patient, curious look that always disarms him.

“it’s a song,” he says finally, the words tumbling out in a rush before he loses the courage. his eyes dart to yours, and his voice softens, almost breaking. “for you.”

the world seems to still at those words. your breath catches, your heart stumbling in your chest. “for me?” you repeat, and there’s something in your voice—something quiet and vulnerable—that makes his pulse race even faster.

he nods again, his gaze dropping to the ground. “yeah. i mean, it’s probably… it’s not that great, but i…” he trails off, his hands gripping the case like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

you take another step closer, close enough now that he can see the faint flush creeping into your cheeks, the way your eyes soften as they search his face. “can i hear it?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

his head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief. “you… you want to?”

your lips curl into a soft smile, and you nod, your gaze steady on his. “i do.”

for a moment, he just stares at you, as though he’s trying to convince himself this is real. then, slowly, he sets the case on the ground, unzipping it with hands that tremble slightly. you sit down on the porch steps, knees tucked to your chest, watching him with an expression so open, so unguarded, it makes his heart twist.

he settles the guitar into his lap, his fingers brushing over the strings. he doesn’t look at you as he starts to play—he’s too afraid he’ll lose the nerve if he sees the way you’re looking at him. the first chord rings out, hesitant and quiet, but it carries in the stillness of the evening, filling the space between you.

and then he begins to sing.

the words are raw, each one heavy with everything he’s been too afraid to say. the way he notices the little things about you—the curve of your smile, the way your laugh lingers in the air like the echo of a favorite song. the way he feels like he’s on the edge of something vast and terrifying every time you’re near, like falling and flying all at once. the way he’s been quietly, hopelessly in love with you for as long as he can remember.

your breath hitches as the melody washes over you, his voice raw and unpolished but so achingly full of emotion it leaves you reeling. you don’t realize your hands are trembling until you press them against your knees, trying to steady yourself.

when the final note fades, the silence feels electric, charged with everything left unsaid.

he glances up at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable. “was it…” his voice is barely above a whisper. “was it okay?”

you exhale shakily, your chest tight with the weight of everything you feel but can’t quite put into words. “it wasn’t okay,” you say softly, and his face falls, panic flashing in his eyes.

before he can say anything, you reach for him, your fingers brushing against his arm. “it was more than that,” you say, a light chuckle in your tone. “i loved it. everything about it was... so pretty.”

the relief that floods his face is almost enough to undo you. he lets out a shaky laugh, his smile tentative but growing as he meets your gaze.

“can you… play it again?” you ask, your voice so soft it feels like a secret.

his smile widens, the kind of smile that feels like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “for you?” he murmurs, his voice steadying. “i’d play it a thousand times.”

you smile back, the warmth in your chest blooming into something undeniable. and as his fingers find the strings again, it feels like the world has finally shifted—soft, steady, and endlessly yours.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: No Going Back

The next morning, you woke up to the feeling of Marshall’s arm locked around your waist, holding you so close that you could barely move. His face was buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin, his grip possessive even in sleep.

He hadn’t let go of you once last night.

Not when you’d tried to get up for water. Not when you’d shifted to get comfortable. Not even when you’d murmured that he should at least try to rest.

It was like he was afraid to let you go.

And the truth was?

You weren’t sure you wanted him to.

You ran your fingers lazily through his short hair, your touch light, soothing. He hummed softly in his sleep, his grip instinctively tightening, as if his body knew you were there before his mind even caught up.

You should’ve been worried.

This wasn’t healthy.

The way he needed you like this. The way you had started needing him the same way. The way being apart, even for a few hours, sent something sharp and restless through your veins.

But if you were being honest?

You didn’t care.

You couldn’t care.

Because after everything, after years of chaos, addiction, distance, and pain—you had finally found each other.

And now, neither of you wanted to let go.

Marshall stirred slightly, mumbling something under his breath, before his grip relaxed just enough for you to turn and face him.

His blue eyes were still heavy with sleep, but they found yours instantly, searching, watching. He blinked, then smirked. “You’re still here.”

Your heart clenched, because you knew what he really meant.

“I’m always here,” you murmured.

His hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Yeah.”

Marshall exhaled slowly, as if your words had settled something deep inside him. He didn’t say anything else—he didn’t need to. Instead, he just pulled you closer, holding you in a way that told you exactly what he was feeling.

And as you let him, as you melted into his warmth, his touch, his need—

You realized there was no going back.

Healthy or not.

Right or wrong.

This was what you both needed.

And you weren’t letting it go.

---

You knew the second you walked through the door from getting the mail that something was off.

Marshall was sitting on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his jaw tight. He wasn’t watching TV. He wasn’t even looking at his phone.

No—he was waiting.

For you.

You barely had time to drop your keys before he spoke.

“Who was it?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

His blue eyes snapped to yours, dark and stormy. “The guy who couldn’t stop fuckin’ looking at you.”

Your stomach flipped.

So that’s what this was about.

You sighed, setting your bag down. “Marshall—”

“Don’t.” He stood up, slow and deliberate, his frame tense. “Don’t act like you didn’t see him.”

You crossed your arms. “Okay, yeah, I saw him. So what?”

Marshall scoffed, running a hand over his face before stepping closer. “So what?” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Baby, I was two fuckin’ seconds away from knockin’ his teeth out.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the possessiveness laced in his words.

You tilted your head. “You do realize I wasn’t doing anything, right?”

His jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.”

You bit your lip, watching the way his fists tightened at his sides. He was worked up—his energy vibrating with something raw and restless.

And you?

You liked it.

You stepped closer, reaching up to run a hand over his chest. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.

“Marshall,” you murmured, your voice soft. “You know I only want you.”

His hands shot out, gripping your hips, pulling you against him. “Damn right you do,” he muttered, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

You smirked, trailing your fingers up to the back of his neck. “Then why are you acting like you don’t already own me?”

His breath was sharp, his grip tight.

And just like that, whatever restraint he had left—snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours, his hands branding you, claiming every inch of skin he could reach.

And as he pulled you impossibly closer, his body pressed against yours, his touch searing and desperate—

You realized something.

Marshall wasn’t just jealous.

He was terrified.

Of losing you.

Of someone else getting too close.

Of anything that might take you away from him.

And the truth?

You didn’t want anyone else.

You never would.

Marshall’s grip on you didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, like he was daring you to pull away—like he needed to feel you, to prove to himself that you were still right here.

You ran your hands over his chest, feeling the tension rolling off him in waves. “You’re still mad,” you murmured.

He scoffed, his hands sliding up your sides, his thumbs pressing into your ribs like he was staking a claim. “Mad? Nah,” he muttered. “I’m just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate that shit. Hate even thinkin’ about somebody lookin’ at you like they got a shot.”

You tilted your head, your fingers moving up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. “They don’t have a shot.”

His blue eyes locked onto yours, something dark and desperate swimming beneath the surface. “I know,” he said, but his voice was rough, like he wasn’t sure if that was enough.

You cupped his face, making him look at you. “Then stop acting like I could ever want anyone else.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away.

You sighed, brushing your lips against his in the softest kiss you could manage. “You’re the only one, Marshall. The only one I see. The only one I want.”

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against your sides. And just like that, whatever storm had been raging inside him—settled.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he needed to memorize the way you felt, the way you gave yourself to him so freely.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice was quieter.

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

You held him closer. “You won’t.”

Because the truth was, you couldn’t imagine your life without him either.

And whatever this was—whatever need, whatever addiction you had for each other—

You weren’t letting it go.

Not now.

Not ever.

---

Dinner was going fine, you'd spent hours wrapped up in Marshal, reassuring each other. Things were good—great, even—until your mother spoke.

You had just finished setting the dishes on the table when you felt Marshall’s hand find your waist, his fingers tracing lazy circles over the fabric of your sweater. It wasn’t unusual—not lately.

Ever since everything shifted between you two, he had barely let you out of arm’s reach. Every chance he got, he was touching you, watching you, claiming you in little ways that only the two of you really understood.

But you weren’t the only one who noticed.

Your mother, watching from across the table, let out a small chuckle. “It’s sweet,” she said, nudging your father beside her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this affectionate, Marshall.”

Marshall tensed beside you, just for a second, before covering it with a smirk. “Yeah?” he said, his voice casual.

Your mother nodded, glancing between you both. “You used to be so… closed off. Especially back when—” She hesitated, her eyes flickering with understanding. “Well. You know.”

You did know.

Back when the addiction had swallowed him whole. When touch had been scarce, and words had been clipped, and every moment had felt like walking on eggshells, waiting for the next storm.

Your fingers curled over Marshall’s under the table, squeezing gently. He squeezed back, his grip grounding—reassuring.

Your mother smiled, watching the silent exchange. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “You two seem… good.”

Marshall let out a small huff, his hand tightening on your thigh. “Yeah. We are.”

And the thing was—

He wasn’t lying.

You were good.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t normal.

But it was yours.

And as you leaned into his touch, feeling the way his body instantly relaxed at the reassurance, you realized—

You wouldn’t trade this for anything.

---

After your parents left, you barely had time to close the door before Marshall’s hands were on you again.

He didn’t even wait for you to turn around. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“They noticed,” he murmured, voice low.

You smirked, resting your hands over his. “Of course they did.”

He huffed, tightening his hold. “You think they know?”

You tilted your head. “Know what?”

He turned you around then, his blue eyes dark, searching. “How much I fuckin’ need you.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers instinctively gripping his hoodie. “Marshall—”

“I don’t like people talkin’ about how I used to be,” he muttered. “Like—like that’s still who I am. Like I’m still that distant, fucked-up mess who couldn’t love you right.”

Your heart clenched, and you reached up, cupping his face. “You’re not that man anymore.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning into your touch. “Yeah. Because of you.”

You shook your head. “Because you fought for this. For us.”

His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing over his expression before he pulled you in, kissing you slow and deep.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “I don’t care who notices,” he muttered. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. Long as you know—long as you feel—that you’re mine. And I’m yours.”

You smiled softly, threading your fingers through his. “I know.”

And you did.

Because whatever this was—whatever dark, messy, tangled thing you and Marshall had become—

It was yours.

And nothing else mattered.

The house was quiet now, the warmth of dinner still lingering in the air, but Marshall’s grip on you hadn’t loosened. If anything, it had tightened, like now that you were alone, he didn’t have to hold back.

His hands framed your face, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones, his blue eyes dark with something you felt more than you saw.

“You good?” you asked softly.

Marshall let out a small huff, his lips pressing into a line. “Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

You ran your hands up his arms, feeling the tension still locked in his muscles. “About?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Nothin’ new.”

But you knew what that meant.

He was still thinking about what your mother had said. Still thinking about who he used to be, about the years he had spent keeping you at a distance, drowning in his own demons.

You sighed, pulling him toward the couch. “C’mon,” you murmured, tugging him down beside you.

He sat, but his hands never left you, one gripping your thigh, the other wrapping around your waist like he needed to be touching you.

“I hate that they remember me like that,” he admitted after a long pause. “Like I was—” He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing. “Like I was gone.”

You turned, straddling his lap, forcing him to look at you. “You were gone,” you said gently. “But you came back.”

His jaw tensed. “What if I hadn’t?”

Your heart clenched, because God, you had thought about that before—thought about all the ways this could have ended.

But it didn’t.

You cupped his face, brushing your lips against his. “But you did.”

His breath hitched, and for a second, the tension in his shoulders eased.

You smiled against his lips. “And now you’re stuck with me.”

He let out a small chuckle, but there was no humor in it—just relief. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You kissed him then, slow and deep, pouring everything into him—every ounce of reassurance, every promise, every unspoken I’m yours, you’re mine, we’re not going anywhere.

And as his grip on you tightened, as he pulled you impossibly closer, as his body relaxed into yours—

You knew he finally believed it.

You weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

[my-beloved-lakes]

Here it is folks! The first chapter of my debut 911 Lone Star fanfic, a trucker/truck stop AU. You can read the whole thing here on AO3

Carlos looks around, surveying the new rest stop. He can see right away why Tommy would suggest this place. It’s small and homey. There’s a motel, a gas station and a diner called Tyler’s on one side of the road and a small mechanic shop on the other side that, to an untrained eye, might look rundown, but Carlos knows that shops like that are often run by some of the most trustworthy mechanics. Besides, if Tommy suggested it, it’s gotta be good. The whole setup is tucked away, about a mile off the interstate. It’s quiet and peaceful and everything seems to move at a leisurely pace around here. 

Carlos parks his rig in the wide open space available between the diner and the gas station and breathes a long sigh as the deep growl of the engine shuts off. It had been a long 8 hours of driving and he’s ready for some food.

There’s a handful of other semis parked here too. As he scans his eyes down the row of sleeping rigs, one catches his eye, a black Peterbilt with light blue wings painted down the side and a plethora of keychains and small decorations hanging from the rear view mirror. 

That’s gotta be Nancy! He thinks as he jumps down out of his rig. It’s been a long time since he’s run into her and he’s looking forward to catching up.  

Carlos heads for the diner. It’s small and homey just like everything else, and he can smell the aroma of food wafting out before he even reaches the door. His stomach growls and he realizes for the first time just how hungry he really is. 

The bell on the door jingles pleasantly as he enters. He looks around the small restaurant. It’s well decorated with old posters and newspaper clippings, a couple of old photographs of people standing in front of the building, and some framed artwork that looks like it was drawn by a child. It’s the kind of place that makes one feel at home right away.

Tagging some folks who have shown an interest in this one (let me know if you want to be added/removed) @neversleepuntilfive @lemonlyman-dotcom @eclectic-sassycoweyes @nisbanisba @firstprince-history-huh @annoyingcloudearthquake and a special thanks to @rangersoup for both making me write this and bouncing ideas back and forth with me

[goldenempyrean]

Bump In The Night

〚 Notes - surprise shawtys! 〛

〚 Pairing - Supercorp 〛

〚 Summary - Kara hears a noise in the night and goes to investigate 〛

〚 Wordcount - 930 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙

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Kara mumbled sleepily as she slowly roused from her slumber. It was late – she didn’t usually wake up during the night. Rolling over, she stretched a little, hoping to cuddle up next to the furnace that usually sleeps beside her and hogs the sheets.

But the blonde knew something was wrong from the moment she felt the contact of cool, empty sheets against her skin. Something was missing. Lena?

Lena had been fighting a cold for the past few days, and, well… she was definitely on the losing side of it. Kara had made her go to bed early after the Luthor had snuck her laptop out to the living room under the pretence of “watching movies” when in reality she had actually been answering work emails when she was supposed to be resting. 

The blonde sat up and rubbed her eyes as she glanced over to her bedside, stifling a groan as she stared at the blank alarm clock. There had been one hell of a storm a few days ago, and the city hadn’t quite gotten round to fixing everyone's power. Instead, she stretched to grab her phone, mildly blinding herself for a second at the sudden flash of glaring white light. 03.02AM 

The night was calm, even with her superhearing. The air was settled, people snoring and mumbling as the city slept. But a sudden loud thudding sound caught her attention – it was close. Kara looked back to the empty spot in her bed; Lena had been gone way too long to be put down to a simple bathroom trip. The noise came again, a crease forming at the centre of Kara’s brow. The only thing she could compare it to was the clatter of books as somebody clumsily pulled things from a shelf with no regard for creating a mess. What on earth was she doing? 

The apartment was dark, the hallway barely lit by the moonlight filtering through the blinds. A small yawn escaped her as she shuffled towards the sound, leading the blonde to the small study that had been converted to be an office space for Lena – well, at least she’d been right about the source of the noise.

“Lena?” Kara’s voice was rough and thick with sleep; clearing her throat, she tried again, a little louder this time, “Honey?”

As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness in the room, she could just about make out Lena’s silhouette, barely. She seemed to be focused on one of the shelves lining the room, picking up an object just to then put it down a few seconds later.

Getting closer, Kara could see how her dark hair was stuck to her forehead, the skin visibly clammy as she breathed heavily, swaying uneasily – she was half sure that if the Luthor hadn’t been gripping onto the wooden shelf for support, she would’ve ended up losing her balance completely. 

The other woman sniffled, swiping at her nose with the sleeve of a “borrowed” sweatshirt—the one she’d stolen from Kara’s wardrobe days ago. It hung loosely on her frame, making her look even smaller than she already was.

Before she could stop herself, a sigh left Kara’s lips as she padded closer, resting a hand gently on her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, what are you doing up?” 

Lena flinched slightly at the contact, as if she hadn’t even noticed her come in. Slowly, she turned to look at her briefly, and it took everything in her for Kara not to wince at how miserable she looked.

 “I was… was looking for…for.” The feverish girl stammered, woozily reaching up to hold her head with her hand, almost as if she had forgotten entirely why she was there, “I… needed something?”

It was more like a question than any sort of statement. She looked up at Kara, her eyes glassy and confused. She was so out of it. It took everything the blonde had not to scoop her up in that moment; instead, she leaned toward to press a soft kiss to her forehead, lips lingering just long enough to register the warmth her feverish skin was radiating. 

“You need to go back to bed; come on.” Kara encouraged her gently, knowing it was doing her no good to be standing there any longer.

Despite how clearly awful she felt, the Luthor pouted, and for a moment, Kara could see the stubbornness brewing behind her tired eyes. But then, as if all the fight had drained from her at once, she let out a small sigh and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“I'm so tired.” If it wasn't for her superhearing, then she would've probably missed her quiet mumble altogether.

Kara nodded sympathetically, your hand coming to rub her back softly, “I know, baby, I know.” She kept it there as she guided her back to the bedroom, taking small, slow steps as they navigated through the dim halls.

Getting her back into bed was easy; Lena practically fell into the sheets at the first chance she got, immediately curling up and stealing the majority of the duvet – not that Kara cared, of course. She grabbed the grey throw blanket that was mainly used just for show and settled down in the spot beside her girlfriend – she’d already fallen asleep, of course, her breaths coming in small, raspy snores. 

Nobody would ever believe that a Luthor would snore. Hell, nobody would ever believe that a Luthor could get sick. But Lena was human, just human – and sometimes that human side of her really was adorable.

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