#the rest of it was by hand and it kind of hurt

[syluspeach]

Using their evol to please you

Pairings: Sylus, Caleb, Zayne, and Rafayel x reader

Note: I couldn’t think of a way to integrate Xavier’s evol into this piece :( don’t think i forgot him. If you have any suggestions, let me know! Also, I kind of lost steam with Rafayel’s part, that’s why it’s shorter than the rest.

Sylus

Cries and whines filled the grand room. Your limbs were shaking from the amount of times you had cum in the last hour. The vibrating wand held against your battered cunt was soaked with your juices.

You tried shifting your hips to cause it to roll off, but the red and black tendrils holding it in place wouldn’t allow it. Your wrist were bound above your head and your legs were held apart by the same mist. It was feather light, the grip it hand on you was neither too tight nor too loose.

Lifting your head off the bed, you watched as Sylus sat on the leather couch that he brought over, paying you no mind. He was calmly looking through some files, his glasses sitting on the tip of his nose.

You don’t know how he did it, but he could have his evol work on autopilot.

“Sylus, please.”

Your words came out as a mewl, the syllables getting caught in your throat as your thighs trembled, your tummy flexing as you came once again.

“No-no more, Sylus.” You said in between breaths. “I can’t take it…can’t take it anymore. Please-please I’ll be good.”

With a stoicism that irritated you, he closed the folder he had been reading and made his way over to you.

Standing above you, he took in your tear stained face. He brushed away the strands of hair that stuck to your sweaty forehead, his cool skin offering some reprieve to your heated skin. As he pulled away, you tried to lift yourself off of the bed to follow his fingers, wanting to feel them on your skin again, but his evol tugged you back into place. A wail left your teeth bitten lips.

Flicking the wand to a higher setting, he settled himself beside you as you turned away from him, his fingers caressing the skin of your thigh before slipping over your drippy pussy. With ease, his fingers slid into your empty hole.

“Oh fuck. Please, Sylus.” You could feel his nose trailing along the column of your throat. “S’too much.”

His digits curled upward, hitting the spongy spot that had you seeing stars and gasping for air.

“Once more, sweetie. Just give me one more. I know you can do it.”

Caleb

While the aircraft was on autopilot, Caleb had you in his lap, completely undressed. His face was smushed against your bouncing breasts as you fucked yourself on his fat cock. The sound of the running engine couldn’t be heard over your moans as his tip caught at your opening.

Your thoughts were clouded with lust.

What started as a nice trip through the clouds, turned to you pressing your thighs together, searching for some relief. Caleb just looked too damn good in his colonel suit, aviators shielding his eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. One second you were trying to calm your ragging thoughts, the next you had untucked Caleb from his slacks, greedily mouthing at his length.

Tearing himself away from your chest, he angled your head, catching your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue made its way into your mouth, tasting himself besides your strawberry lip balm.

After a while, your knees were hurting and your legs were straining from the repetitive moment that came with riding him.

“Caleb…can’t…feels so good.” You spoke through battered breaths, words pushing out of you each time his mushroom tip nudged your cervix. “M’tired…can’t hold on…”

He shushed you, pressing open-mouth kisses along your neck.

“Relax, I’ve got you.”

His hands maneuvered you so that your back was pressed against his chest. His hands brushed over your curves, trailing up your sides until they settled on your tits. He played with them, pinching and pulling at the harden points.

Once you had become putty in his hands, he settled his plan into action.

Slowly, his evol lifted you off of his lap, a hand coming down to hold himself at your entrance. Looking down, you were met with blue and red stripes around your waist.

“What are you-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the ride.”

His evol always amazed you. He used it throughout your daily lives, lowering dishes off of high shelves for you to holding you in place when you tried to run away from him, but never during moments like this.

The motions were smooth and controlled, his dick sliding into you with practiced thrusts.

Your fingernails dug into the leather of the pilot’s seat and your head fell back against his shoulder. The use of his evol allowed for him to place his hands all over your body.

With one hand squeezing the fat of your tit, his other was splayed across your tummy, his thumb strumming your puffy clit. Feeling the way your body trembled, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he had your cum dripping down his cock.

Zayne

Looking at the little creatures Zayne had crafted for you with the use of his evol, your mind wandered.

What else could he make with it?

Through heated cheeks and stuttering words, you asked him if he could create something you could use while he was away at those health conventions he always had to attend. The look of shock on his face had you backtracking, sputtering apologies for asking for such a thing.

You never believed sweet, serious Zayne would be one to indulge your dirty fantasies, but then again, he was full of surprises.

After a nice hot bath that left your skin warm to the touch, he had you laying beside him, head resting against his arm as he trailed the tip of the icy dildo, a replica of his own cock, in between your breasts.

It was cool to the touch, like glass, but it didn't heat up nor leave that stinging feeling against your skin when ice touched it for too long.

The sensation of it circling your nipples had them pebbling, catching the attention of the man beside you. He made sure to take the hardened buds into his mouth, the warmth overtaking them shocking your body to the temperature change.

“Open.” He commanded, nudging the tip against your lips.

Hallowing your cheeks, you looked up at him with wide eyes, lips stretching to accommodate the stretch of the fake cock. Once you knew you had left it covered in your saliva, he pulled it out with a pop before moving to the apex of your thighs.

He trailed it from your clit down to your awaiting hole. Knowing the intrusion would have you keening, he made sure to swallow your sounds with a kiss.

It was a new sensation. Smooth and cold along your gummy, warm walls, but it felt good. Didn’t exactly feel like him, too polished, but it was just as thick and big as him.

Yes, it would do just nicely for the days he was gone.

Rafayel

With Rafayel’s skin being unnaturally cold, his evol came as a shock to you. Ice and fire came together, creating the beautiful being that was in between your spread legs. Filled to the brim with his cock, he refused to move. Instead, he was taking his time breaking you down.

Playing with you more like it.

He needed you whiny and desperate before giving you what you craved.

The flames that once danced along Rafayel’s fingertips fluttered over your nude form. With your hands tied to the headboard and a blindfold around your eyes, the temperature change was heightened. He was hot and cold, perfect for temperature play.

Each time the small pieces of inferno got near your breasts, goosebumps erupted on your skin, nipples tightened at the sensation.

The flames acted as dripping wax, but somehow, they didn’t burn you to an aggressive extent. Your lover wouldn’t allow it. He followed their paths with his lips, pressing kisses against your skin as if to soothe the pretend burn.

When he got close to your navel, your fingers flexed, nails digging into your palms. He must have felt your whole body tense.

“Relax, I won’t let you burn, cutie.” He mouthed at your jaw, his icy chest pressing against your heated skin. “Not unless you want me to.”

[itsnesss]

𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | max, who always claimed to dislike public displays of affection, starts finding subtle excuses to touch you

warnings | fluff, light romance, implied public affection

word count | 1.1 k

🖇 more mv1 🖇 f1 masterlist

Max Verstappen always said that public displays of affection weren’t his thing. He said it with that serious face, almost impassive, that he mastered so well. The one he used in front of cameras, fans, and almost everyone. Except with you.

“It’s not my thing,” he had said once, crossing his arms in a defensive gesture when you saw Checo kiss his wife in the paddock. “I feel uncomfortable, I don’t like the attention. Besides, those things should be done in private.”

You shrugged. It wasn’t something that kept you up at night. You didn’t need him to hold your hand in front of everyone to know that he cared. Or at least that’s what you told yourself every time the days passed and his gestures remained cool. Polite, kind, but contained.

Until it wasn’t.

The transformation was so subtle that you didn’t even notice at first. Or maybe you didn’t want to notice. It all started with small gestures, easy to disguise. A touch on the back when no one was looking. A hand on your leg under the table. An excuse to touch you.

“You’ve got something in your hair,” he said one day, while sitting in the press room after a race.

Before you could ask, his hand was already tangled in your hair, pulling out a supposed misplaced strand. No one said anything. Neither did you.

“See?” he added, smiling as if it were nothing.

You blushed, not because the gesture was too obvious, but because you knew it wasn’t necessary. There was absolutely *nothing* in your hair. Just an excuse.

That was the beginning of the end.

Sometimes, it seemed like he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Like that time in the hotel, after the team dinner, when you got off the elevator and said your feet hurt from walking too much.

“Really?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Before you could nod, he already had his arm around your shoulders. Almost as if it were second nature. Almost as if he always did it.

“Let me walk you to your room.”

You laughed, confused.

“Since when do you do this?”

He shrugged, not letting go of you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you knew exactly what you were talking about. Max Verstappen, the guy who preferred to keep his distance, who said he hated unnecessary contact, now seemed to find reasons to touch you all the time. And you, deep down, started to expect it.

The most obvious moment came in Monaco. It was mid-morning, and the atmosphere was the usual: chaotic, full of press, fans, and cameras. You were standing next to him while he talked to his engineer. You listened in silence, not wanting to interrupt.

A gust of wind swept between you, lifting a few papers, and without thinking, Max stretched his arm and pulled you toward him by the waist. He pressed you against him like he was afraid you might fly away.

“Everything okay?” he asked, almost without looking at you, his hand firmly on your side.

You could only nod.

“I’m fine.”

His engineer, thankfully, didn’t react. Neither did anyone else. But you felt the world stop for a second. And the worst part was that he didn’t pull away. He kept you close for the rest of the conversation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And then came Silverstone.

The rain had wreaked havoc that weekend, and you were soaked, despite your raincoat. You ran through the downpour to reach his motorhome, seeking refuge. You entered without thinking, without knocking.

Max was sitting on the couch, hair tousled and a tired expression on his face. But when he saw you, he immediately stood up.

“Are you crazy?” he said, taking your hands to help you remove your soaked jacket. “You’re going to get sick.”

“It was just a little rain,” you replied, shivering.

He huffed, took off his dry jacket, and put it over you. Then, without thinking, he hugged you. It wasn’t a quick hug. It was long. Intimate. Warm.

“I don’t like you being like this,” he murmured into your hair.

“Like what?”

“Cold. Wet. Far away.”

That last part made you look up.

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” he whispered, and this time, he looked you in the eyes. “But sometimes I have to remind myself.”

Since that day, everything changed.

He no longer hid it. He no longer made excuses. He no longer said “I don’t like affection in public.” Instead, he’d say things like “you were cold, weren’t you?” while wrapping you in his jacket. Or “let me help you with that,” while taking your hand to cross through the crowd.

The press started to notice. Fans did too. The videos of “casual” moments between you two multiplied. Hands intertwined, shared glances, small stolen smiles.

But the confirmation came in Zandvoort.

Your favorite country. His favorite track. A sea of orange everywhere. Perfect chaos.

You were watching qualifying from the pit wall, biting your nails. He had had problems during practice. He was tense, focused, cold. Or so you thought.

When the session ended, Max had taken pole. And the first thing he did when he got out of the car, even before speaking to the media, was to look for you with his eyes.

And when he found you… he ran toward you.

Without hesitation. Without looking around. Without caring about the cameras. He lifted you in a hug that took your breath away.

“You did it,” you whispered, tears in your eyes.

“You too,” he said, kissing your forehead, your hair, your lips.

And then, in the middle of thousands of people, cameras, and noise, Max Verstappen —the same one who said he was allergic to romance— kissed you as if the world didn’t matter.

And it didn’t.

That night, in the hotel room, while you watched the race replay, he appeared behind you with a tired but honest smile. He lay down next to you on the bed, resting his head on your lap.

“You know?” he murmured. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not good at this. Not like other drivers. I’m not tender, or romantic, or…”

“You don’t have to be like anyone else,” you interrupted. “I like you as you are. Even when you make silly excuses to hug me.”

Max laughed softly.

“Excuses? Me? Never.”

“And the ‘you’ve got something in your hair’?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You had something,” he replied, kissing your hand. “Something I needed to touch.”

You looked at him in silence. He returned your gaze, softer than ever.

“I’m learning,” he confessed. “Not to be romantic. To be brave. With you.”

And in that moment, you knew it didn’t matter how “allergic” he claimed to be to romance.

Because with you, Max Verstappen was learning to love in his own way.

And that was more than enough.

[frozenartscapes]

The new Spy x Family chapter is still working in favour of my Shopkeeper headcanons. I always figured he had a soft spot for Yor, and on the surface their relationship seems about the same as it always has. However, I'm focusing on the code names. The two other new assassins are Hemlock and Gympie (both of which are dangerous plants - very subtle). They just have the one name they go by, but Yor's is a two parter: Thorn Princess. She could just be Thorn, which would fit the theme. But the added "Princess" part softens the name (not in a bad way, mind you - but rather than draw to mind a prickly thorn bush the "Princess" part makes one think of roses).

My theory is this: Shopkeeper is shown to have interest in the Imperial history of the area, right? So he's already influenced by ideas of royalty and holds that bygone era in high regard. When meets little, desperate child Yor and is trying to come up with a codename for her, he realizes he can't give this painfully innocent kid a harsh assassin name. So he adds "Princess" after "Thorn". Maybe once she becomes hardened and emotionless like the rest of them, he'll drop the "Princess" title. But she never does - she stays positive and warm and kind (just like a Princess from fairytales) and he just can't train it out of her. Her kindness never actually interferes with her work, so he leaves it.

And as a result, in his Garden full of poisonous and stinging plants, he's got one bright red rose.

(Side note about the other code names: Gympie Gympie bushes are some of the world's most venomous plants and hurt like a bitch to touch. Like, nettles on steroids. They cause severe, long-lasting pain if just lightly brushed against, which could imply that Gympie may have slightly different doctrine on allowing victims to suffer than Yor. Hemlock, on the other hand is incredibly toxic from roots to seeds and is known to grow in a variety of different environments. It doesn't hurt you to touch it, but it will kill you if you ingest it. Hemlock is famous for killing Socrates (as it was a method of execution used by ancient Greece). Hemlock - the agent - seems to be what Yor should be: a cold, calculating assassin with very little value for any life, regardless of how beneficial they may be. The choice of code name could suggest their complete lack of mercy (and - possibly - an anti-intellectualism viewpoint related back to the whole Socrates thing. They didn't understand the point of a ladybug in a garden, of all things. I know not everyone knows about ladybugs but with a boss who is obsessed with gardening you would think the agents would at least be aware).

[rafes-honey]

Thinking of… 𐙚ᣟ݂

Dumb!ditzy!reader x Rafe when they fight:

The fight had been stupid.

Okay, maybe it had started because you called his dealer “kind of nice” after he held the door open for you — and maybe you did giggle a little too hard when he complimented your lip gloss. But it wasn’t that deep.

But Rafe’s eyes had gone sharp, mean — and before you could blink, he was barking at you in front of everyone. That angry tone. That cold stare. The way he spat “Do you even think before you speak, or is your head just full of lip gloss and Instagram filters?”

You’d said nothing.

Just stood there like a kicked puppy until you finally turned around and left. You didn’t even wait for him to follow. You barely remembered how you got home.

Now it was hours later.

The silk tie on your robe was knotted too tight. Your lashes were clumpy from crying. And you were curled up in the corner of the bed, surrounded by pillows and a half-eaten bowl of cereal you didn’t want anymore.

Your eyes hurt. Your face hurt. Your heart hurt.

Your bottom lip wobbled as you stared at the door, waiting. Hoping.

He’s not coming home.

He was probably out somewhere still pissed, chain-smoking and calling you names in his head. Maybe he’d realized he was tired of babysitting his airhead girlfriend. Maybe he’d finally decided you were too much work.

And maybe you were.

You sniffled as you pressed your face into your sleeve. You were stupid. You knew it. Everyone always said you were — Rafe included, sometimes, when he was tired or mad or both.

But you loved him.

And now he hated you.

The front door creaked open.

You froze. Heart stopping. Head snapping up, curls falling into your eyes. You heard the soft sound of sneakers on hardwood, then his voice — calm, gruff, like nothing had even happened.

“Baby?”

You didn’t say anything. You stayed in your nest of sadness and almond milk. He appeared in the doorway seconds later — messy hair, tired eyes, hoodie slung over one shoulder.

And in his arms…

…a kitten.

A tiny, gray, squirmy little fluff ball with big ears and a pink ribbon tied gently around its neck.

Your mouth parted. A soft, wet hiccup broke from your chest.

“You got a cat,” you said stupidly.

Rafe ran a hand over his face. “She’s not a cat yet, she’s a baby. Just like you.” He walked over, nudging a pile of your blankets aside with his knee. “Figured if you’re gonna cry this much, you should at least have someone to match your energy.”

You stared at the kitten. Then at him.

“I thought you were mad at me,” you whispered, voice all glassy and broken.

He looked at you for a long second.

Then dropped the kitten gently on your lap — where it immediately started climbing onto your fuzzy pink robe, purring — and knelt in front of you, resting his hands on your knees.

“I was mad,” he said slowly. “But I still love you.”

You blinked fast, overwhelmed, reaching out to touch his face with trembling fingers. He let you, his eyes dark and tired but so soft.

“You think I’m dumb,” you mumbled, voice cracking again. “You said my head’s full of filters.”

He sighed, fingers curling around your thighs.

“Sometimes you say dumb shit. That’s different. You’re not dumb, baby. You’re just…” he searched for the word, lips twitching a little. “Sweet. And clueless. And too trusting. And it scares the fuck outta me.”

You pouted. “I didn’t even like his compliment. It was a gross compliment. I only said thank you ‘cause I was raised polite.”

“I know.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your knee. “I was being an asshole. I know.”

You were quiet, running your hands through his hair, lip wobbling again.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you whispered.

Rafe’s eyes shot up to yours.

Then — without another word — he stood, pushed you gently back onto the bed, and climbed over you.

The kitten meowed indignantly and trotted off the blanket, leaving you breathless beneath Rafe’s weight, the scent of smoke and mint gum clinging to his hoodie.

His hands found your waist. Your thighs. Sliding under your robe to touch bare skin.

“I always want you,” he said lowly, voice thick. “Even when I’m mad. Even when you drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

You bit your lip, heart racing, legs falling open just a little.

“You forgive me?”

He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The tip of your nose.

“Nothing to forgive.”

His hand slid between your legs, slow, possessive. You gasped softly, fingers curling into his sweatshirt.

“Now stop crying, baby,” he whispered against your skin, “and let me remind you whose dumb little girl you are.”

[wvyik]

i'm okay now. s.w. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

sam winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: your cramps are unbearable, your mood is fragile, and all you want is sam. good thing he’s already there; warm hands, soft voice, and all the love in the world just for you.

⤿ warnings: period cramps, general fluff, tummy rubs that will melt your heart, a little emotional but mostly just cozy vibes, pre-established relationship, a whole lotta warmth, both physical and emotional.

⤿ notes: just a lil sam being the best boyfriend ever because we all deserve that. hope this brings you some comfort and warmth, just like he would. (..◜ᴗ◝..)

The pain had started early, one of those mornings where your whole body felt like it had been wrung out and left in the cold. Your lower stomach throbbed in a deep, mean rhythm, like some cruel little drummer inside your body was banging on the walls of your uterus just to see how loud you’d scream. You were cramping hard, your back hurt, and no matter how you arranged your blankets or curled into yourself, nothing seemed to help.

The world outside your bedroom might as well have not existed. Your phone buzzed with messages you couldn’t bring yourself to answer, your tea went cold on the nightstand untouched, and you hadn’t even bothered changing out of Sam’s old hoodie. It smelled like him still, warm cotton and the faintest trace of cedarwood shampoo, and maybe that’s the only reason you hadn’t started crying yet.

By the time you heard the familiar creak of your bedroom door, you didn’t even lift your head. You just curled a little tighter, tucking your freezing toes under the blanket and squeezing your eyes shut against the sting of tears.

“Hey, sweetheart,” came that voice—his voice—low and soft and threaded with concern. “Heard it’s a bad one today.”

You didn’t move, didn’t even try to fake a smile. Your throat felt tight, and your body was too heavy, like your bones were waterlogged. “It’s stupid,” you mumbled, voice hoarse from disuse. “I’m being a baby.”

You felt the dip in the mattress before anything else, and then suddenly Sam was there, his long body pressing up behind yours, arms wrapping gently around your waist like he didn’t want to jostle you. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers warm and grounding, and when he kissed your temple, you finally let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“You’re not being a baby,” he said gently. “Your body’s working overtime right now. You’re allowed to feel like crap.”

“I just…” You hesitated, your voice so soft it barely made it past your lips. “I feel gross. My stomach hurts, my back’s killing me, and I almost started crying because I dropped my hair tie earlier. Like, who even cries over a hair tie?”

“You, apparently,” he said with a little chuckle, brushing your hair off your forehead. “And honestly? Valid. I’d cry too if I didn’t have this much self-control.”

You giggled weakly, then winced as another cramp rolled through you. You turned a little in his arms, curling your fingers into the soft fabric of his hoodie and burying your face in his chest like it might shield you from the world. He didn’t hesitate— he just pulled you in tighter, kissed your head again, and rubbed your back in slow, careful circles.

“Sammy,” you whispered, voice trembling just a bit. “Can you—could you maybe rub my tummy?”

He didn’t even answer. Just shifted slightly so he could reach under the blanket and rest his hand right where it hurt. His fingers were warm and wide and sure, and the second he started moving them in gentle circles, something in you broke open. Not in a bad way, more like you’d been holding yourself together so tightly, trying to power through, and now you could finally exhale. The pain was still there, but it felt… softer somehow. Easier to bear with him there.

You sighed, pressing your cheek against his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For taking care of me. Even when I’m kind of pathetic and bloated and hormonal and mean.”

“You’re never pathetic,” he said firmly. “And if this is your mean version? I think I’ll survive.”

You laughed again, properly this time, and when you looked up at him, his smile was so full of love it made your chest ache.

He reached for the book on your nightstand—the one you’d been too uncomfortable to hold for more than a few pages at a time—and opened it to where your bookmark stuck out. “Mind if I read to you for a bit?”

You shook your head, nose scrunching slightly. “No. That sounds nice. I like your voice. It makes everything feel less… sharp.”

So he did. He leaned back against the pillows, one hand resting protectively over your stomach, and started to read. His voice was soft and steady, the words wrapping around you like another blanket. You didn’t follow the story exactly, but it didn’t matter. It was the sound of him, the warmth of him, the way he’d pause every few paragraphs to kiss your forehead or shift the blankets to make sure you were tucked in just right.

At one point, you mumbled sleepily, “How’d I get so lucky? You’re like… the ultimate period boyfriend.”

He huffed a laugh, nuzzling your hair. “You’re the one who’s stuck with me reading 600 pages of fantasy just to make you forget you’re cramping. I think I’m the lucky one.”

You smiled against his chest. “You could read a cereal box and I’d still fall asleep happy.”

“Noted. Next time I’ll bring you Frosted Flakes lore.”

You were drifting in and out of sleep now, your body finally relaxing for the first time all day, and just before you let go completely, you murmured, “I love you so much it hurts.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just held you tighter, pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, and let his hand keep moving in slow, gentle circles over your tummy.

“I love you more,” he whispered. “Even on the crampy days.”

And that’s how you fell asleep— safe in Sam’s arms, wrapped in the softness of his voice, the warmth of his touch, and the kind of love that asks for nothing but to be felt.

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tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library.

[airybcby]

So it’s Canon that isagi is a really awkward guy and barely had any friends in skl, so imagine Reader takes interest in isagi bc she finds him really cute and starts to slowly then constantly invading his business, and starts going to his school games.

But they were only really connected to each other by skl, never really hung out outside of school so they become incredibly distant when isagi goes to Blue Lock womp womp 😔 so when U20 games finishes, isagi low-key forgets Reader existed, just that she was the girl who made school a bit more bearable, but he meant everything to Reader

I’m into bittersweet Isagi these days, no happy Isagi 😔

now this...this is something i can work with ;)

used feminine she/her pronouns since you used them in your ask! so fem! reader!!

જ⁀♡⊹｡° i know that i should hate you

( isagi yoichi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — i love this ask :) added my own lil twang to the end

♡ word count — 1.4k

♡ content — isagi yoichi x fem! reader, set before he leaves for blue lock, goes into the U-20, let's pretend they have a winners parade :) , school friends but not friends friends, awkward! isagi, unrequited love, i think that's it, not proofread!

♡ synopsis — You told yourself you would forget Isagi Yoichi, just like he forgot you. You were a good liar when you wanted to be.

── .✦ i should hate you, i feel stupid

The bleachers creaked when you sat down. Same as they always had. Same cold metal pressing into your legs, same battered field stretched out in front of you.

It had been a long time since you'd been here. Long enough that the rust was winning over the paint, long enough that the lines on the field had started to fade.

Long enough that it almost didn't feel real — those afternoons you spent here, pretending you just liked the fresh air, pretending you weren't looking for him.

But you had been. Always, it was him.

Even when no one else noticed, even when he was just another boy chasing a ball across a dying field, you saw him.

You cared first. You cared too much.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them, and closed your eyes.

If you tried hard enough, you could almost hear it — the dull thud of cleats against dirt, the quiet grunt of effort when he ran too fast, the sound of your own hands clapping louder than anyone else's.

Maybe that's why it hurt so much now.

Maybe that's why you couldn't seem to let it go.

You first noticed him in third period history.

He wasn’t anyone special, not really — slouched in his seat near the window, scribbling in the margins of his notebook, half-listening.

But there was something about him that made you look twice.

Maybe it was the way he bit the end of his pen when he was thinking.

Maybe it was the way he laughed — rare, startled, boyish — when someone said something funny.

Maybe it was just the way he seemed so lonely, even in a room full of people.

Isagi Yoichi.

A boy with too-big dreams scribbled between math notes.

A boy who ate lunch with his teammates sometimes, but never quite belonged even there.

He was awkward.

Sweet, in a way.

Cute, in that quiet, stubborn kind of way that made you want to sit beside him just to see if you could make him smile.

So you did.

You started sitting next to him when you could — ignoring the open seats elsewhere, ignoring the way he stiffened like he didn’t know what he was supposed to say.

You borrowed pens, asked about homework you didn’t actually need help with, lingered at the door after class to ask if he was coming to practice.

At first, he barely managed full sentences around you.

A nod here.

A stuttered "yeah" there.

A shy glance that skittered away too fast.

You were patient.

You learned to fill the silences.

You learned that he was better at listening than talking — that if you kept your voice soft and steady, he’d relax eventually.

And he did.

Sometimes you’d catch him already looking at you when you turned around.

Sometimes he'd wait, clumsy and obvious, just outside your classroom so you could walk to the next one together.

It wasn’t a friendship, not really.

But it was something.

Something fragile and hopeful and new.

Something that only existed when you both allowed it to.

You learned he played forward on the soccer team.

You learned he hated cold weather, but loved playing in the rain.

You learned he liked instant curry, and video games, and that his biggest dream — the one he barely said out loud — was to become a striker the whole world knew by name.

You decided you liked him before you even realized you were falling.

You started going to his games because you said you were bored.

Because your friends had other plans.

Because it was easy to slip into the stands, hoodie pulled over your head, pretending you were just there.

But really, you were there for him.

Only him.

You didn’t know the rules, not really, but you learned to recognize him by the way he moved — sharp and quick and a little reckless, always chasing something only he could see.

Sometimes he would glance toward the stands, searching.

And sometimes, when he caught your eye, he would smile — small and shy, like it was a secret between you.

You clapped until your hands were sore.

You screamed his name until your voice went hoarse.

You watched him shine, even when nobody else noticed.

You wanted to be someone he remembered.

Someone he needed.

Someone he thought about when the world felt too heavy.

You let yourself believe you were.

When the rumors about Blue Lock started, you didn’t believe them at first.

A special program?

For the best of the best?

It sounded like something out of a manga.

But then he stopped coming to class.

His name was called for attendance, and no one answered.

You waited.

One day, two, three.

You kept thinking — hoping — he would show up late, laughing, apologizing, telling some crazy story.

He didn’t.

The realization hit slow, then all at once.

He was gone.

And he hadn’t even said goodbye.

The months dragged.

You still sat in your usual seat.

Still caught yourself looking at the empty desk beside you.

Still found yourself walking past the soccer field after school, even though there was nobody left worth watching.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You barely knew him, after all.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

Clinging to something that was never really yours.

You told yourself you would forget him, just like he forgot you.

You were a good liar when you wanted to be.

When the U-20 match aired, you weren’t ready.

You thought maybe you could handle it.

You thought maybe you could just watch — like everyone else — and cheer for the boy from your hometown who made it big.

But the second you saw him on screen —

The second you saw the way he ran, the way he fought, the way he smiled when he scored …

The ache in your chest returned, raw and sharp and ugly.

He wasn’t the awkward boy from third period anymore.

He was electric.

Magnetic.

Bigger than the world you knew.

You whispered his name into the empty room.

You cried when you remembered he wouldn’t hear it.

The parade was louder than you expected.

Crowds pressing in from every side, banners waving, people screaming his name.

You stayed on the edge, heart hammering against your ribs.

And then you saw him.

Isagi Yoichi.

Smiling, waving, accepting praise like he didn’t know what to do with it all.

Still a little awkward — still scratching the back of his neck when he got overwhelmed — but brighter somehow, more sure of himself.

He looked nothing like the boy everyone watched win his first big game.

But he also looked nothing like the boy you sat next to in history.

You held your breath when his eyes skimmed the crowd.

And then — for just a second — they locked on you.

Something flickered there.

Recognition, maybe.

Or maybe you just wanted it too badly.

He pushed through the crowd, coming toward you — awkward, determined, so him it made your throat close.

"Hey," he said, grinning.

You smiled, too, too shaky, too hopeful.

"Hey."

"You’re...uh...you were in my history class, right?"

The words sliced deep.

You nodded.

"Yeah. Third period."

He laughed, scratching his neck again.

"I thought you looked familiar. You used to come to the games, right?"

Another nod, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest.

"Yeah. I did."

"Thanks for that," he said, sincerity shining through. "It really meant a lot back then."

Back then.

Before everything.

Before you became a stranger again.

As if it wasn’t only a few months ago.

Someone shouted his name, and he glanced over his shoulder.

"I should get going," he said, apologetic.

"But...it was good seeing you."

"Yeah," you whispered. "You too."

And just like that, he was gone — swallowed by the crowd, by the noise, by the life he built without you.

You stayed there long after everyone else left.

The streets emptied, the banners sagged, the excitement faded.

And you stood alone, heart cracked wide open, wishing you could hate him.

You should.

You should hate him for forgetting you.

For outgrowing you even though, really, you were too small of a pot for him to be put in anyways.

For making you believe you ever mattered.

But you don’t.

You hate yourself more — for still loving a boy who barely remembers your name.

You wipe your eyes, set your shoulders, and turn away.

You were just a girl who made school a little more bearable.

He was the boy who made it out.

He was someone unforgettable.

You were someone he already forgot.

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[gojover]

☆ END OF BEGINNING.

summary: the world’s ending, the air is toxic, and here you are, sitting on the floor of your childhood room, contemplating a heist.

pairing: caleb xia x fem!reader contains: romance, angst, smut (breast play, oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex (please stay safe irl!)), childhood friends to lovers!au, apocalypse!au, hurt/comfort. inspired by djo’s end of beginning and iu’s love wins all music video. word count: 6.8k

The world is about to end, and you’re eating instant noodles on the living room floor when he tells you.

“The government fucked up,” Caleb says. He’s sprawled on the carpet next to you, his thigh pressing against your knee and his arms crossed behind his head. He hasn’t gone to work in weeks—and it’s a pity, you think, because he’s the best pilot they had.

But then again, you suppose, what use would a pilot be when the skies themselves are poisoned?

You slurp a noodle, unbothered. The taste is bland, and you wish you’d sprung for the spicy kind last time you went to the store. It’s too late now.

Caleb exhales a long, slow breath through his nose, eyes tracing lazy circles across the ceiling like he’s looking for constellations that aren’t there anymore. His hair is too long, curling over his forehead, a leftover from the time when days still mattered.

“They tried to fix it,” he says. “But it just made everything worse.”

You swirl your fork through the soggy mess in your bowl. “Of course they did.”

It comes out sharper than you mean it to, but he doesn’t flinch. Caleb never flinches. Not even when the emergency sirens first started going off. Not even when the newsfeeds turned to static.

Outside, the sky is the colour of an old bruise—yellow, purple, sickly green at the edges. You stopped checking the forecasts. They always said the same thing anyways: hazardous, do not breathe, shelter indoors.

“How long?” you ask after a while, setting your bowl aside. It doesn’t matter, really, but you want to hear him say it.

Caleb tilts his head towards you, just slightly. His eyes catch the dim light. “A few weeks. A month, tops.”

You hum, as if he had told you it might rain tomorrow. The silence stretches out between you, heavy and companionable. He shifts closer, his ankle pressing against your calf, and you don’t move away. You wonder if he’s scared. You wonder if you should be. Instead, you glance at him, at the grim set of his jaw, the lazy sprawl of him on the floor like he’s sunbathing in a world that’s already gone cold.

“Guess we picked a good last meal,” you say dryly.

He laughs, and it’s the best sound you’ve heard in days.

“Wanna do something stupid?” Caleb turns his head, resting his cheek against the carpet so he can look at you properly. He grins at you like you’re kids again, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

���What kind of stupid?” you ask.

“Does it matter?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, but the truth is you’d say yes to anything right now. “What do you have in mind?”

Caleb sits up, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in soft, messy tufts. He looks like a boy again—trouble and charm and wild ideas stitched into his bones.

“There’s a museum downtown,” he says. “The one with all the… old stuff. Paintings, sculptures. They abandoned it when the first evacuation orders went out. Bet no one even bothered locking the doors.”

“You want to steal art?”

“Why not? It’s not like anyone’s going to miss it.”

Well. That is kind of true.

You sit back on your heels, eyes narrowing in thought. It’s absurd, but then again, everything feels absurd these days. The world’s ending, the air is toxic, and here you are, sitting on the floor of your childhood room, contemplating a heist.

“You’re serious?” you ask, half-laughing, half-asking for reassurance.

Caleb grins, leaning forward to push himself up to a sitting position. His hair falls messily over his forehead as he straightens his back, giving you a look of fond exasperation. “Who else is going to do it?”

The idea starts to settle in, like it’s meant to be this way. A last hurrah, the sort of thing you’d see in movies before the credits roll. Except this isn’t a movie, and you know it. This world is real, and it’s dying. But somehow, it still feels like you’ve got a chance at doing something ridiculous.

“And you think there’ll still be something worth taking?” you ask.

“Maybe not. But I bet it’ll still be beautiful. Art’s supposed to last forever, right? Guess we’ll see if it actually does.” His voice softens at the last bit, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

You nod, almost absentmindedly. “Alright. Sure. Let’s go steal some art.”

Outside, the air burns the back of your throat, thick and metallic, but you don’t care. The streets are empty, ghost-town still, your footsteps the only sound as you walk side by side towards the heart of the city. The asphalt sticks to your shoes, tacky from the heat, but you keep moving. Caleb matches your pace, close enough that your sleeves brush every few steps. He hums a low, tuneless song under his breath.

You turn a corner. The skyline, once proud and glittering, leans crooked now, buildings half-shrouded in the jaundiced haze. Billboards flap limply in the dead air, advertising a future that never showed up.

“Feels like we’re walking through the end of a movie,” Caleb says.

You glance at him. His face is set in a strange kind of calm, the kind people wear when they’re past fear and deep into acceptance. His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders loose.

“Except no dramatic soundtrack,” you mutter.

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we’ll make our own.”

You let the quiet settle between you again, breathing shallowly through your mouth. Every now and then, a birdcall splits the thick air—sharp, jarring against the hush—and it makes you both flinch, just a little.

You pass by a coffee shop you used to go to sometimes, back when things were still normal. The door hangs open. Someone left a cup on the table inside, a ring of brown staining the paper lid. You wonder, absently, if they ever got to finish it.

Caleb bumps your shoulder with his, pulling your attention back. He’s smiling at you—small, lopsided, a little tired.

“We’re almost there,” he says, nodding up ahead.

The museum looms ahead, its glass façade cracked, vines curling hungrily up the walls. The banners that used to advertise new exhibits hang shredded from the columns, fluttering lazily in the poisoned breeze. You stop at the bottom of the steps, tipping your head back to look up at the building properly. It’s massive and empty, the kind of thing you used to call haunted before everything turned into a shell of itself.

“Ready?” Caleb asks.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat and nod. “Yeah.”

Caleb grabs your hand and starts up the steps two at a time, dragging you along. You let him. At the top, he kicks the door open with a flourish, bowing low.

“After you, milady,” he says, with a wink.

You roll your eyes but smile, stepping past him into the dim, echoing coolness of the museum. It smells like dust and old paper and metal. Inside, the marble floors stretch out in wide, empty corridors. The exhibits are still there: paintings, sculptures, relics from a thousand different lives that had nothing to do with yours.

It’s so quiet that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

Caleb whistles low. “Whole place is ours,” he says, voice bouncing off the cavernous walls.

“What do we even take?” you ask, almost to yourself.

He swings his arms out wide, spinning in a slow circle, loose and child-like. 

“Anything you want,” he says, grinning. “Steal the Mona Lisa for all I care.”

“That’s in Paris, dumbass.”

He shrugs, unbothered, and ambles towards a nearby painting: a silhouette of a woman, painted in bruised blues and splashes of red. He tilts his head at it. “She looks kind of pissed.”

“That’s because it’s a landscape,” you say, and he lets out a bark of laughter that echoes all the way up into the broken rafters.

You drift through the museum together, your steps turning lighter with every ridiculous comment Caleb tosses over his shoulder. He narrates the paintings in stupid voices, poses beside marble statues, pulls a face and says, “That’s the face you make when you’re judging me for my driving skills.” You’re laughing before you can stop yourself, covering your mouth with your sleeve.

At some point, you wander into one of the grander halls, where the skylight above is cracked like a spiderweb, letting in a sickly light that pools across the floor. Dust floats through the air in thick, lazy motes.

Caleb stops at a sculpture of two dancers frozen mid-twirl, their hands barely touching. He looks at it for a long moment; then says, “I bet we could do that better.”

“You don’t know how to dance,” you remind him.

“It can’t be that hard.” He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon, pipsqueak. One last dance.”

You hesitate, then laugh and place your hand in his. His palm is warm, a little calloused, and he gives you a clumsy twirl that nearly knocks you over. You’re giggling helplessly by the time he dips you, exaggerated and wobbly, and he’s laughing too, bright and breathless, his forehead falling against yours for just a second.

You stay like that—forehead to forehead, hands tangled together—for a moment more, breathing in the same thin, dusty air. Caleb’s laugh dies into a smile, and for a second, you can almost forget the world crumbling outside.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mumble.

“I’m incredible,” he corrects, not moving away.

You give him a gentle shove on the chest and he finally moves back, albeit reluctantly. His hands catch on your elbows like he doesn’t want to let you go.

“At least you didn’t drop me on the marble,” you say, but you’re smiling too, and he beams like he’s won something anyway.

The museum stretches endlessly in every direction: gold-framed portraits, ancient jewelry, fossilised bones arranged in careful displays. Caleb pauses here and there to point out something absurd—a crown so heavy, it looks like it could crush someone’s neck; a medieval tapestry that, upon closer inspection, includes a diagram about medieval-era contraceptive measures. It’s stupid, and a little reckless, but for the first time in weeks, you feel something like lightness thread through your chest.

You slow near the entrance to a small gallery tucked into a corner. It looks emptier than the others, the walls bare except for a few faded posters peeling at the corners. On the floor, near the cracked tile, something catches your eye.

A crumpled ticket stub.

You crouch down, brushing your fingers over it gently. The print is worn and the edges are curled, but you can still make out the faded words: A Night at the Museum – Summer Gala. There’s even a little gold star printed beside the date.

You could take anything here—paintings worth millions, artifacts that only belong in textbooks—but somehow, this feels more important. A piece of someone’s normal night, a memory left behind like a breadcrumb trail.

“What’d you find?” Caleb asks, crouching beside you.

You hold the stub up between two fingers. “This.”

He studies it, then you, and a smile curves slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Good choice,” he says. “It’s beautiful, too.”

You slip it into your jacket pocket, smoothing it flat with careful fingers. Caleb bumps your shoulder lightly with his again.

“Sentimental,” he teases, but there’s no heat to it; only something fond and quiet.

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

He stands first, offering you a hand. You take it without thinking, letting him pull you to your feet. 

You take a detour on the way home, because Caleb says he wants to cook you a meal. A proper one, he’d said. Not one of those stupid instant noodles packets you like.

Instead of the community centre he usually breaks into, he steers you towards the old supermarket on the Fifth, the one with the dilapidated sign and boarded-up windows. You shoot him a look as you approach, but he simply nudges you forward with his elbow.

“Trust me,” he says. “We’ll eat like kings tonight.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, your footsteps crunching over broken glass and gravel. The front doors are still stuck half-open, warped with heat and time. Caleb slips through the gap. You duck in after him.

Inside, it’s dark and humid, the air thick with the smell of rot and old paper. A few broken fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting the aisles in feeble strips of greenish light. You can hear the slow drip of water somewhere in the back, as if the building is still trying to bleed itself dry.

“Alright, shopping list,” Caleb says, clapping his hands together. “Pasta, sauce, anything that looks even remotely edible.”

“And a can opener,” you add. “I lost the one at home.”

He nods and gives you a sloppy salute before disappearing down an aisle, the sound of his sneakers scuffing against the sticky floor fading as he goes.

You wander in the opposite direction, picking through the remains. Most of the fresh stuff is long gone, spoiled and soupy in abandoned carts or smeared across the floor. But in the canned food aisle, you strike gold: tomatoes, corn, beans—stuff that’s probably still edible if you squint and don’t think about it too hard.

Caleb jogs back into view, his arms overloaded with supplies: a bag of rice, a half-smashed box of cereal, two grimy jars of pasta sauce.

“You’re hoarding,” you point out.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s the apocalypse. Finders, keepers.”

You stuff your finds into a battered plastic basket and follow him to the front of the store. Every once in a while, he tosses something in: a packet of gummy worms, a bottle of some bright blue sports drink, a tin of instant coffee with the label half peeled off.

“For morale,” he says, dead serious, when you give him a skeptical look.

It’s dumb, the way he says it, but for reasons you don’t want to look at too closely, your chest aches with it.

By the time you’re done, you’ve amassed a dragon’s hoard of nearly-expired groceries piled high in a stolen shopping cart. Caleb steers like a drunkard, ramming into shelves and cackling like a maniac when you shush him.

“Stop it, Caleb,” you hiss, ducking low out of instinct, even though you know no one’s going to come yelling at you.

He only grins wider, pushing the cart through the broken doors.

Outside, the sun has almost fully collapsed behind the ruined skyline, leaving the streets bathed in a blemished orange-coloured sunlight. You grab one side of the cart to help him steer, wheels rattling unevenly over the cracked asphalt. 

Neither of you says it out loud, but you’re both thinking it: this haul will keep you fed for weeks. It’s an idiotic, lucky victory.

You stop at the old playground one street away from your house before heading home. Caleb says it’s because you’re already outside, anyway, so what’s a few minutes more?

You let him pull you towards the rusted swing set after hiding your stolen cart behind a cluster of metal sheets, and ignore the way your throat itches and your lungs burn because of the poisoned sky.

The swing groans under your weight when you drop onto it, the chains shuddering like they might snap if you so much as breathe too hard. Caleb claims the one next to you, giving himself a running push so he rocks back and forth, shoes kicking up dust from the cracked ground. You hook your fingers around the chains, scuffing the toe of your sneaker against the dirt.

The sky above is smothered, thick with the smoke and haze that never really clears anymore, but here, tucked away in the hollowed-out bones of the world, it almost feels like time has paused. Like if you just sit still enough, you could almost trick yourself into thinking you’re just two kids killing time before curfew.

Caleb leans back so far, the chains creak in protest, tipping his head toward the sky like it could swallow him. His hands are loose around the rusted metal, and when he speaks, it’s almost too soft to hear over the sigh of the wind.

“If the sky wasn’t poisoned,” he says, “I’d take you flying.”

You glance over at him and he’s still looking up, like he’s imagining it—a world where the clouds are white instead of ash-grey, where the stars are something you can actually see and not just rely on childhood memories to remember.

“I’d take you so high, you’d forget the ground ever existed,” Caleb goes on, voice low and far away. “I’d show you the stars. All of ‘em. I’d fly us so far out, the city lights wouldn’t drown them anymore.”

Your chest aches in that familiar, hollow way it always does whenever he talks about the sky. Caleb used to dream about it out loud when you were kids, lying side by side on your driveways in the summer, naming constellations you could barely spot through the streetlights.

He was always the one who believed there was more waiting for you, just past the horizon.

“You’re still a show-off,” you say, a little hoarsely, trying to smile.

He cuts his gaze towards you then, his smile lazy and warm despite everything. “Yeah, well. Some things survive the end of the world.”

You duck your head, hiding your grin. Your fingers tighten around the swing’s chain. For a second, you can almost feel it—the slipstream pulling at your hair, the stars crowding in close like they belong to you. Almost.

You want to tell him you’d go anywhere with him. That you’d climb into whatever battered plane he dragged out of a hangar and not even ask where you were headed. That it doesn’t matter if the sky’s poisoned or the stars are gone—you’d follow him anyway.

But instead, you just scuff your shoe harder into the dirt, stirring up little spirals of ash, and hope somehow he already knows. 

The swing chains clink together lightly, the sound as delicate as wind chimes. You look up at the sky, at the thick clouds smearing the sun into that disgusting blur, and wonder how long it’s been since you’ve seen a real sunset. You wonder how nice it’d feel to sit here with him and watch the sky turn pink and purple instead of this endless, brassy gold.

Your throat feels tight.

“I think…” you start, then falter, twisting the frayed edge of your sleeve around your finger. You can feel Caleb’s gaze on you, steady and patient.

“I think I would’ve liked it,” you say a little too fast. You swallow and force yourself to keep going, even as the words stick to the back of your dry throat. “If things were normal. If I could… marry you.”

The confession hangs in the air, fragile and trembling like the gossamer silk of a spider’s web. You immediately look down, too cowardly to see whatever’s written on his face. Embarrassment prickles up the back of your neck, hot and awful. Maybe you’ve ruined everything. Maybe you’ve said too much.

But then Caleb’s hand brushes against yours, and carefully, he lifts your left hand from your lap. You glance up, startled, just in time to see him lower his head and press a soft, gentle kiss to your ring finger, right where a gold band might have sat in some other life, in some better world.

Your breath catches so sharply, it hurts your chest.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression uncharacteristically serious, though his smile is still there, small and steady.

“We don’t need the world to be normal for that,” he says. “Registrar’s closed anyway. Who’s gonna stop us? Some dead fucker in a suit?”

You let out a shaky laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “You’re serious,” you say, your voice wavering.

“Dead serious.” Caleb presses another kiss to your knuckles for good measure, warmer this time. He leans in a little closer, so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “I’ll find you a ring. Steal it from a jewellery store if I have to. We’ll do it ourselves. We’ll make up vows, find a spot under the stars—hell, we can carve them into a tree if you want.”

The grin he flashes you is crooked and a little bashful, like he knows how ridiculous he sounds and means every word regardless. 

“We’ll be the most illegally married people left alive,” he says.

Something in you shudders, fragile and aching, and you squeeze his fingers tighter without even thinking about it.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

Caleb’s smile softens. He shifts, standing up from his swing with a rustle of fabric, and pulls you to your feet, hands still tangled together. He holds your hand between his like it’s something precious, something he can protect through sheer stubbornness alone.

“Then it’s settled,” he says. “You’re stuck with me now.”

You let out a watery laugh, the kind that feels like you’re almost crying, and nudge his shoulder with yours. “You’re stuck with me, dummy.”

“Best decision I’ve ever made,” he says, smiling so widely now that you can see the dimples bracketing his mouth.

Dinner, that night, is a giddy affair. 

Caleb finds some excuse to touch you. You pretend you don’t like it but lean into his arms anyway. He kisses your cheek when you accidentally smear pasta sauce over it and smiles when you shyly turn your head away. The food isn’t even that good—the pasta is overcooked, and the sauce is too runny, and it’s bland because you couldn’t find onions or garlic—but these days, when even finding proper meals is a luxury, you find yourself enjoying it.

You find an old candle hidden away in one of the living room drawers, and you place it in between your plates and let the wick catch flame. It’s a parody of a meal you’d find at a decent restaurant before the world went to shit, but Caleb says it’s perfect and you believe him.

Later, you pile the dishes in the sink, telling yourself you’ll wash them tomorrow, and leave the candle burning down to a stub between you. Caleb stretches out on the battered couch, one arm flung lazily behind his head. You sit down on the space next to him, legs tucked under you.

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep,” Caleb says.

You hum. You are tired, but it’s a good kind of tired. Full-bellied, warm-skinned. You rest your head on the back of the couch and close your eyes. When you open them again, Caleb’s watching you with that look he gets sometimes—fond amusement, something quieter you’ve never been able to place. He doesn’t look away.

“Come here,” he says, voice low, roughened by the kind of exhaustion that’s too deep to sleep off.

You don’t think about it.

The couch sags under your weight as you crawl over, knocking his knee with yours. He shifts to make space, but not much. Just enough that when you sit beside him, your thighs press together, warm through the fabric of your jeans. Your heart knocks around in your ribs like it’s trying to find a way out. Caleb looks at you, his eyes flickering down to your mouth and back up again, almost as though he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t really need.

So, you lean in first.

It’s awkward, at first—a bump of noses, a quick breath of laughter you swallow between your teeth. Then Caleb’s hand finds your jaw, steadying you, and the laughter fades into something slower.

The kiss is soft, careful and testing; like you’re both trying to memorise this, in case it slips away just like everything else. Caleb tastes like tomato and burnt bread and something stubbornly, stupidly sweet—like the boy who used to drag you down the street by hand when you were late for school, and the man who learned how to fly because he thought it would make him brave.

Your hands find his shirt, bunching the fabric at the sides. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, slower, like there’s no need to hurry.

You shift, climbing into his lap without thinking, and he catches you with a low, surprised noise against your mouth. His hands settle at your waist, pulling you closer.

The candle burns lower still, forgotten, wax puddling onto the chipped table. The world outside stays exactly where it belongs: outside your old, dusty window panes with no way of bleeding into the walls and floorboards of your childhood home.

Caleb kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s given up on pretending to take it slow. His hands roam, slow and certain, slipping under the hem of your shirt where your skin is warm. You shiver at the contact—not because it’s cold, but because it’s him.

His mouth trails lower, pressing hot, open kisses along the line of your throat, your collarbones. You lift your arms without thinking when he tugs at your shirt, letting him pull it over your head and toss it aside. He pauses—just for a second—to look at you. His eyes are dark, not just with want, but like he’s letting the fact that you’re here sink in, that you’re real and here and his.

He reaches behind you and unclasps your bra, letting it drop onto the floor. You reach for him in return, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging until he helps you strip it off too, leaving both of you half-dressed and breathing hard.

When he leans down again, his mouth finds the top of your breasts, lips dragging slowly over the swell of it, tongue licking experimentally. It makes you shiver, even in the thick, heavy warmth of the room. His hands cup them fully now, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes that send sparks racing under your skin.

You gasp, arching into him, and Caleb groans before closing his mouth around one nipple, sucking gently. His tongue laves over the sensitive peak, teasing, while his hand kneads your other breast with a slow, steady rhythm. Every touch feels unbearably good, like he’s learning you by heart, piece by piece.

“Caleb—” you breathe, nails scraping lightly down his back.

He switches sides, giving the same slow, thorough attention to your other breast, while his free hand starts to drift lower, tracing the line of your ribs, your stomach, until he’s slipping just under the waistband of your jeans, thumb stroking the skin there. 

The anticipation coils tight in your belly, a sweet, aching heat building between your thighs.

Caleb lifts his head to kiss you again, and you realise you’re both trembling, holding on to each other like the world outside has already ended—and maybe it has, but here, in this bubble you’ve made together, there’s still something left.

He nips at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you, chest heaving. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, pulling him back and kissing him hard, greedy for the taste of him, for the solid weight of his body pressing you down into the couch cushions. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, the curve of your ribs—sliding under the remaining layers of clothing with barely restrained urgency.

When you fumble with the button of his jeans, Caleb groans into your mouth, low and desperate, and lifts his hips to help you push them down. You tug them down to his thighs, leaving him in just his boxers, the outline of his cock thick and heavy against the thin fabric.

You palm him through it first—slow, teasing—dragging your hand up his length until he shudders, forehead dropping against yours. His breath stutters out hotly against your lips.

“Please,” he says, voice wrecked and trembling with the effort not to just take.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, small and secret, and then nudge him gently back against the couch cushions. He follows without protest, legs sprawling open, watching you with wide, dilated eyes like he’s helpless to do anything but obey.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them down torturously slowly, the fabric catching slightly around his thighs before you finally free his dick. It’s flushed deep pink at the tip, a bead of wetness already glistening there.

You wrap your hand around him first, stroking from the thick base all the way to the leaking head, feeling the way his cock twitches at your touch. Caleb’s hips jerk involuntarily, a moan torn from his throat, and his hands grip the couch so tightly, his knuckles bleach white.

You lean in and swipe your tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein there, savouring the way he trembles for you, the way he bites back a curse that still spills from between his clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” Caleb mutters, barely more than a rasp.

You flatten your tongue and take his cock into your mouth, inch by slow inch, feeling him throb against your tongue. His whole body goes rigid. You work him deeper each time; your jaw aches slightly but you don’t stop, hollowing your cheeks.

“You feel—fuck, you feel so good,” Caleb pants, his thighs trembling under your hands.

You pull back a little, letting the tip slip free from your lips, and swirl your tongue around it, teasing the slit until he’s cursing again, hips bucking despite himself. You take him back in deep, relaxing your throat, swallowing around him. Caleb moans, one hand tangling in your hair—not pulling, just holding your head in place.

You bob your head steadily, letting him fuck into your mouth with shallow thrusts, slick sounds filling the otherwise silent room. You moan softly around him, feeling his dick twitch against your tongue in response, the sound shooting straight through him like a lightning bolt.

When you pull off with a wet pop, your lips are swollen and your eyes are glassy. You look at him through your lashes, and he looks completely unlike what Caleb normally looks like—chest heaving, hair mussed, mouth slack with want.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes out.

“You okay?” you tease, thumb brushing over the slick tip just to see him flinch.

“Come here,” he says instead.

He hauls you onto his lap, kissing you deeply, not caring about the mess. One hand slides between your bodies to undo your jeans. He works them down your thighs with clumsy urgency, dragging your underwear with them. Then he flips you onto your back, kneeling between your legs, spreading your thighs open with both hands.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like the words tore themselves from him.

You barely have time to whimper before he leans in, pressing his mouth to your folds with one stripe of his tongue up your centre. You arch off the couch instinctively, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Caleb groans low in his chest, and he does it again, slower this time, dragging his tongue from your dripping entrance to your clit.

He settles his broad shoulders between your thighs and locks his arms around them, anchoring you there, helpless against his mouth. His tongue flicks lightly over your clit, teasing, coaxing, until you’re gasping—then, he sucks it gently between his lips, rolling it with the perfect pressure that makes your thighs tremble against his ears.

You can feel yourself dripping onto his chin, his mouth, but Caleb doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it spurs him on. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

When you buck against him, desperate and overwhelmed, he only tightens his grip, one strong hand pinning your hip down while the other trails between your legs. His fingers glide through your slick folds, teasing your entrance before he sinks one thick finger into you, slow and careful, stretching you open.

You moan his name, shameless, fisting the couch cushions. Caleb watches you like there’s nothing more important than the way your face twists with pleasure under him.

He pumps his fingers in and out slowly, curling it just right, while his mouth stays locked on your clit, tongue relentless, driving you higher with every stroke. When he slips a second finger inside, scissoring them carefully to stretch you, you sob, writhing against him.

He builds you up mercilessly, mouth and fingers working in tandem, coaxing you towards the edge so expertly that it feels euphoric. Your thighs clamp around his head, but Caleb just groans again, fucking you deeper with his fingers, sucking harder on your clit.

You come with a cry of his name, thighs trembling and walls clenching tightly around his fingers. Caleb doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, drinking down every shudder and gasp, prolonging it until you’re a boneless mess sprawled across the couch.

Only when your body stops jerking does he finally pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his cheeks flushed and his lips shiny.

He doesn’t give you time to recover. He kisses his way up your body—your thighs, your belly, your chest—murmuring your name like a prayer against your skin. By the time he reaches your mouth, you’re already pulling him in. He kisses you deep, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Want you,” you whisper against his lips. “Please.”

He nods, once, twice, frantically. “Yeah. Yeah, I—”

“Please, Caleb.”

“Fuck.”

When Caleb finally pushes inside you, it’s slow—agonisingly so. His hand finds your waist, digging into your skin, and he presses his lips to your forehead. His eyes flutter shut. “You okay?”

You nod, swallowing thickly, still a little breathless. You can’t form words, but your hips move instinctively, rolling up to meet his thrust halfway. He inhales sharply, pulling back and thrusting back in, starting slow.

You pull him closer, your hands wandering over his skin, finding purchase on his shoulders, his arms, his back. You feel the muscles in his body coil, tense with each stroke, but he doesn’t falter. He’s focused, his eyes never quite opening fully.

His hand slides down your body, finding your hips, and he pulls you up against him. Your legs lock around his waist as you move with him, desperate for more. He groans at the way you meet him, each thrust growing deeper, faster, as you push him harder, pulling him closer with each movement.

The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room, punctuated by the wet, breathless gasps that escape both of you. He pulls you closer still, each movement becoming more urgent, more demanding. You can feel every muscle in his body tighten as he drives into you, his grip tightening as if afraid you might slip away.

Your breathing comes in sharp, erratic bursts, and every thrust feels like it’s taking you higher, until your vision blurs and you’re not sure where you end and he begins. You can’t focus on anything but him — the weight of him on top of you, the rough cadence of his movements, the desperate way he groans your name between each thrust. You’re drowning in it, lost in the rhythm, in the sensation of him moving inside you.

You’re so close—the heat building between your legs, the tight coil of anticipation so ready to snap. Your hips meet his in sync, rocking against each other in a slow grind that has your pulse thundering in your ears. Every second feels like an eternity. Your nails dig into his skin, leaving marks behind as your legs tighten around him, pulling him in deeper

The tension in your body snaps, and your breath catches in your throat as your climax hits you, sending shockwaves through every inch of your body. You cry out, fingers gripping his back as you clench around him. Caleb follows right after, his own groan of your name rough. He pulls out just in time and spills on your stomach.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You both lay there, panting, your bodies still connected, struggling to regain some semblance of breath, of control. His forehead rests against yours, your fingers tangled in his hair, his chest rising and falling against yours with each ragged breath.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, Caleb presses lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, to your collarbone, trailing his lips to the curve of your jaw.

You thread your fingers through his hair, cradling him close.

There is only one tree still standing in your neighbourhood, though its branches have long been stripped bare and its bark crumbles if you brush against it wrong. It’s a wonder it’s survived at all, gnawed at by the poisoned air and years of neglect.

Caleb finds it when he goes out hunting for a ring for you—a battered silver band scavenged from a pawnshop’s ruins, dull with age until he painstakingly polished it against the sleeve of his jacket.

He comes back with dirt on his jeans and a quiet kind of brightness in his eyes, the kind he used to have when you were kids and he’d found something he couldn’t wait to show you.

“We should do it properly,” he says, holding out the ring in the cradle of his palm. “Or… as properly as we can.”

You don’t have a dress. He doesn’t have a suit. There’s no music, no flowers, no one to witness you but the empty street and the sick, churning sky.

Still, you walk hand-in-hand to the tree.

Still, you smile at him like the world hasn’t ended.

Still, when Caleb takes your hands—rough and calloused, but shaking a little anyway—you think you’re the happiest you’ve ever been.

Neither of you has vows prepared. You fumble through promises, your voice catching and trembling in the thinning air. Caleb laughs under his breath, wiping at the corner of his eye with the back of his wrist like he can pretend it’s just dust.

His own voice is hoarse when he tells you three simple words, eight simple letters.

He slips the ring onto your finger—too loose, cold from the wind—and kisses you before you can start to cry, cradling your face between his palms. It’s a kiss like a vow in itself: steady, certain, and chosen.

The world around you is broken and hollowed out, but right here, right now, you are whole.

When you finally pull away, Caleb digs into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a bent, rusted nail. Without saying anything, he turns to the tree and presses the nail into the bark, dragging it slowly. You step closer, peeking over his shoulder, heart aching at the simple, stubborn act of it.

The bark flakes away under the nail, the lines rough and uneven, but it doesn’t matter. It’s yours.

A mark. A memory. Proof that even at the end of the world, you chose each other.

Caleb steps back, dusting his hands on his jeans, and looks at the carving like it's the most important thing he's ever made.

Then he turns to you, grin tilted and familiar, and says, "Now it’s official."

You laugh—real and bright, like it bubbles up from somewhere you thought was long dead—and pull him in again, arms winding tight around his neck as the grey sky rumbles overhead.

The end of the world feels like falling asleep in your beloved’s arms, your mouth pressed to the pulse at his throat and his lips pressed to your forehead.

Exhibit: “Testaments of Survival” – Section II: Personal Histories

Object: Piece of Bark from an Apple Tree (Malus domestica) Date: Estimated circa 2074 Location Found: Sector 18, Northern District (Formerly Linkon City) Condition: Severely weathered; fragment only. Hand-carved inscription partially preserved.

Background: This artifact is a remnant of the environmental and societal collapse commonly referred to as The Withering. Following the ecological chain-reaction of 2070–2075, flora across most continents experienced mass die-offs. Very few plant species, including domestic apple trees, survived the acidification of the soil and atmosphere.

Recovered from a once-residential area, this bark fragment bears a simple, hand-etched inscription:

“CALEB XIA AND ████████ WERE MARRIED HERE.”

It is believed to mark an unofficial wedding ceremony held during the height of The Withering.

Personal ceremonies like this, often improvised and undocumented, served as acts of resilience and resistance against the dissolution of traditional societal structures.

The names etched into the bark are a rare human touch from a time otherwise dominated by loss—a stubborn act of hope carved into a dying world.

[brklynbxby]

Azriel staggered under the weight of her—of that kiss, of everything it carried. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t neat. It was raw, shattering, the kind of kiss that carved open old wounds just to fill them with light. Her mouth on his was fire and memory and grief laced with hope. He felt the tremble in her fingers as they fisted into his shirt, desperate and clinging. And god, he felt it all—every ounce of her pain, every crack she’d tried to seal shut in his absence. She was kissing him like it hurt not to.

His arms wrapped around her without thinking, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchoring her to him. Her body molded to his like it had been made for this, for him—and for the first time in what felt like years, something in him exhaled. The kiss slowed, just barely, and he pulled back enough to rest his forehead against hers. Their breath mingled in the space between them—uneven, heavy, alive. His thumb brushed her jaw. His chest rose and fell against hers, fast and unsteady. “You feel like home,” he whispered, voice frayed and thick with awe. “Even though I feel like I’ve lost the right to come back.” And still, he held her—as if letting go would unmake him all over again. “I want to show you something”

His breath stilled beneath her touch—barely there, like the ghost of a man too used to being unloved, too practiced in silence. Her hand on his cheek was a mercy he hadn’t earned, and he knew it. Knew it down to the marrow that still ached with every memory of walking away when he should’ve stayed. Her thumb traced his cheek like she was trying to remember the boy he used to be, the one who hadn’t yet learned how to ruin things. He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, just long enough to feel the tremble in his ribs, the ache blooming beneath his skin like something bruised but alive. Her words—Give me one good reason why—carved straight through his chest, deeper than any blade ever had.

The air between them pulsed. His heartbeat had migrated to his throat, pounding so loud it blurred thought, blurred reason. Everything about her was pulling him apart—her scent, familiar as home; her voice, trembling like a wire about to snap; the way her thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone like it had every right to be there. He wanted to speak. He didn’t know how. The words scraped their way up his throat, fragile, naked things. Then he said it—quietly, like confession, like prayer. “Because I think I’m falling in love with you.” The silence after was not empty. It was full—of breath held and hearts unraveling and the sharp, beautiful ache of something real.

[sthilarions]

I’ve seen a few fics wherein, due to various misunderstandings, Charles thinks (wrongly) that Edwin is being/continuing to be touch-averse after they’re together and doesn’t want hugs or kisses. And decides that that’s okay, and he’ll just happily take whatever Edwin wants to give him, and love him however he is. Then, of course, the misunderstanding is resolved, and there are many hugs and kisses.

But I’m kind of interested in the concept of it not being a misunderstanding. Because if 35 years of constant day and night companionship don’t make you completely comfortable with someone’s touch, adding romance to the mix isn’t going to magically change that, you know? Like, for me, I’m touch-averse to at least some extent with everyone on the planet except my brother, and that includes my partner whom I have known for about a decade, whom I love very very much, and whom, on some levels, I love touching.

Because the touch-aversion exceptions don’t really care what label is on your relationship, or even how much you love someone, or even-even how much some parts of your brain like touching them. That’s barely a factor, really, any of those. For me, anyway, if those decades of familiarity and safety and desensitization won’t do it, nothing further will.

So I’m really interested in the idea of an Edwin who’s been kissed, now, but would still answer “Do you miss kissing?” in the negative, just a more informed and confident negative now. Who loves hugging Charles but only sometimes, only when his brain is in the right place and skin and pressure don’t make him feel like electricity’s running painfully through his veins.

And him and Charles learning how to negotiate that. What touches give Charles (and Edwin, because touch-aversion does not necessarily rule out touch-starvation) what he needs without taking from Edwin something it hurts to give. Kisses on each other’s hands, perhaps, instead of the invasive face-to-face sensitive-skin business. Sitting facing opposite directions leaned up against each other, like they’re each other’s backrests.

Two of Edwin’s fingers carefully resting against Charles’s knee, on days when any more would ache, for hours at a time, just that tiny connecting contact but so long and so tender it holds them together as strongly as joined handcuffs. Charles’s head on Edwin’s lap but never the other way around; Edwin’s head on Charles’s shoulder but never the other way around.

Hugs that squeeze hard, never a light half-hug, but also never a trapping one. A hand signal for when Edwin’s brain is willing to do hugs, that tends to lead to Charles diving into his arms no matter the external situation and who’s present, and conversely a signal for when hugs would be too unpleasant to take.

Edwin would be willing to do whatever Charles wanted, of course. If Charles wanted him to spend half his day with Charles’s tongue down his throat and the other half with Charles wrapped around him like an octopus, he would, without hesitation or complaint. He’d probably take the constant ache and electricity under his skin and screaming static inside his head out on clients and Crystal and any bad guy on the wrong end of his casting hand, but he’d not only do it, he’d do his damndest to keep Charles from knowing what it cost.

But Charles knows him far too well, for that. He doesn’t know words like “touch-averse”, sure, but he can certainly notice that a light brush down Edwin’s arm when they’re in a loud room puts more visible pain on Edwin’s face than a high-powered torture hex does, and adjust accordingly.

So they find their little touches, and their big touches, where they can, where they don’t hurt either of them. And Edwin sits on the sofa, with Charles down on the floor leaning back against it, one of Edwin’s hands tangled in Charles’s curls, one-way safe touch, and, fuck. Both of them are pretty sure they’ve never felt anything better in their entire existence.

[differenteagletragedy]

Heyyy !!

So i had an idea.

Since Simon doesn’t celebrate birthdays at all, let’s imagine a world where reader’s birthday comes before his.

How would he react?

I thought that maybe he would ignore it just like anyone else’s birthday which would sadden reader A HELL LOT.

I absolutely live for angst so I believe that Simon would be crushed once he realizes his mistake and try to fix it.

Anyway, I hope that was understandable! Your writing is so good, I’m a 100% sure you’ll turn this into a masterpiece !

THANK YOU!??!!?! I live for the angst too, big big time, I hope you like it!!!

Simon keeps a watchful eye on you as you get ready for a night out with friends. He watches you do your hair and makeup, slide into a tight little dress, and it's a pleasant sight to see, but something's off. There's a tenseness in your shoulders, and he can't figure out the source.

"Everything all right?" he asks from his spot on the bed while you move to the closet to find a pair of shoes.

"Yep," you answer in a tone that tells him that everything is not, in fact, all right.

He stands, making his way to you, and you still when he puts his hands on your hips, pulling you so that your back rests against his chest.

"Can't fix the problem if I don't know what it is, love."

"The problem," you tell him, sliding around to face him, "is that I'm going to be late if you keep being handsy."

He lets you slip away from him.

Later that night, when you come home, you're buzzed enough to be honest but not enough to be belligerent about it. He meets you at the door, kneels to take your shoes off for you, and you begin.

"I'm sad."

He sets the shoes down and stands, taking your hands in his, and says, "Well, we can't have that, now can we?"

"It's my birthday," you tell him.

"As of midnight, yes."

"... You knew?"

There's hurt in your eyes, and Simon understands immediately that he's played this all wrong, but he's still trying to work out where exactly he failed.

"'Course I knew," he answers truthfully. "I know everything about you."

"Then why didn't you say anything? My friends took me out for my birthday, and you ... you didn't even say anything. You didn't want to come. Why not?"

"Because I knew you'd have more fun with your friends than you'd have with me."

It's another truth, but it's just the tip of the iceberg.

You sigh, then drop one of his hands, taking the other and leading him to the couch. You've been together long enough that he knows what this is -- you've just realized you've uncovered another piece of Simon Riley that is a little bit peculiar, and you want to talk it out.

"So here's the thing," you begin, sitting next to him. "I love you. I love being around you. And I want to be around you on my birthday."

He fights against the din that begins immediately in his mind -- the too-loud thoughts about how he doesn't deserve this understanding, doesn't deserve your kindness, doesn't deserve you, and he tries to speak.

Nothing comes out.

It's too many things, too many mistakes. It's the deep-seated feeling that plagued him at the beginning of the relationship, that quietened over time but is now back in full force, screaming through the silence in the room and making the patience in your stare painful: he's not cut out for this.

Finally, in a small, defeated voice, he says, "I was going to tell you happy birthday."

You pull him into a hug, then push him down until he's half-laying on the couch, his head in your lap and your fingers running through his hair. He closes his eyes, part of him waiting for this to be the final straw for you and part of him knowing, somehow, that you love him too much to let him go.

"Listen," you say softly, "I know sometimes you feel like you're not enough. But I need you to know that you are, ok? You're more than enough for me, Simon, you're everything. And that means spending birthdays with me and holidays and good times and bad times and everything else that makes up a life, because I want to share my life with you. Is that what you want?"

He can't say it in words, he doesn't know any that would suffice. He tries to say it in actions, in the way he gives you the first cup of tea, how he scrapes the ice off your windshield when it frosts and how he stops the radio in the car on your favorite songs, even when he can't stand them. He tries to press it into you too, through his hands and his mouth when he holds you.

Now, in the moment, he nods, his head still resting in your lap, and he hopes you can feel everything else. How hard he tries.

Your touch turns softer, and you pause to lean down and press a soft kiss on his temple.

"So tell me."

He hesitates, then turns to lay on his back so that he can look up at you. He feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards into a smile, small but genuine. It still feels strange, even after all these months, like a muscle that's never quite developed. It aches a little less every time.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he says.

[chimckenns]

The doorbell rang. It was almost midnight. Angel peeked outside the door to check who it was.

David, shifted, sat outside in the rain. You’d think it wasn’t raining with how still and calm he was, despite his fur being thoroughly soaked. Angel almost didn’t recognise him at first, but then again there’s no other explanation for a wolf of his size outside their door. His kind, expressive eyes were also another sign that it was him.

“Davey! What are you doing out here?” Angel waved him in and watched as he trodded towards the door, stopping at the entrance and flattening his ears in disagreement. One paw lifted and gestured to the house.

“Fine, if you’re that worried I’ll grab a towel. It’s just water though, the floor will survive.”

Angel came back with an old towel and laid it out on the floor. Only then did David walk in, standing on the towel and letting it absorb the rain he brought in. Angel sat down cross legged and used another towel to dry him off, starting with his head. When they got to his snout he playfully licked their hand, making Angel giggle and kiss his nose before continuing.

David would have shifted back, but he enjoyed the way Angel pampered him.

A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

Once dry, he trodded towards the living room, stopping in front of the fireplace, and looked back in Angel’s direction.

“…you want cuddles?” Angel was beaming.

David nodded and wagged his tail with a few swishes.

Angel ran over and hugged him, burying their face in his fur. He let out a snort, and laid down, nuzzling Angel further into him so that he could curl around them.

After a few licks of Angel’s face and gentle nuzzles, David rested his head on their stomach and covered their legs with his tail like a blanket. Angel stroked his fur, eventually stopping as they’d fallen asleep.

David made a mental note to do this more often.

Later David would explain that Asher took his truck on a job by accident, leaving him with no car and no keys. He was faster as a wolf, so he shifted and ran back in the rain, hence his soaked fur.

[bitchinbarzal]

Opposite | M Kesselring

for @kellerfornia

-

You weren’t sure what hurt more:

the fact that he moved on,

or the fact that she was nothing like you.

Standing there, drink in hand, you watched Michael laugh across the crowded bar, hand casually resting on the waist of her — blonde, bubbly, and bold, every bit the opposite of you.

The kind of girl who looked like she knew every song playing. The kind who would never overthink a thing in her life.

You didn’t even blame him.

You knew how much you could spiral, how tangled in your own head you got.

Maybe this was easier. Lighter.

Still, it burned.

You turned away before he could see you looking, but not fast enough because seconds later, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, soft, almost guilty.

God, that voice. It still had the power to undo you.

“Hey,” you managed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

There was an awkward beat of silence. Michael shifted on his feet, hand raking through his hair — an old nervous habit you knew too well.

For a second, it felt like nothing had changed.

For a second, it felt like you were still his favorite place.

And then she was there, slipping her hand into his, pulling him back.

“Coming, babe?” she asked, her voice bright and easy.

Michael gave you an apologetic smile — a smile that said I’m sorry I hurt you but not I wish I could undo it — and let himself be led away.

You watched them go, heart heavy but steady.

Because you realized something, standing there alone:

He didn’t want someone like you.

He wanted something different.

Not better. Not worse.

Just not you.

And somehow, somehow — that made it easier to breathe.

Because if he wanted your opposite,

then maybe it wasn’t about you not being enough.

Maybe it was just about being wrong for him.

And maybe, just maybe — you could be right for someone else.

You set your drink down.

You walked out the door.

You didn’t look back.

At first, he didn’t notice it.

The way it felt different.

The way she felt different.

He told himself it was just new.

That’s what everyone said — new felt different.

You had to adjust.

But weeks turned into months, and Michael couldn’t shake the feeling.

The way conversations with her stayed surface-level.

The way he never felt quite known.

And when he laughed — really laughed — it wasn’t because she said something that caught him off guard.

It was because he remembered you saying something stupid at 2 a.m., face half-buried in a pillow, teasing him until he blushed.

He missed the way you listened.

The way you understood things he couldn’t put into words.

He missed you.

It hit him hardest when he saw you again — not at a bar this time, but at a coffee shop on a rainy afternoon.

You were tucked into a corner seat, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, lost in a book.

You looked up.

And for a second — just a second your eyes lit up, the way they used to when you saw him.

Then the light dimmed.

And you gave him a polite, distant smile.

It shattered him.

Because he remembered everything.

The way you used to smile so wide your nose crinkled.

The way you said his name like it was a secret you were telling the universe.

And now? Now he was just another stranger passing by.

He didn’t approach you that day.

Didn’t ruin your peace.

But that night, lying awake, he finally admitted it to himself:

He didn’t want someone opposite from you.

He didn’t want someone easier or lighter or shinier.

He wanted you.

Complicated. Soft. Overthinking. Brilliant.

You.

No one ever fit him like you did.

Weeks later, you got a text.

Hey… I don’t know if you’d even want to hear from me, but…

I saw you. I miss you. I’m sorry.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding painfully in your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t even know if you could say anything.

Because he had shattered you once.

Because you had stitched yourself back together without him.

You couldn’t deny it.

Some part of you — maybe the part that always knew him best — whispered:

He means it.

You took a breath.

You typed.

Maybe we can talk sometime.

You didn’t promise anything.

You didn’t pretend it would be easy.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

Maybe you weren’t opposites after all.

Maybe you were just finding your way back.

Slowly. Carefully.

Maybe this time, it would be different.

The coffee shop was the same.

Same worn leather seats. Same smell of burnt espresso and cinnamon.

The rain outside blurred the windows, the same way it had the last time you saw him.

You sat there, picking at the lid of your cup, waiting.

And then the door swung open.

Michael.

He looked… older somehow.

Not in a bad way. Just… heavier. Like life had laid itself across his shoulders since you last touched him.

He spotted you immediately — how could he not? — and froze for half a second before walking over.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough like he hadn’t spoken all day.

You gave a small smile. “Hey.”

He sat across from you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just breathing in the same air again felt strange enough.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I don’t really know where to start,” he admitted.

You looked at him, really looked, and saw all the pieces he hadn’t let you see when things ended , the regret, the confusion, the sadness.

“You don’t have to,” you said quietly.

But he shook his head. “I do.”

He rubbed his hands over his jeans, searching for words.

“I thought… I thought maybe I needed different. Easier. I don’t know. I was scared. And I didn’t know how to handle loving you the way I did.”

You blinked, throat tight.

Loving.

Past tense?

Or just scared tense?

“I didn’t need someone different,” he said, voice breaking a little. “I just needed to grow up.”

You pressed your palms flat to the table to stop your hands from shaking.

“And now?” you asked.

Michael looked at you, really looked like he was seeing you for the first time again.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just know I miss you. I miss us. And if you’re willing… maybe we could figure it out.”

You closed your eyes for a beat.

It would be so easy to fall back.

To pretend nothing had changed.

To pick up where you left off.

But you weren’t the same girl who cried herself to sleep wondering why you weren’t enough.

And he wasn’t the same boy who walked away thinking love was supposed to be effortless.

You opened your eyes.

“I don’t know either,” you said. “But… maybe we could figure it out.”

A soft, tentative smile spread across his face.

Not triumphant.

Not cocky.

Just hopeful.

He reached out . not grabbing your hand, not forcing anything — just setting his hand palm-up on the table between you.

An invitation.

You stared at it.

And slowly, cautiously, you placed your hand over his.

Not a promise.

Not yet.

But maybe

maybe

the start of something new.

Not the same as before.

Not perfect.

But real.

And sometimes, real was enough.

The light in the room was warm and golden.

Michael stood there, hands trembling slightly as he spoke, voice quiet but full of something unshakable.

“You know,” he said, a small, awed smile tugging at his mouth, “when I met her… I didn’t know what love was.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head at the memory.

“I thought love was supposed to be easy. Effortless. I thought if it scared me, it meant it wasn’t right.”

He paused, blinking against the weight of his own heart.

“But loving her was different. It wasn’t effortless. It was real. It was terrifying sometimes. It made me grow in ways I didn’t know I could.”

He took a slow breath.

“I love her because she stayed — not when it was easy, but when it was messy.

Because she chose me, even when I couldn’t figure out how to choose myself.

Because she taught me that love isn’t finding someone perfect — it’s finding someone who’s worth the fight.”

A soft smile pulled at his lips.

“I love her because even when the whole world felt too big, she made me feel like I belonged.”

He swallowed, voice thick.

“I love her because she’s my favorite ‘what if’ that turned into my forever.”

Michael lifted his glass, eyes locking with yours across the room — your wedding dress gleaming under the lights, your hand pressed to your heart.

“And if you ask me what the best thing I ever did was,” he said, voice breaking with emotion, “it’s her. It’s always been her.”

The room cheered, but he only ever saw you.

[wildfiig]

┆ rafe comforts you on a plane ✶

.ᐟ cw: fluff! soft!rafe, bf!rafe, fear of flying, just rafe being really sweet .ᐟ notes: rewatching supernatural sparked this idea lol, i love the early seasons of the showwww

first class, window seat, clouds hanging heavy outside the glass. your stomach was all twisted up, something about being so high off the ground just felt wrong. the kind of wrong that doesn’t let you breathe right. like the sky could swallow the whole plane without thinking twice.

rafe noticed. of course he did.

he didn’t say anything at first, just reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around your lap. then his hand found yours, warm and steady, like it always does. like he could anchor you to the earth even from 30,000 feet in the air.

"hey," he said, soft enough for just you. "got you something."

he dug around in his backpack for a second and came up with a bag of sour gummies, your favourite. the ones you always buy at the gas station even though they make your teeth hurt. he handed them to you like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been thinking about it since last night when you told him you hated flying.

"also," he added, pulling out a worn paperback. your book. your exact copy, spine cracked where you left it on your nightstand. he must’ve grabbed it this morning before the cab.

you blinked at him.

he just shrugged. "figured you’d wanna read. or pretend to."

you smiled then. kind of. it wobbled. but it was real.

the plane started to taxi and your fingers curled tighter around the armrest. rafe leaned in and kissed your temple.

"i’ve got you," he said.

"i know."

"you wanna listen to music?"

you nodded, so he handed you one of his earbuds and you tucked it in, head resting against his shoulder. he didn’t move when you leaned all your weight into him, just shifted slightly so you could fit there better, his hoodie already starting to smell like the little packet of peanuts they gave him at check-in.

takeoff felt like being launched out of your own skin. but rafe’s hand stayed locked with yours the whole time.

he rubbed your knuckles with his thumb, slow and mindless, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. like it was just instinct. like he always had to be touching you.

halfway through the flight he tore open the gummies and handed you one without asking. then he opened your book, flipped to the right page, and set it in your lap.

"you’re gonna be okay," he murmured. "you’re already okay."

later, when the sky turned from blue to gold and the seatbelt light dinged off, you realised you hadn’t looked out the window once. you hadn’t needed to. rafe had been looking at you the whole time.

"thanks for not making fun of me," you whispered.

"never," he said.

and he meant it. he always does.

somewhere over the clouds, your breathing finally steadied, and you thought, if being in the sky could ever feel safe, it’d be here, in his hoodie, in his arms, head tucked just beneath his jaw, the soft rumble of his voice in your ear like gravity finally letting go.

[holylulusworld]

Stumblerella (2)

Summary: You’re clumsy. Luckily, a hero moved in right next to you.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Warnings: clumsy reader, fluff, retired Steve

Catch up here: Stumblerella

Today, Steve follows you around the grocery store. You wanted to go to town to buy groceries after your last trip ended up in ashes. Literally. Once again, your shopping bags caught fire.

Yesterday, your car tried to kill you again, and we don’t want to talk about the sink spewing food at you. Your shower gave you only pink water, and your lights flicker all the damn time.

Steve is sure there must be someone out there manipulating your life to mess with you. No one can be so unlucky.

Ever the hero, Steve decided not to leave your side before he found the villain making your life harder. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to harm you. You’re a ray of sunshine, friendly and kind.

“Did you listen, Steve?” You ask as he is engrossed in surveying the grocery store. Steve whips his head toward you, nodding slowly. “We need pasta and broccoli. Oh, and you wanted some apples.”

You check the list again, crossing out another article. “How about I invite you over for dinner? Your oven could explode or something.”

You giggle as Steve is worried about you again. Since he got to know that strange things happen around you all the time, he tries to keep you safe. Mostly by sticking around.

“I’ll get the rest of the list; just follow me around.” Steve takes the list out of your hand. He already manned the shopping cart, but you don’t protest. Steve was nothing but helpful over the last few weeks, and you don’t want him to think you’re ungrateful.

“Do you want me to cook for you? I could make a pie too,” you ask while following Steve toward the next shelf. “Maybe this time the oven won’t try to kill me.”

Steve chuckles, but worry colors his features. “You can come over to my place, and we can cook together. I’m not much of a cook, but we can try together.”

“You are worried my oven will eat me, right?” You playfully punch his upper arm. “I’m hoping the bastard won’t try anything tonight.

“Let’s hope for the best…”

Steve drove you home and invited you over for dinner a second time. You agreed and wanted to change clothes. He happily told you he’s going to prepare everything when you step inside your house.

Only seconds later, he heard a loud thump, followed by a scream. His instinct kicks in. Muscle memory helps him break through your door and run upstairs, only to find you helplessly lying under your wardrobe.

“Y/N! Doll! What happened?” He easily lifts the wardrobe, immediately checking on you. “Do not move. I’ll call an ambulance.”

“Steve,” you sigh because he came to your rescue once again. “I’m good, thank you. I only wanted to get a shirt and shorts, but then the wardrobe tried to eat me.”

Steve snorts at your words. “That’s it. I’ll bring you to my place. We will pack a few of your things, and you can have my guestroom. I want to inspect your house, car, and your surroundings. This is not normal.”

“I know.” You sniffle as Steve helps you get up. Luckily, a few bruises and a broken ego are the only damage the wardrobe did. “It all started a few months ago.”

“Y/N, when exactly did it start?” Steve looks at the wardrobe, frowning, as if nothing seems to be wrong with it. It’s sturdy. There’s no logical explanation for what happened.

“Uh—” You close your eyes and try to remember when the first accident happened. “I think shortly after you moved in.”

“I see…” Steve nods thoughtfully. “Let’s bring you out of here for now.”

“Tony, I need your help.” Steve is pacing his living room. You didn’t cook. Steve ordered takeout and tucked you in after dinner.

You easily fell asleep, knowing Steve is there to protect you. “Someone is terrorizing my neighbor. I’m afraid they are doing this because of me.”

He tells Tony your name and address, asking for help. Steve won’t let anyone hurt you. Not on his watch.

Whoever is messing with your life will regret it…

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Tiny Sorceress~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky and Sam take care of Y/n who accidentally turned herself into an eight month old baby.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Sorceress!Girlfriend!Reader

||Master List||

“—And I’m just saying,” Sam Wilson said, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice of pizza, “if Redwing had emotions, he would definitely like me better than you.”

Bucky Barnes didn’t even look up from his spot on the couch. He was stretched out like a very grumpy, very tired cat, his metal arm behind his head and a bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest.

“He doesn’t like you,” Bucky replied lazily. “He’s a drone. He doesn’t like anyone.”

“You’re just jealous because he listens to me.”

“He listens to programming. Calm down, Wilson.”

Sam scoffed and shoved the rest of the pizza in his mouth, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky. “That’s exactly what someone would say if they lost an argument to a bird.”

Bucky gave him a slow blink. “You lost an argument to a coffee machine once. Let’s not throw stones.”

“That machine gave me decaf, Barnes. That wasn’t a loss—it was sabotage.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The two men settled into a lull, the kind that came with an entire day off. Y/n, Bucky’s girlfriend and full-time sorceress-in-training (technically more powerful than she liked to admit), had holed herself up in her little mystical lab earlier that morning with a book bigger than her head and an energy drink labeled “MANA-ZONE.”

Bucky hadn’t seen her since.

He assumed she was fine. He figured that if anything went wrong, the walls would probably shake—or something would explode. That was usually how magical accidents started.

He’d been dating Y/n long enough to know when to worry and when to give her space.

Sam was halfway through a rant about superhero tax breaks when Bucky’s phone vibrated on the coffee table.

Without thinking, he grabbed it and answered.

“Barnes,” said the clipped voice on the other end.

Bucky sat up slowly, recognizing the speaker immediately. “Strange?”

“Get to the Sanctum. Now.”

Bucky was already on his feet. “What happened? Is it Y/n?”

“She’s—well—yes. But I can’t explain over the phone. Just hurry. It’s… urgent.”

And then the line went dead.

Bucky didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He just grabbed his keys.

___

“You didn’t even tell me what was going on!” Sam shouted from the passenger seat as Bucky ran a red light in a stolen-looking SUV.

“I didn’t have time!” Bucky barked back. “He said it was Y/n!”

“And that means we break traffic laws?!”

“If she’s hurt, yes!”

Sam threw up his hands. “Damn. You are whipped.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

When they skidded to a stop outside the Sanctum Sanctorum, Bucky barely had time to knock before the doors flew open.

Doctor Stephen Strange stood there looking like someone had just thrown him into a toddler gymnastics class.

“Thank God,” he muttered, stepping aside to let them in. “We’ve had a situation.”

“What kind of situation?” Bucky demanded, heart pounding. “Where is she? Is she okay? Is she hurt—”

“Technically? No. She’s… uh… quite healthy.” Strange rubbed a hand down his face and gestured toward the foyer.

That’s when Bucky heard it.

A soft little giggle.

A happy, high-pitched squeal.

He turned the corner—

—and nearly dropped dead.

Sitting in the middle of a ring of softly glowing runes, chewing on the corner of her own oversized sleeve, was a plump, eight-month-old baby.

She had Y/n’s hair.

She had Y/n’s bright eyes.

And she looked up at Bucky and lit up like a damn firework.

“BAH!” she squealed, arms outstretched. “Buh-buh-buh!”

Bucky stared.

Then blinked.

Then slowly turned back to Strange.

“What. The. Hell.”

Strange sighed. “She was experimenting with temporal regression spells. Apparently, she got the incantation slightly… wrong.”

“Slightly?!”

“I didn’t say she was good at math. Look, the spell is temporary. She should return to normal in 48 hours.”

“FORTY-EIGHT?!”

“I said it was temporary.”

Bucky turned back toward the giggling baby. Y/n had rolled over and was attempting to crawl toward him like a very determined muffin.

He dropped to his knees, completely at a loss. “Y/n? That’s you?”

She stuck her whole fist in her mouth and blinked up at him.

Sam peered over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said slowly. “She’s got your eyes. Sorry, I mean—your girlfriend’s eyes. In a… baby. Body.”

Bucky turned around with the most betrayed expression he’d ever worn.

“Don’t help.”

___

Ten minutes later, the Sanctum had successfully unloaded its smallest magical disaster into Bucky’s arms, along with a diaper bag that seemed to horrifyingly already exist for her size.

“Did she conjure that too?” Sam asked, looking at the pink and silver bag with a grimace.

“She’s a planner,” Bucky muttered, adjusting the tiny, squeaky girl now happily playing with the zipper on his jacket.

Strange waved them out the door. “She can’t cast anything like this—her magical core’s dormant while the regression holds. So no hexes, no portals, no sudden dragon appearances. You’ll be fine.”

“And what do we do if she—” Bucky paused. “Needs something?”

“Figure it out. You’re adults.”

“You’re the wizard!”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

The door shut in their faces.

Sam let out a low whistle.

“Well. This’ll be fun.”

Bucky looked down at the bundle in his arms.

Y/n blew a spit bubble.

___

Back at the apartment, chaos erupted in three parts:

1. The Diaper Disaster.

“This isn’t fair,” Bucky muttered, holding up a packet of wipes like it was a bomb. “She’s supposed to be this all-powerful sorceress, and I’m stuck doing damage control on her butt.”

“You do realize she pooped glitter, right?” Sam said, squinting into the trash can. “That’s definitely not normal baby poop.”

“She ate magic.”

“Do we call Strange again?”

“I’m not calling that smug bastard to talk about her glitter poop.”

“Then you’re on your own, Snow White.”

“Traitor.”

2. The Feeding Fiasco.

“I don’t know how much to give her!” Bucky hissed.

“She’s a baby. Just give her the bottle and let her decide!”

“She might get full!”

“Or she might turn us into frogs if she’s hungry. I say risk it.”

Bucky cautiously handed the bottle over. Y/n grabbed it with both tiny fists and latched on like a starved gremlin.

Bucky melted.

Sam took a photo.

3. The Great Escape.

“Where’d she go?!”

“She was just there!”

“I told you to baby-proof the couch!”

“She crawled like lightning!”

“WHY IS SHE IN THE FRIDGE?!”

___

By midnight, both men were exhausted.

Bucky was slumped on the floor, his metal arm cradling a sleeping baby Y/n curled up on his chest like a warm, wiggly blanket.

Sam was on the couch, texting someone a photo of Bucky snoring with a bottle of formula in his lap.

“I gotta admit,” Sam said softly, “she’s kinda cute like this.”

Bucky grunted.

“Barnes?”

“Mm?”

“You ever think about…”

“What?”

“You know. The future.”

Bucky looked down at the tiny sorceress nuzzled into his shirt.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

___

Bucky woke to the gentle but persistent thwack of something soft smacking his face.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

He blinked awake to find a plush teddy bear levitating a foot above his head—slowly and repeatedly bouncing off his forehead.

“Oh no,” he groaned, sitting up on the couch.

Across the living room, Baby Y/n was standing—standing—in her playpen, hands raised like a conductor mid-symphony, face scrunched with concentration.

The teddy bear rotated in the air, sparked with gold runes, then zoomed straight into Sam’s head on the opposite chair.

“OW—”

“Morning,” Bucky muttered.

Sam sat up, bleary-eyed and pillow-faced. “Is that bear flying?”

“Yep.”

“She’s not supposed to have magic in baby form!”

Bucky shrugged and stumbled toward the playpen. “Guess she’s advanced.”

Y/n giggled and, without warning, launched the teddy across the room like a missile.

Sam yelped and dove for cover.

“Oh yeah,” he muttered. “She’s gonna be a great teenager.”

___

“Why does she have fangs?” Sam asked an hour later, peering nervously into Y/n’s open mouth as she gnawed on a rubber duck.

“She’s teething,” Bucky replied, eyes wide. “But, uh… sorceress teething. With… magically enhanced baby teeth.”

“Those are tiny daggers, man!”

“Don’t let her near your phone.”

“She already bit through a bottle nipple!”

“Yeah. She’s powerful.”

Y/n made a guttural, adorable war cry and tossed the rubber duck at Sam’s head.

They ducked (no pun intended).

“Okay,” Sam said, clapping his hands. “New rule: Only plush objects within biting range. And someone hide my socks. She has a taste for cotton.”

“She’s chewed through three binkies already.”

“Let me guess. You bought normal ones.”

“…Yes?”

Sam stood dramatically. “This calls for reinforcements.”

Bucky blinked. “Are you going to Target?”

“I’m going to Target.”

___

Sam returned 45 minutes later with:

1 pack of “Extreme Comfort Binkies – Sorcerer-Grade, BPA-Free”

2 baby spellproof onesies (“They’re literally baby armor. Why do these exist?”)

A pacifier clip shaped like a magic wand

And a bottle of baby-safe calming potion from an underground mystic apothecary.

Bucky stared at the haul. “You fought a wizard for these, didn’t you?”

“I bargained,” Sam said, proudly. “Also, the cashier may now owe me a favor in the next timeline.”

“You scare me sometimes.”

Sam handed Y/n the new binky.

She examined it with her tiny, judgmental eyes… and finally accepted it with a grunt of approval.

Bucky almost cried with relief.

___

By noon, the calm had broken.

“Is she… burping sparkles?” Sam asked, eyes wide.

Y/n sat on the floor in her padded onesie, hiccupping clouds of glittery mist.

“Either that or she swallowed a disco ball,” Bucky said, crouching in front of her.

She hiccuped again. A miniature lightning bolt zapped from her mouth to the TV remote, which exploded into pieces.

“…That’s new.”

Sam slapped a post-it to the wall. “Day Two: Baby now a tiny, sparkly time bomb.”

“She’s not dangerous.”

Another hiccup lit Bucky’s shirt on fire.

“…She’s slightly dangerous.”

Y/n squealed with joy.

___

“Okay,” Bucky said, staring at the baby bathtub like it had just insulted him. “This cannot be that hard.”

Y/n, now slightly grubby from her glittery magic burps, clapped her tiny hands.

Sam watched from the doorway. “You’ve fought aliens, Bucky. You got this.”

“Right. Okay. Soap. Water. No drowning. I can do this.”

He lowered her gently into the warm water.

Y/n immediately splashed so hard Bucky looked like he’d been hit by a water cannon.

“Alright, alright—gentle, sweetheart!”

She laughed and kicked, casting tiny bubbles into the air that somehow played music.

“Is that jazz?” Sam asked, peeking in.

“She enchanted the water!” Bucky groaned.

“She’s literally throwing a bath party.”

Y/n raised her arms dramatically. A stream of bubbles rose up in a perfect glowing arch… and burst in the shape of a middle finger.

Bucky and Sam stared.

“Okay, no more late-night reality shows for you,” Sam muttered.

___

7:00 PM.

Y/n had refused three storybooks, demanded her teddy bear “floaty,” and summoned six stuffed animals into a wiggling orbit above her crib.

Sam watched, exhausted, as the plush toys rotated like a cuddly solar system.

“She’s… going to sleep like this?” he asked.

Bucky, equally tired, nodded. “She won’t rest unless the bear is in geosynchronous orbit.”

“I didn’t even know babies knew that word.”

“She doesn’t. She feels it.”

They finally got her to sleep, surrounded by stuffed animals glowing faintly with magical energy.

“Okay,” Sam whispered, collapsing onto the couch. “She’s asleep. You can breathe now.”

Bucky exhaled, then muttered:

“She’s gonna be the death of me when she’s older.”

Sam smirked. “Oh, you’re in this deep, man.”

“I think I love her more now than I did when she was full-sized.”

Sam chuckled, cracking open a soda. “You say that now. Just wait till she’s big enough to cast spells again.”

“She already flipped me off with bubbles.”

They both groaned.

___

The door knocked at exactly 8:00 AM the next day.

Bucky opened it, bleary-eyed, holding a sippy cup in one hand and a plush bear in the other.

Doctor Strange raised an eyebrow.

“Rough night?”

“She turned my toaster into a swan.”

“Ah. She’s accelerating. Good news: the spell will wear off in about an hour.”

“Thank God.”

Strange stepped in, checked on baby Y/n (who was busy biting the corner of Sam’s hoodie), and nodded. “When she wakes, she’ll be back to normal.”

Bucky looked at her peacefully sleeping form.

“Good,” he said softly.

“…But I think I’ll miss her.”

___

Y/n woke up groggy, limbs heavy, cheek squished against something soft. A second later, she sat bolt upright.

“Why do I taste rubber duck!?”

Her voice sounded normal. Her arms were long again. Her head no longer fit in a mixing bowl.

She blinked.

She was on Bucky’s couch, wrapped in a comforter with her hair an actual bird’s nest. There was glitter on her hands, her shirt was a child-sized “Future Sorceress” tee stretched to its absolute limits, and a teddy bear with burn marks sat staring at her like it had seen war.

“Oh, gods,” she groaned. “What did I do?”

From the kitchen, a pan clattered.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam called, grinning.

Y/n’s eyes widened. “Oh no. Not Sam. Please not Sam—”

Then Bucky appeared from the hallway, tousled, tired, and holding a baby bottle filled with orange juice.

They stared at each other.

Then Bucky smiled.

And promptly dropped the bottle.

Ten minutes later, Y/n was fully awake and fully mortified. She sat curled up on the couch in Bucky’s hoodie while the guys recounted the last 48 hours like war veterans.

“You tried to fly a teddy bear.”

“You bit through three pacifiers.”

“You turned our toaster into a swan.”

“You flipped me off with a bubble.” Sam added with reverence.

Y/n buried her face in her hands. “I want to disappear.”

Bucky was grinning ear to ear. “You were adorable. And terrifying.”

Sam nodded. “A menace in footie pajamas.”

“Why do I remember everything?” she moaned.

“Strange said the spell was a regression, not a full mental wipe. Guess it was more like… toddler with a genius IQ.”

“I bit you.”

Bucky held up his arm. “You left tiny teeth marks on my metal arm. I’m keeping them.”

Y/n groaned again.

Sam looked thoughtful. “You also enchanted the baby monitor to scream every time I said the word ‘pants.’”

“…What?”

___

After a long shower (which was somehow still glittery), Y/n stepped into the kitchen to find Bucky cleaning up melted pacifiers and one very suspicious duck.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You didn’t sign up for magical baby duty.”

He turned, pulling her into a proper hug.

“I’d do it again.”

“You literally looked like a man on the edge.”

“Yeah. And I still liked every second of it.”

Y/n blinked up at him.

“…Even the part where I spit glitter on your face?”

He smirked. “Especially that part.”

They kissed—gently, sweetly, like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

From the living room, Sam yelled, “STOP KISSING AND FIX MY SWEATER, GREMLIN!”

Y/n sighed and walked out. “Did I bite that too?”

Sam pointed to the hoodie sleeve. “You gnawed through it like a tiny sorceress beaver.”

Y/n winced. “Okay, I deserve that.”

___

By noon, things had finally returned to normal.

Y/n conjured fresh pancakes to make up for the chaos. Bucky sat beside her, trying to brush glitter out of her hair.

Sam scrolled through photos on his phone.

“Okay, okay,” he said suddenly. “Real talk. Can I keep one?”

Y/n looked horrified. “Of me? As a baby??”

“You had chubby cheeks and your magic made the apples levitate. It was hilarious.”

She covered her face. “I will hex your eyebrows off.”

“I’m already bald. Try me.”

Bucky snorted.

Y/n turned to Bucky and whispered, “You didn’t take any too, did you?”

He gave her the most guilty look.

“…Bucky.”

“I just—just one! For my phone lock screen. You were so tiny.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes.

“…Let me see.”

He showed her the photo. Baby Y/n, mid-squeal, teddy bear levitating behind her, cheeks round as moons and eyes wide with wonder.

She paused.

“…Okay. That’s kinda cute.”

Bucky beamed. “I knew you’d say that.”

___

That evening, Strange showed up to check in.

He eyed Y/n with wariness, then sniffed the air. “Residual magic. Your baby aura’s still in the walls.”

“I’m working on it,” she grumbled.

“You also triggered a latent enchantment. The teddy bear is now sentient.”

Y/n gasped. “What?!”

A deep growly voice said from the couch: “I AM MR. CUDDLES. I SEEK VENGEANCE.”

Everyone screamed.

Strange calmly trapped the bear in a glowing bubble.

“I’ll be taking that,” he said, levitating it toward the portal. “Also—no more regression spells without supervision.”

Y/n scowled. “It was accidental!”

“Still.”

As he stepped into the portal, he glanced at Bucky.

“Good job surviving. Most men would’ve fled.”

Then he vanished.

Sam muttered, “Next time he pulls that, I’m hiding in Wakanda.”

___

Later that night, Bucky and Y/n curled up in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, still slightly embarrassed.

“Were you scared?” she asked softly. “When Strange called you.”

He nodded. “Terrified. Thought you were dying.”

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

“But when I got there and saw you—eight months old, mad about your footie pajamas—I just… couldn’t stop laughing.”“I was mad about the ducks.”

“You bit him.”She groaned again.“But,” Bucky added, tilting her chin up, “even in baby form… I still loved you.”Her heart melted.

“I love you too, Barnes. Even when you let me chew Sam’s hoodie.”

“Honestly, that part was kind of a highlight.”They laughed, tangled in each other, and drifted off to sleep—teddy bears safely locked in magical quarantine.

-the end

[chaoscreaturewrites]

Call of duty, ghost, neighbor, comfort

Ghost x nurse neighbor

Summary:imon comes home after a rough mission and his neighbor takes care of him

WC:1.6k

She's never interacted much with her neighbor, he seems more like the solitary type who greets you in passing out of politeness, but she doesn't mind. That's better than an annoying neighbor or a creep. 

She often takes time in the morning to just stand at the hall railing and get some fresh air, it helps clear her head. 

Today she watches what she's seen time and time again, her big neighbor getting home from wherever he disappears too for weeks at a time. 

As soon as his hulking firm steps out of the car she knows some things are different, some things wrong. She watches, studies him as he makes his way up, her eyes running rapid diagnostics on him.

It's not just his slightly slumping posture, or the bandages that give away how much he's hurting, it's his eyes. 

They have never been the brightest, not the kind that sparkle with wonder of a pure soul. His eyes have always shown her a stoic strong man, one carrying a weight he won't put on others. 

So when she sees into his eyes today, she panics for a split second, because his walls are down. She can see right through him, too, his center, he's being pinned beneath the weight he carries.  

She acts immediately and goes right up to him and holds out her hand.

“ Asking for help is one of the fucking hardest things to do, admitting it out loud even to ones self can feel impossible. So if you need help, if you need someone to take care of you, someone to take charge so you can rest, so you can put all the weight you carry down, take my hand. You don't have to say a word about it, just take my hand if you need it.”

He acted instantly without thinking, her offer being exactly what his soul craved but he could never ask for. He places his large rough hand on hers. He's surprised to feel calluses and wonders about her.

He knows barely anything about her other than she likes to just stand at the railing, even when it's raining she will be out there. He knows what car she drives and how she has such a friendly smile but nothing more, he doesn't even know her name. 

But that doesn't matter, he goes along after her as she leads him through her apartment, they end up in her bathroom.

“ I don't know where you've been or what you've been doing but you've brought it home with you and a good wash is in order”

“ I can't get my stitches wet”

“ Well aren't you in luck Mr, as a nurse one of my many skills is washing injured people I barely know. So give me your keys and strip, I'll grab you some fresh clothes”

No question, not even a choice about it. She's telling him exactly what's happening and he finds a wonderful sense of relief in that. Is not in charge of anything, doesn't have the weight of responsibilities, all he has to do is what he's told. So he hands over his keys and gets to stripping, it's a bit of a struggle with his injuries but he doesn't feel the pressure to rush like he usually does.

She comes back quickly, placing down a stack of his own clothes on the counter. She turns to him, he's still in the process of removing his clothes. But enough of him is visible in his tank top and boxers so she appraises his state, solely focused on his injuries and not physique, that can wait. 

She gets the set up ready; setting up the shower stool, getting a fresh scrub glove, her least scented soap, sugar scrub, and first Aid kit. 

She's locked into work mode, so seeing his naked form doesn't phase her. Her gaze passes over his ripped hulking physique and goes to the poorly tapped on bandages, bruises, and jagged scares. 

He feels a bit silly sitting on the shower stool but the way she's focusing makes him think twice about interjecting. So he just watches her as she whirls around him preparing things, washing her hands and snapping on a pair of gloves. 

She feels back the first bandage and lets out a huff and string of whispered curses.

“ where did you get this done, did they take a course in how to do Frankenstein stitches” 

He can't help the deep rumbling laugh that escapes him. She's spot on, he's had lots of make it work patch jobs but this last gig, he'd never gotten worse care In a place calling itself a hospital. 

“ Do you want me to redo these?”

“ No need, all my scars are crooked”

“ okay then”

The crinkle of her nose tells him she would have liked to redo the stitches, how the half asses worked patching together his flesh offended her, how cute. 

The stitches would just have to be as they are, half passed but they were gonna get some of her best bandaging. She cleaned, ointmented, and applied water replant bandages. Once satisfied she stood back, admired her work then moved on to phase 2, the washing.

He couldn't help but find her huffing and muttering adorable, as she gave him some of the best medical attention he's received in ages. She keeps throwing him curve balls, the way she just acts boldly, her creative cursing, the way she commands, and now she's stripping. Well not fully but she takes off her top layers revealing a tank top and boxers.

She catches him staring, which earns him a sassy hands on the hips pose as she lists to him the benefits and comforts of boxers. He can't help but smirk, he holds no judgements for what kinda underwear someone wants to wear, just finds her look adorably and her list of benefits definitely sold him. 

“ this isn't my normal attire for washing patients, but I usually don't wash then in my home so this is a special case” 

He's never been so pampered, he doesn't even recognize a majority of the products she uses on him, just knows they smell great and are removing a lot of gunk. The water runoff started cloudy, sand colored but as she worked it turned clear. He could have sworn at one point she rubbed sugar on him, but that couldn't be right, right?. 

She did it all, scalp massage, dead skin removal, working the knots out of his shoulders getting in there with her elbow. She got in every nook and crank; in between his toes, behind his ears, under his balls and even his ass crack, she washed it all. He feels a bit bad about that as he remembers how sweaty he got, but she seemed completely unphased, but with her job that does make sense. 

Now after making him squeaky clean she drys, dresses and sends him to the couch.

“ I'll be out in a minute” 

He's never felt such an absence of tension before, she has worked a miracle on him. He now understands why she has calloused hands, she works hard, even on the smallest things she focuses her intent. 

He melts into the couch, barely away from his surroundings as he enjoys his new scent. It's nothing like the bar of Irish spring he uses, that makes him smell clean but nothing like this. He smells like spring, he feels like spring. Like he's felt his body, transported to some soft grassy flower meadow, with birds singing overhead and the faint sound of streams somewhere. 

He starts to wonder if that bath was magical, if none of this happened and he passed out on his couch having the best dream of his life, or maybe she slipped him something. He's happy with any truth other than this being a dream. 

She comes out in fresh clothes, hair smoothed back into a braid swaying behind her. She looks him over and nods with approval at his relaxed state, then heads into the kitchen. 

He's grateful for the open floor plan, he watches her slip on an apron and checks the large pot on the stove. He thought he smelled great but oh boy, she's the maker of delightful scents. The apartment is filled with the mouth watering scent of pot roast, that makes him believe he's been living next to some magical being who's by the best turn of fate ever has graciously welcomed him into her care.

She comes over to him holding out a drink, he's not sure what It is, nor does he really care. He trusts her. He trusts that he is secure in her care. He gladly takes the drink. 

“ It's iced tea, I know you prefer a hot cup, but this is loaded with vitamins that should rehabilitate you from whatever you've been doing. It does taste a bit like lawn clippings but bit it's good for you”

Yup that's it she's magical, magical touch,magical bath, magical pot roast, magical tea. It does taste a bit like grass but he's had much more grass tasting drinks so he doesn't mind. He takes a big sip to make sure she knows he appreciates it.

She gives him a nod in return and settles on the couch beside him, turning on one of her shows. 

He appreciates the nonverbal communication, takes the pressure off him to try and sort out his words to reciprocate. She settles next to him like it's the most natural thing, like she's completely unfazed by bathing him, seeing him naked, and having him in her home. He likes the causal, domestic feeling, it's something he didn't think he'd find, but today he did and oh he'll do anything not to lose this, lose her.