#waking up in under three and a half hours

[bvrnesher]

hii im in love with your writing style oml

could you make like a jason grace x reader where the reader is a child of apollo who overworks herself and he takes care of her after a particularly bad week? i feel like it would be really cute. tysm 🫶

❝ 𝒞ount 𝒪n ℳe ! ❞ ― jason grace !

tap here for chb masterlist ! here for reqs info

warnings: none.

── ੭̲᱖ on the radio: count on me – bruno mars

YOU WERE, QUITE FRANKLY, a disaster.

Not the fun, charming kind of disaster you could laugh about later. No, you were the barely-holding-it-together-by-frayed-threads kind, the walking embodiment of every burnout meme that Apollo’s cabin should’ve just printed onto T-shirts.

Because somehow—somehow—you’d said yes to tutoring the younger campers, helping design the obstacle course for Capture the Flag, running late-night healing sessions after a rough round of monster attacks, and leading the Apollo Cabin morning exercises.

All in the same week.

Genius.

You hadn’t slept more than three hours a night. Your powers were flickering like a dying lightbulb. And you were running purely on stubbornness, half-melted ambrosia squares, and iced coffee stolen from the Aphrodite cabin’s “secret” stash.

It wasn’t sustainable. Everyone saw it. You saw it.

You just didn’t care.

At least, you didn’t—right up until the moment you collapsed face-first into the dinner table at the pavilion.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t dignified.

One second you were sitting there, trying to eat soup with a hand that kept trembling, and the next you were out cold, forehead planted into a slice of garlic bread.

The entire pavilion went dead silent.

Jason Grace, bless his hero complex, was at your side in two seconds flat.

“Hey—hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and steady in that way that made people listen. He slid an arm under your shoulders, trying to ease you upright without jostling you too much. “C’mon. Wake up.”

You groaned incoherently, blinking up at him with the bleary, pitiful confusion of someone who legitimately forgot what century it was.

Jason’s mouth tightened into a line. That little crease appeared between his brows—the one he only got when he was really, truly worried.

“You’re done,” he said, decisively. No argument, no debate. “I’m taking you back to the cabin.”

You tried to mumble something about not being finished with your soup, which honestly just made him look even more exasperated.

“Forget the soup,” he said, already gathering you into his arms like you weighed nothing. “You’re lucky you didn’t pass out onto a skewer.”

(You were too far gone to correct him that it had been garlic bread, not a skewer. Also, you kind of liked being carried.)

Jason didn’t dump you onto your bunk and call it a day, though.

No, he went full Captain America: Concerned Boyfriend Edition.

First, he made you drink water. (“Small sips. Small. You’re not dying on my watch.”)

Then, he peeled off your shoes and tucked you into bed like you were made of glass. Pulled the blankets up to your chin. Smoothed your hair back from your forehead with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

You blinked up at him, groggy and overwhelmed and stupidly emotional.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but he shushed you instantly.

“Yes, I do,” Jason said. His voice was soft but firm, the kind of voice that didn't leave any room for arguing. “You’ve been doing everything for everyone else. Let someone take care of you for once.”

You hated how much that got to you.

Something raw and helpless twisted in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you reached out—grabbing a fistful of the front of his hoodie like you needed to anchor yourself.

Jason just smiled, all soft edges and boyish affection, and sat down on the edge of your bed without a word.

He stayed.

He stayed while you drifted in and out of sleep, mumbling nonsense. He stayed when you startled awake an hour later, shaky and disoriented, and pressed a cold water bottle into your hand. He stayed while you curled instinctively toward the warmth of him, eyes barely open, breathing a little easier just because he was there.

At some point, you felt him brush a feather-light kiss to your temple.

“You’re allowed to rest, y’know,” he whispered, like it was a secret meant only for you. “The world’s not gonna fall apart if you stop holding it up for five minutes.”

You wanted to argue. You always wanted to argue. But for once, you didn’t have the energy—and maybe that was a blessing.

So you just nodded weakly against his chest, heart slowing, body sinking deeper into the mattress.

Safe. Warm. Finally letting someone else carry the weight for once.

Jason's arms tightened around you, steady and sure.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself fall asleep without a single thing left on your to-do list.

Not a healer.

Just a girl who loved a boy who refused to let her burn herself out alone.

[i-may-be-an-emu]

I love the rain

[readwritealldayallnight]

I would love a take on boyfriend Ghost coming home to surprise you, but he finds your bed empty and doesn't realize that you are in his room in his bed. Thanks.

The placebo effect, was what he kept trying to convince you it had to be, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and told him he was wrong

How else could one explain your insistence that Simon’s bed smelled so much like him, becoming your safe space when he was away on long deployments, when he only ever slept with you in your bed most nights to begin with

Hard to believe it was nearly three years ago now that you’d told your friend since childhood, Johnny, about how your search for a new flat was going miserably. You remember how he’d perked up and recounted with a mischievous glint in his eye about how his Lieutenant was apparently searching for a flat mate at the moment, someone who’d be looking after the place while he was away for work

Unsure about living with a strange man you’d never met before, but trusting Johnny’s judgement (though the way he seemed just a bit too eager about this meeting did kind of throw you off-) you had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and at least give the flat a glance before you simply turned him down

It wasn’t until you were knocking at the door of the address Johnny had written down for you, that you’d realized he’d never even given you the man’s goddamn name, only ever referring to him at Lieutenant or LT

Johnny apparently also failed to mention the absolute SIZE of the guy, his huge frame blocking nearly all of the light from behind him as he had swung the door open and stood in the doorway before you

In a slight panic, thrown off by the massive man before you and the way the butterflies in your stomach suddenly began to flutter at the sight of him, you had greeted him for the first time with a squeaky, unsure voice saying ‘Um, hi, are you the Mr Lieutenant?’ (something he has never let you live down since)

He knew then and there that you would be the one

Not just his flatmate (though what a generous flatmate he was when he offered insisted on moving all your boxes out of your old place and into his that very same day), but the one, something he reluctantly had to give Soap credit for, seeing as he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking his ear off about you

You would be his other half, his better half

And all these years later, the two bedroom flat truly only acted as a one bedroom, considering that from the start Simon was always falling into your bed with you at the end of each night, limbs tangled together under the warmth of a lovers embrace a thousand times more comforting than an actual comforter

Still though, that first time Simon had to be gone for work longer than a few weeks, you found the lingering odor of him clinging to his bedsheets to be one of the few things keeping you sane in his absence, taking to sleeping in his room for the time being, imagining that the pillow you cling to your front was a strong muscular arm instead, littered in scars and tattoos you feel confident you could recognize from touch alone

And when his long awaited flight back home to you landed a few hours earlier than expected, tires touching down in the dark, stillness of late night hour, he decided he’d surprise you and come straight home, rather than calling you to meet him at the base like you’d insisted, not wanting to wake you

Barely able to contain himself, he decided the elevator ride up to the seventh floor would take too long, take away precious seconds that brought him closer to you, and so up the flight of stairs he went, taking them two or three at a time, rushing to see the face etched behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, to hear the voice that haunted his dreams each night

Quietly as a man his size could, he crept into the flat, snuck his way into your room, expecting to see your sweet, sleeping form cuddled up amongst the blankets and pillows. But his heart dropped when he noticed the bed was still perfectly made, not a thread out of place.

Trying to remain calm, though his mind was instantly swarming with every possible scenario that could have taken place, he knew he saw your shoes and jacket by the door, you couldn’t have gone far… but where were you?

He glanced into the living room, wondering if he missed you sleeping on the couch after a long day, he poked his head into the bathroom, even went so far as to check the small balcony, but finally there was only one door left to open.

And there you were, safe and sound, a tiny ball curled up into the center of his huge bed, clinging to one of his old masks and holding it close to your chest as though it were a security blanket (you’d been sleeping in his bed so much you needed something that still smelled strongly of him, you were getting desperate)

Stripping himself down to only his boxers, he tiptoed towards the side of the bed, his mind finally feeling more at peace than he ever had, gently pulling the sheets back just enough for him to slip in behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his muscular chest

Though it should be alarming to suddenly feel a pair of hands roaming over your skin, a body holding you firmly against their own, it’s as though your body knows who it is before your mind does

Any tension you were still holding onto during his absence instantly melts away, your own hands coming to land over top of his, giving a slight squeeze of acknowledgment, not yet willing to fully leave your half asleep state, but needing to touch him, to confirm he really is here

“Hmm,” You hum, voice groggy with sleep and a smile slowly stretching across your lips, snuggling further into his embrace. “You’re home.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in, wishing he could bottle up the scent of your shampoo and lotions and perfumes, if only to have something to hold onto while he’s away, understanding now why he found you in this bed rather than your own

“I am.” He whispers into your hair, sensing that you’re already drifting back into dream land, safe in his arms and his bed, knowing he’ll be there when you wake. He feels his chest tighten when he knows that you weren’t talking about the fact that he’s physically home, in the flat, but something more, something much more, because he means the same thing when he tells you, “You’re my home too, love.”

[milamacy]

CHOSO KAMO is the kind of boyfriend who...

sfw:

...doesn't know when he's really done something wrong. So, he'll apologise profusely for the restaurant getting your order wrong, but won't say sorry for making you late to work because he's kept you in bed too late in the mornings to cuddle.

...spends too much money on things just to make you smile. He doesn't know you can't tell the difference between the bouquet of flowers that is on sale and the bouquet that is three times the price, so he'll get the expensive one just to be safe. There's no price on his partners happiness, right?

...never asks outright for what he wants. Especially when it comes to playing with his hair. He'll be laying in your lap and just randomly grabbing your wrist to guide it to his head. If you don't get the hint, he's just keep doing it until eventually you card your fingers through his hair and start scratching at his scalp.

...is the lightest sleeper. He can fall asleep anywhere, but the slightest noise will startle him awake. God forbid it's the middle of the night and you need to go to the bathroom. You'll slip out as quietly as you can and still come back to him sitting up in bed, pouting, asking where you went without him.

...gives gives gives. He will pile his food onto your plate when you're not looking because he likes to know you're fed. You like something at the store? Choso is coming back to get it for you the next day. You mention how handy something you already have is? Choso is buying two more as backups in case yours breaks.

nsfw under cut:

...gives gives gives x2. He's a servicer at heart, always aiming to please you no matter what. He will lay for hours worshipping you with his mouth and tongue, fingers digging into your thighs as he tries to make you cum over and over and over and over and over again.

...gets awfully needy at all the wrong times. You're out for a dinner with other people? He's trying to slip his hands a little too far up your thigh under the table. He's driving? No, he's pulling over in an empty side street to beg you to join him in the back seat. It's not even a pushy thing either, or a penchant for public sex, he just wants you all of the time and when he gets needy he gets whiny and annoying and so cute you can't help but indulge him.

...gets enthusiastic from the bottom. Like when you're riding him, feeling his cock so deep inside of you (because he's way too big for the average sane person to try and take like you do), and he's so overwhelmed with pleasure that he's reaching up to touch you however he can. and his strong hand finds your neck and squeezes in need because he's so fucked out and stupid and you're reaching down to choke him right back until the two of your are gasping for breath! he doesn't even realise what he's doing half of the time. he's just enjoying himself in the moment.

...struggles to dirty talk. he gets bashful and quite honestly goes pink when he tries to describe the things he's going to do to you. Which makes it even more surprising, when your boyfriend with the bitten tongue suddenly starts doing the things to you without a word spoken. It's almost hotter for him to fuck you into your next orgasm without a break without a word spoken: he doesn't need them.

...subs hard when he subs. He falls deep into sub space, pretty much goes non-verbal (coughs and looks at my previous point) except for the loud and needy moans he lets out. God, he's so vocal in his pleasure that you have to cover his mouth half the time. Like when you're sitting on his lap, stroking his cock nice and slow after you've made him cum dry. His eyes are so wide and his cheeks are flushed and he's so loud that you worry about getting another noise complaint. Just kissing him isn't enough, because if he's not moaning into your mouth he's pulling away to let out loud noises, so you have to cup your hand over his mouth and keep it there if you don't want to wake up your neighbours.

...likes being slapped. And bitten. And having his hair pulled. And overstimulated. He will whine about it but he loves the pain. He's the type of man to say "ouch" really dramatically and then ask you to do it again.

[littlcdarlin]

Who Will Love A Little Sparrow?

summary: Joel turns sixty.

warnings: girthy age gap (60 & mid 20s), Joel feels guilty about age gap, I cried while writing this, emotional fluff

note: it took one ask to convince me to actually write this lol hope you like it, anon! Title is from the Simon & Garfunkel song

Joel hasn't quite realized he's turning sixty – sure, he knows he looks it, feels it in his cracking joints, aching back and wheezing lungs, sees it in the stares the two of you get walking through Jackson hand in hand, but your company keeps him young. Three and a half decades between you will do that to a man.

He's never liked a big fuss on his birthday; even when he was half his age all the singing and balloons embarrassed him more than anything, so he didn't mention it was coming up during the weeks beforehand. You knew, of course, and so did Tommy, but he figured patrols would keep the two of you busy enough to prevent anything more than an extra kiss from you and a teasing comment from his brother – maybe birthday sex when you were done with your work for the day.

When he wakes up, it's his first thought, though not in excitement, but resignation. Sixty. The number feels like a chasm between the two of you. It makes him feel dirty for having touched you the night before, and he wishes humanity hadn't decided on the decimal numeral system.

You're scheduled for the morning patrol, so he doesn't expect you home before noon, which for the first time in his life feels like a relief. It gives him a couple of hours to bury the guilt about your age somewhere deep and secure, under vague childhood memories and the first thirteen decimals of Pi, where it won't come bubbling up while you're laughing your sunshine-laugh. He doesn't want to dim your spark, not when you seem to just have found it again.

He scuffles downstairs, dragging his feet as if he's turning ninety instead of sixty, just to wallow in his self-pity while nobody is around to see it. If he's lucky, he'll have two more decades, maybe even three, though that kind of hope is practically brazen.

He sighs, making his way over to the kitchen, thinking that if he makes his coffee strong enough, it might make him feel fifty again.

"Happy Birthday."

His head snaps up, and he's staring at you instead of his toes, your youthful face a little blotchy from the excitement.

"Here," you say, and thrust a cupcake in his direction. There is a single purple candle on it, and the frosting isn't draped across the dough in artful swirls the way they did it before the outbreak – still, it's the best cupcake he has ever seen.

"I couldn't fit sixty candles on this thing, so you get one."

Your smile is a little lopsided, a little too understanding, and Joel swallows.

"Thanks," he mutters quietly, staring at the blue part of the flame. "Geez."

"Blow it out," you say, "and make a wish."

He doesn't believe in that, but he obliges because you somehow found him a cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse at the crack of dawn.

"Now," you say, almost business-like, as if the first bullet point of one of your little lists has been crossed off, "I got Tommy and Maria to cover us on patrols today. What do you wanna do first, drink outrageously bitter coffee, or carve a wooden sparrow?"

He stares at you. You must have found the little bird he made during his many sleepless hours – he put it on the very top shelf in the living room where it wouldn't attract attention. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, he's just not sure it's a part of himself he wants to share with the world.

You put the cupcake on the kitchen counter and turn back around, that same knowing smile on your lips.

"I got you something," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You shouldn't trade for–"

"I didn't."

You hand him a small package, wrapped in some old newspaper you decorated with tiny, drawn-on hearts.

"Tommy said you used to wrap presents in colorful paper just to throw it away," you explain, that sense of wonder in your voice, as always when you talk about the before, "I didn't have paint, but I found a pen that works."

Joel stares at the package. He remembers the last birthday present he unwrapped perfectly, can see it catch the morning sunlight on his wrist.

"I–Geez," he just says, again, and starts to carefully peel away the newspaper without creasing your little artwork too much. His thumb traces one of the hearts. There is a hint of red inside the paper, and then he's holding something small.

"Where did you get this?", he asks, voice quiet with awe and something else that seems to thicken his throat.

"I found it in an abandoned raider's lair," you say softly, "I know I should have handed it to Maria, but I thought you could use it for your sparrow. Give him a face, you know, some feathers."

Joel traces the little cross on the Swiss army knife, and feels his chest tighten.

"Don't tell on me," you say teasingly, but with a hint of self-consciousness at his lack of a response. Joel swallows, and drags his eyes away from his present and to your face.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unsure of how to voice the thoughts rushing through his head, "I– thank you."

"Yeah," you say gently, "'course."

You accept his gratitude, understand what he means by it. You don't make a fuss with your un-swirly cupcake and single candle and no singing. All of a sudden, Joel feels his eyes prick and burn, and he rubs them quickly, wipes away the wetness. You touch his shoulder, make him look at you, and he clenches his jaw in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mutters, "you just...know me so well."

There it is, your sunshine-smile, and you press a kiss to his naked chest, as high as you can reach.

"Sixty isn't that old, Joel. Don't even think about using it as an excuse to stop chopping firewood."

He chuckles and cups your face in one of his massive palms.

"No ma'am."

[moonstruckme]

hello mae! I had a request I’d like to give you. I was wondering if you could write a poly!marauders x reader where reader has never slept beside anybody before bc intimacy isn’t something she’s used to therefore she’s not used to being that close to anybody. everytime she shifts she’s afraid to wake up the boys, or she just doesn’t know what to do.

I know you have “first night with marauders” so if this is too similar I totally get it. 🖤

Hello sweetheart, thank you for your request!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 990 words

You’re terrible at this. 

Each of the boys is sound asleep. Sirius has his leg hooked over yours and one of his arms tossed over James’ chest, Remus’ hand has to be halfway numb underneath your pillow, and James is snoring softly on the far side of the bed from you. They’re all so obviously comfortable, practiced in resting like this, whereas you started to get stiff a half hour ago and you’ve been unable to make yourself relax since. 

Every movement takes a year, you’re trying so hard not to wake them. You feel like the girl in a movie who’s trying to sneak out of the bed of a one-night stand, all taut muscles and bated breath, except you only want to roll over. Slow, microscopic movements have to be the key. 

Your back crackles softly when you shift your weight onto your other hip, and a sigh escapes you before you can stop it. 

A low, croaky hum comes from just in front of your face. Your brain is a tempest of expletives. 

“Hey.” You can nearly feel the gravel of Remus’ voice buzzing against your lips. “You’re up.” 

Muddled with sleep, you can’t tell if his tone is reprimanding or simply observational. “Sorry,” you whisper regardless. 

“Wha’ for?” Movement under the pillow beneath your head, and then a long-fingered hand is nestling beneath your cheek. His scars and calluses slide familiarly over your skin. “Can’t sleep?”

Nope, and now it’s two of you. Guilt grows vines around your ribcage. Remus sounds more awake by the second. 

“I’ll be okay.” You press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, hoping to mollify him. “Go back to sleep.” 

Your boyfriend makes a half-aware disgruntled sound. “No, not without you.” 

As exhausted as you are, you have to bite down on a smile. When he’s uninhibited like this, Remus really is quite the flirt, all his dorky, sweet thoughts coming out before he can remember to stop them. He’s nearly as bad as James. 

You think he must see a hint of your smile in the dark, because Remus’ own lips tilt upwards. He leans closer to kiss the cool skin of your cheek, the only cold part of you thanks to a heavy duvet and the body heat of three lovely boyfriends. A kiss for a kiss. 

He leaves his lips there as he murmurs, “What’s wrong, dove?” 

Well, funny he should ask. What’s wrong now is the slight tickle of his stubble against your cheek, the hoarse quality to his voice in your ear. His breath warming your cold skin, and the hand he slides across the space between you to rest on your hip, layered in between the sheets and your pajama bottoms. 

But you know that’s not what he’s asking. 

“I can’t get very comfortable,” you confess, speaking so softly he wouldn’t be able to make it out if his ear weren’t two inches from your lips, “and I didn’t want to wake anyone up.” 

Remus hums, as though this is a prognosis he’d already reached and was merely waiting for you to confirm. You can hear Sirius’ voice as clearly as if he were awake: know it all. 

“They can sleep through anything,” he says. “One time the fire alarm went off, and James didn’t even stir. Don’t worry about them.” You must be emanating guilt, because he strokes his thumb over your hip pacifyingly. “And I don’t mind being woken up. I’m in and out of sleep all night anyway, it’s not hard for me to get back. You’re not used to sleeping with so many people, yeah?” 

Your face warms at his phrasing, though of course you know what he means. “Or with anyone,” you murmur. 

“Mm. I think I know what you need.” 

You don’t realize Remus’ plan until he’s already sat up. He reaches over you, rubbing James’ shoulder gently while you protest vehemently through whispers. 

James wakes with a yawn, taking Remus’ hand automatically and bringing it close to his face. “Wha’s’it?”

“Take her,” Remus requests drowsily. With his other hand, he nudges you forward. 

James starts to blink his eyes open, and you see no way out. You start climbing over Sirius as delicately as you can. “Sorry,” you whisper, to him, to them, to the room in general. 

Remus helps you out by tugging Sirius into your place. The other boy whines but settles quickly, rolling over to sling his leg over Remus’ instead. 

James welcomes you as heartily as his sleep-addled state will allow, adjusting the covers over you and smudging a few toothpaste-scented kisses onto your face. 

“Y’can’t sleep?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “Sorry.” 

He makes a soft dismissive sound. “C’mere, angel.” 

You refrain from telling him that you’re already here as his arms find their way around you, soft and firm in all the right places and deliciously warm. He starts to make slow, sweeping circles onto your back with his hand. 

“Jamie,” you murmur, grateful but embarrassed, “don’t stay up for me. Go to sleep.” 

“M’basically there,” he replies. “You first, yeah?” 

You can hear Remus’ breathing evening out behind you, syncing with Sirius’, and you’re suddenly sure that this is part of a routine he and the boys shared before you ever met them. That’s how he knew to hand you off to James, and how James knew exactly what to do. Something about that comforts you. And far be it for you to mess with tradition. 

You shuffle closer to James under the covers. He obliges you happily, adjusting his grip so he’s holding you more securely, with your leg resting against his and your forehead an inch from his nose. The shushing of his heavy palm on the material of your pajama top is the only sound in the world. 

You hear his breathing starting to deepen again, but James is right; you beat him there. 

[luveline]

could you write bombshell!reader getting a tattoo of spencer’s name or something that reminds her of him and his reaction please?

“Why are you kissing me?” you mumble, your voice hoarse with sleep. 

They’re light kisses. “I’m going now,” Spencer says, matching your quiet tone. 

“No.” 

You wrap your arm behind his neck and feel his hair against your wrist. His nose and lips warm your jaw. 

“Yes.” He kisses your jaw. “I have to go, but I didn’t wanna leave without a kiss.” 

That’s really sweet, he’s so sweet, you’re so tired. “Please don’t go, Spencer.” 

“I have to go.” He readjusts your hugging to hum against your temple, distinctly content despite your pleading. “I’ll be back by six for dinner, promise.” 

“Promise,” you say.

You get to keep him for a few minutes, regardless. His neck must sing bent as he is over you but he doesn’t relent, doesn’t move until you encourage his face back to kiss just under his bottom lip. “Sorry, I’m making you late,” you whisper. 

“No, no, I accounted for this. You’re on my agenda.” 

“How much time did you allot?” you ask through a smile. 

“Seventeen minutes. That’s how long we usually hug in the morning.” 

“Gotta get that time down,” you say. 

“Or up.” He holds your face. You turn your head into his touch and keep him for just another half a minute. 

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes flutter closed again, “you can leave, I’m gonna go back to sleep.” 

“Good idea.” He kisses you, and he says goodbye. You’re sleeping again before he’s even left your room

When you wake properly, you still feel loved, like a sunburn but with less stinging. There’s something very special about your boy; something permanent about the way he loves. You can’t imagine he’ll ever stop loving you like this, he’s embedded you so deeply into his life and his routines (and you’d beg him to keep you if he ever changed his mind). That in itself is crazy. You can’t have imagined begging a guy to let you stay, but for Spencer, you would.  

When he comes home that night, half an hour before six, you have no regrets. 

You hadn’t noticed how he was dressed when he left, but he looks lovely in just a simple t-shirt and jeans. Remarkably casual for him, you used to think he only wore t-shirts to bed, but the older he gets the better propensity he has for comfort. What makes it for you is the cardigan. 

“You look nice,” you praise, more than satisfied when the first thing he does after he takes off his shoes is lean down to hug you where you’re sitting on his couch. 

“Thank you.” He pats your back and pulls away. “You’re beautiful,” he says with ease, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Good day?” 

Your lips pucker into a twist. 

“What?” he asks. 

Unfortunately, he sounds deeply worried. 

“No, it’s nothing, I just hurt my arm. Can you have a look?” 

Spencer takes your arm. “What did you do?” he asks, pulling the sleeve of your shirt carefully up to your elbow. The Saran wrap confuses him, until it doesn’t, and he grins at your skin, before frowning again. His flickering emotions worry you, until he says, “Is that mine?” 

You hold your arm in the light. “Of course it’s yours?” 

It’s just a few words from a note he wrote you, perhaps too soon into your relationship for sweetness, and yet one you kept anyways. He told you the story of the I Love You lighthouse, or rather, the Minot Ledge lighthouse, and how the man who lived there had to live on a different island to his family while tending the lighthouse, so he would flash the light once, then four times, and then three times, one flash for every letter of each corresponding word: I love you. The note was left on your dresser. You’d slept together the night before, but he had to leave early. Nowadays he wakes you up, but  back then he’d been too shy. 

I want to be able to do that for you but I can’t find a lighthouse in D.C. that will let me in to try. I’ll keep looking. 

“I’ll keep looking,” Spencer reads. His thumb heistates just under your small font.

“It’s from that note you left me.”

“I know, I remember.” He does his awful frowny face where his eyelids lower and you're sure he’ll never smile again, he looks that upset. “You know this is permanent?”

“They do tend to be,” you say with a lovelorn sigh. 

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should kiss you, or hug you, or… I don’t know why you’d do this.”

“But it’s okay?” you ask. It could make for a very awkward conversation if he doesn't like it.

“It’s perfect.” He holds your gaze. “You’re perfect.”

He acts like your tattoo is a gaping wound as he moves in to hug you, careful of your new ink, but relentless in the tightness of his arms behind your back. You laugh, then squeal at his insistence, a giggly girly thing that nobody else should ever hear but him. He doesn’t make fun of you, just squeezes you to him, his face pressed so hard to yours you can feel his cheekbones. 

“Now I just have to say something romantic for you to get tattooed and we’ll be equal again.’

“So we aren’t equal?”

“Um, no way.” Your laugh is self-satisfied and breathless. You turn your lips to his cheek. “I love you. I’m gonna build you a lighthouse.”

“Can’t believe you kept that note.”

“I have a whole shoebox of them. I love that you write them.”

He stops holding himself up, half on the couch and half in your lap as he hugs you with every bit of strength in his arms.

[wcdonaldo]

feeling wack on this fine 9/11 morning

thinking about how out of romantic and sexual confidence I feel, it's actually jarring. back when I was a teenager (i.e. pre-transition) I had so much unearned confidence about both those things despite having no experience whatsoever, and still don't over half a decade later. what made it more wack was finding out there were people into me before I transitioned that never mentioned it until years after they were over me, and now that I've transitioned I feel like all my posts about "suck a girl sunday" or "girlfrotting friday" or whatever are to cover up my own insecurities that i feel nobody has cared for me in that way since i transitioned. my self image issues IRT my weight and worries about my abrasive personality probably haven't helped either. and what it's resulted in is a longstanding desire for companionship but no confidence to pursue it. I've had multiple dating apps on my phone for months and no actual mental ability to go through with any of this

EDITING to add that I did remember getting confessed to exactly once before I transitioned. a girl I knew from local conventions asked me to be her boyfriend and threatened to kill herself if I turned her down; I was 13 and I was freaked tf out so I ghosted her for ages. she stalked me at every con i went to for the next 4 years until a friend got her to fuck off

editing again to say that this has brought me into a bizarre situation where three times a year my mom will pull me aside and ask if I'm asexual because I've still never had a real relationship. no mom I'm just shy and gay and can't envision myself being returned any love I give

[fruittt-punchhh]

thinking abouuuuuut somno w needy! toji

but needy! toji specifically in the middle of the night and like he’s so tiiiired and desperate and ugh. I have a thing for needy, desperate, tired men pls lay off of me. Inspired by @theobsidianempress

needy! toji who wakes up hard behind you in your oh so tiny pajama shorts, warm legs tangled in his as you subconsciously push your hips further into him.

needy! toji who seemed to wake up most nights around this time, almost like his body was on an internal clock set to go off when you looked your best, all tired and a peaceful as you dream your night away.

needy! toji who never wore anything to bed besides a chain and his ring, which made your cute shuffling in the bed a problem for his now half-hard cock.

needy! toji who had fucked you once twice today, once in the morning before he left for work and once after dinner. but his appetite was never satiated when it came to you.

needy! toji who wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he grabs a handful of your tit, kneading it as he grinds into your ass.

needy! toji who was now going to take full advantage of this ‘free use’ bullshit you mentioned to him a few days back.

needy! toji who tries to be gentle, tries to keep you asleep as he satisfies you. his large, rough hands rub circles on your clit as you shift in bed, breathing heavy - unbeknownst to you.

needy! toji who dares to see how far he can take things before you wake, playfully biting your shoulder, sucking on the soft skin as he chuckles to himself when you let a quiet whine slip.

needy! toji who pulls your left leg up over his, up and out of the way so he can fish his big hands down the back of your shorts like the nasty bastard he was - shoving two of his thick fingers into your already soaked pussy from behind as soon as he finds your entrance.

needy! toji who debates finger fucking you until you wake up, deciding against it so he can hear your sweet, muffled noises when he finally pushes his throbbing cock inside of you.

needy! toji who lets a whine slip with the knowledge that you’re still asleep, so beautifully stimulated by your tight, gummy walls. needy! toji who doesn’t understand how you’re still so tight after being fucked twice already today. needy! toji who doesn’t understand how you’re still asleep.

needy! toji who didn’t realize you’ve been awake since his hands snuck under your waistband.

needy! toji who gets three full thrusts in before you’re pushing back into him with a giggle as he fills you sooo snug to the brim.

needy! toji who pushes you roughly onto your stomach once he realizes your little trick, trapping both of your legs tightly between his so he can fuck you mean like he’s wanted to all day.

needy! toji who had to be gentle this morning because you were ‘tiiiiired’ and needy! toji who let you ride him until he was spraying your insides white after dinner. needy! toji who hasn’t had the chance all day to take you like he needs, letting you get your way two too many times.

needy! toji who shoves your head into your pillow, ruffling your hair up purposefully because he’s such a meanie. “been waiting - hah.. for this, little girl” he says, the sharp jabs of his hips bringing you close to your orgasm already.

needy! toji who can’t believe how wrapped around your finger he is, can’t believe he let you fuck him how you wanted earlier today. needy! toji who can’t believe he even had any resolve to stop himself from fucking you how you deserved earlier. “been.. so.. fuckin’.. nice.. all.. goddamn.. day” he spits, each word punctuated by an aggressive, deep, slow thrust that left you breathless.

needy! toji who can’t believe how close he is already, thinking he’d be good to go for hours with how much he’s cum already today. “fuck you y/n.. your stupid.. perfect pussy’s gonna make me bust too quick,”

needy! toji who bucks into you faster now, staring at how the fat of your ass jiggles and bounces with each thrust as you yelp into your pillow. “yeah - that’s it. cum on me, squeeze me.. milk me, ma,” he begs, forcing the words out as he feels you clamp down on his length.

needy! toji who’s mad at how tight you get, mad at how dripping wet you are, mad at how incredible you look, mad at the cute noises you make, mad at how you have him so vulnerable in the moment.

needy! toji who’s mad because he knows - gun to his head, he couldn’t pull out. knife to his neck even, it’d take an act of god to pull him from your precious cunt.

needy! toji whose voice pitches up an octave or two as he cums, bearing his full body weight on your back, pumping so rough into you as you milk him dry.

needy! toji who tells you to use your shirt to clean up as he rolls back over, already snoring before you’ve got up to use the restroom.

[studioeisa]

it’s kind of a funny story 🫧 seungcheol x reader.

just when you think your walk of shame couldn’t get any more shameful… 

★ word count: 1.1k ★ genre/warnings: 18+ content. no explicit smut, but implied sexual content told through flashbacks so! mdni! + romance, humor, fluff -ish. alternate universe: non-idol, mentions of alcohol. ★ footnotes: this is for the loml, @heartepub! (prompt was also from her) nooo viv don't die from thesis you're so sexy aha... 💙

There are three things you register when you wake up.

First: It’s cold. There’s sunlight streaking through the windows and you’re under a blanket— which is decisively not yours, by the way— yet you’re freezing, chilled to the bone. The answer to that question brings you to realization number two. 

You’re stripped down to your underclothes. Every inch of your body is rebelling at you for your mistreatment. The copious amount of alcohol you’d consumed the night before, the consequences of that raging bender. All of which leads to the last but not the least of the facts— 

There’s an arm around your waist, a solid weight pressed against your back. It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to put a name to the body curved around you like a parentheses. 

Cheol, he had told you on the dance floor, his eyes glinting under the low lights. Seungcheol, if you want this to be more than a one-time thing. 

It’s ridiculous, how that sad excuse for a pick-up line had drawn you in. Your memories of last night are a blur. Flashes of hands, of lips, of Seungcheol’s low voice coaxing you apart like a prayer.

Carefully, you peel yourself from the bed. Your body aches in seven different places. Inasmuch as you want to blame all the Long Island iced teas and Cuba libres you’d downed, you know it has less to do with that and everything to do with the man you’re about to walk away from. 

Seungcheol is still asleep, his face buried into his pillow. His chest rises and falls with a kind of steadiness that makes it hard to believe how utterly reckless he’d been with you just hours ago.

All of that blurs together, too. There’s bits and bobs of it in your mind’s eye: His hand in your hair, your knees on the carpet. You wince.

You try to not make any noise as you clean up. This was the name of the game, after all. This was going to be a story you tell your friends on your way home, a tale regaled via a long-winded voice note. An uptick in your body count. Another reason why you should never drink beer before liquor. 

Your dress is crumpled on the floor. You go to pick it up—

The zipper is shredded.

The seam, split clean down the back.

What the fuck. 

Your pulse hammers as you hold up the ruined garment, blinking like that’ll somehow fix it. It’s not like the dress holds any sentimental value. You’d bought it online specifically for your night out, had prepared to outgrow it in a year or two. You didn’t think you’d only get one wear out of it. 

The dress’ demise comes back to you slowly. Seungcheol’s impatient hands, the desperate way he had tugged the fabric when it wouldn’t come off fast enough. 

You remember the way his muscles had rippled underneath the low light. The faint sound of tearing. His muttered curse, his half-hearted apology said right before he dove in to relish in the newly-revealed skin. You’d been too far gone to care, then. 

Now, though? Oh, you care.

You’re still gaping at the dress when you hear the bed creak. “Good morning, beautiful,” the culprit grouses. 

You can tell that it’s his usual pleasantry, his typical cheeky greeting to all of his conquests. All that bravado fades, though, when you face him with the tatters of your dress still in your hand.

“Ah, shit.” Seungcheol’s voice is raspy from alcohol and sleep. He props himself up on his elbows, and— to give him some credit— he looks genuinely repentant. 

His hair is a mess; his face, already a deep red as he registers what you’re holding. 

“I— I can pay for that,” he stutters.

It’s almost comical, really. This is the same man who had you writhing underneath him, who had whispered pure filth into the crook of your neck. Now, he was blushing like a kid caught stealing from a cookie jar. 

Your teeth sink into your lower lip, like you haven’t quite decided if you’re going to be angry or laugh. “I don’t even think a tailor could save this.” 

Seungcheol rubs his face with both hands. “I don’t know what came over me,” he groans.

One of your eyebrows cock upwards. “I think you do.” 

He peeks at you between his fingers. You watch the way his throat bobs as his gaze flickers over your bare legs, the marks he left blooming across your skin. Claims he shouldn’t be able to make, and yet he’d gone and taken all the same. 

“It’s not funny,” he says into the heel of his palm, but he’s already grinning despite his voice remaining low and rough. 

“It’s kind of funny,” you counter. 

You let the ruined dress drop to the floor. It looks even more pitiful as it pools around your feet, and Seungcheol’s jaw ticks at the blatancy of his misgivings. 

“That’s never happened before,” he notes. Despite the fact he looks worse for wear, you can decipher the sincerity behind his words. 

This was not part of the plan, not a plot point in the usual story. Both of you were far more accustomed to clean cuts. One-night stands with no promises; quiet come-and-go’s. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, fingers curling in the sheets. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you just know he’s contemplating his next course of action. Loaning you some of his spare clothes would be the way to go. He could also—

Seungcheol’s voice drops like a weight. “You could… stay a little longer.” 

Until what, exactly, you’d love to know. Is he planning a same-day delivery for a replacement dress? Does he intend to hold you hostage until he’s a little more willing to send you off in a shirt he can bear to lose? 

You should be pissed. You should scold him, should rummage through his cabinet yourself and be on your merry way. The name of the game. 

But the way he’s looking at you— wrecked and wanting, like he might split apart if you walk out his door— makes it impossible to do anything but crawl back into his bed. 

He’s still embarrassed. You can tell from the way he tenses when you kiss him, the way his fingers barely ghost over your hip. Seungcheol tastes like cola, like something distinctly him, and like The Biggest Mistake You’re Ever Going To Make. 

To hell with it. 

“Try not to wreck the only clothes I have left,” you say against his mouth, “Seungcheol.” 

You feel his smile instead of seeing it. The way his lips curl around yours, pleased at your choice.

He tugs at the waistband of your underwear, his touch a lot more gentle than last night. As he pulls it off, he mumbles, “No promises.” 

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Landlord x Reader

You move to New York because you have no reason to stay anywhere else.

After the breakup—after him—there was no home left. The apartment in Chicago had grown cold, not just in winter, but in the way it echoed with silence even when you were still living there. So, when the hospital called with a residency offer, you packed fast and drove faster, your old car chugging like it resented the weight of your regret.

You arrive in Brooklyn with three suitcases, a secondhand coffee maker, and too many scars to count. Internally. Externally, you’ve always passed for composed, professional. Polished even, when you put in the effort. People don’t see what you don’t let them.

The apartment is perfect. Too perfect. That’s the first red flag, but you don’t want to see it. The rent is suspiciously affordable. Hardwood floors. High ceilings. An antique clawfoot tub. When you visit the unit, sunlight pours in like a promise. You pause at the window, tracing the skyline in your mind like you’re sketching a new future.

The landlord is handsome in that quiet, overlooked kind of way. He introduces himself as Andy, says he inherited the building from his grandfather. Says he’s doing some renovations—you’ll hear some noise now and then, hope that’s not a dealbreaker. He smiles like he’s nervous. Like he isn’t used to people looking directly at him.

You don’t ask too many questions. The building feels safe. Andy feels harmless. You’re tired of running.

So you sign the lease.

You don’t notice the way he watches you. Not at first.

The first few weeks are a blur of hospital rotations and late-night subway rides. You’re barely home long enough to unpack. When you do sleep, it’s dreamless, like your mind’s been rinsed clean by exhaustion. You only vaguely remember Andy helping you carry your boxes upstairs, his fingers brushing yours when he handed over the keys. You’d thanked him. Smiled.

Sometimes you hear footsteps in the hallway at odd hours. A whisper of movement. But you tell yourself it’s just another tenant. You haven’t met your neighbors yet. You don’t plan to.

The first time something feels off is when you find your toothbrush slightly damp at 7 p.m. You haven’t used it since morning. You think maybe you’re being paranoid. Then your shampoo is in a different spot. Your towels are folded differently. The window in the bathroom is open when you never open it.

You change the locks.

Andy drops by with a bottle of wine a few days later. Says it’s a welcome gift. You accept it awkwardly, standing half-behind your door. You never drink it.

That night, you hear a thud inside the walls. You tell yourself it’s the pipes. Old buildings do that.

You feel eyes on you when you sleep.

You can’t explain it. It’s like your body knows something before your mind can catch up. You start waking up in cold sweats. You start locking your bedroom door. You stop using the bathtub.

Then one night, you wake up to the sound of breathing.

Not your own.

You freeze, heart pounding. You listen. It’s faint, ragged. Almost desperate. You flick on the light.

Nothing.

You check every room. You look under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain. You find nothing but shadows. Still, you feel it. Someone has been in here.

You go to Andy the next day. You try to be casual, but your voice trembles. You ask if there’s any chance someone has access to your apartment. He frowns, concerned. Says he’ll change the locks personally. Says he’ll install extra security. Says it with the same calm voice a doctor might use before slipping in a needle.

You almost believe him.

Then you find the camera.

It’s hidden behind the vent in your bedroom. You only see it because the grate is slightly ajar. Tiny. Barely noticeable. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the wind hadn’t shifted the angle of light on the wall.

You don’t scream. You sit there, your heart slowly collapsing in your chest. Your skin prickles with invisible hands. Every second you’ve ever spent in this apartment flashes through your mind—every moment alone, every private breath.

He’s been watching you.

You leave that night.

You get a hotel. You call the cops. You tell them everything.

But by the time they investigate, the camera’s gone. The vent is closed. The apartment is clean. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. Just you and your paranoia.

You try to stay at a friend’s, but you can’t stop looking over your shoulder. You can’t stop imagining him slipping into your room in the middle of the night. You start seeing Andy’s face in crowds. In reflections. In your sleep.

You change your phone number. You quit your residency.

But he still finds you.

He waits for you in your hotel room. You come back from a late dinner, fumbling with your keycard, and he’s just there, inside. Like he’s always belonged there. Like you’re the one intruding.

He doesn’t threaten. He just talks.

He tells you he didn’t mean to scare you. That he just wanted to be close to you. That he fell in love the moment he saw you. That he made your apartment perfect because you deserved it.

That he watched you cry after phone calls and wanted to hold you.

That he listened to your breathing because it was the only sound that ever made him feel calm.

You back away slowly. You have a knife in your purse. You never used to carry one.

You draw it as he steps closer.

He doesn’t stop.

You stab him in the side.

He gasps. Bleeds. Smiles.

And still, still, he tries to touch your face like it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.

AN: I stole the plot from The Resident.

Masterlist

[whorefordean]

attitude adjustment || r.c

wc: 1.7k

cw: mean rafe, reader is kinda bratty, rafe calls reader a bitch, a yummy headlock (will be putting this into every fic probs), p in v sex, unprotected sex, pussy slaps, slight cockwarming

MDNI 18+

rafe sleeps soundly beside you, and that alone is enough to make you hate him. well, not actually hate him, but still. his strong arm is draped across your hip, hand splayed flat across your stomach. his rings glint in the subtle glow of the moonlight.

most people would see this as an act of endearment, however, rafe decided to hold true to his promise of punishing you.

"been such a fucking brat this week, and i'm not in the mood to deal with you," rafe had scolded you earlier in the day while squeezing your cheeks together with a firm grip. you had simply pouted, knowing that eventually he would deal with it by fucking the attitude out of you.

wishful thinking.

it had been three hours since that ordeal and two since rafe had gone to sleep. in those two hours, you'd tossed and turned, secretly hoping it would wake rafe up. apparently, you hadn't lost the attitude, even if the day was over.

as you rolled over again to face rafe, you caved. you trailed your hand up his bare chest.

"rafe?" you whispered softly. you waited a moment, watching as he remained unbothered and peaceful. damn him.

as your arousal built and your panties got wetter, you got more desperate. you slipped your leg over his hip, trying to wedge yourself as close as possible to him.

"rafe!" you pleaded for him to wake up. this time, a groan echoed throughout the room. his hand slipped up your leg, resting on your ass right below your tiny shorts.

"still got a fucking attitude," he grumbled in annoyance. you whined causing him to grip onto you tighter. finally opening his eyes, rafe glared at you.

"what do you want? huh?" rafe asked meanly. you pouted up at him as you began placing soft pecks against his bare chest, slowly making your way up his neck.

you shift until your straddling rafe’s hips, his hand still tucked possessively under your shorts. you whine when your hips shift against his as you lean down to his ear.

“need you, rafe,” you tell him quietly, kissing his cheek slowly. rafe groans.

“huh uh. been such a bitch to me lately. for no reason. not gonna reward you for your bad fucking behavior,” rafe scolds you tiredly. anger rises in you as you sit up. crossing your arms over your chest, you glare at him.

“well, maybe, i wouldn’t be acting like such a bitch if you fucked me good-“ you start to blame him. it’s a lie you don’t get to finish because rafe cuts you off.

“i dare you to finish that fucking sentence. if i wasn’t fucking you good enough, you wouldn’t be waking me up right now. wouldn’t be rubbing that wet pussy against my fucking cock, begging me to fuck you to sleep. such a fucking needy brat,” rafe hisses, slapping your ass roughly. you gape at him, half shocked half angered, because he’s right.

“you’re being mean!” you nearly yell at him. you try to grind yourself against him again but rafe holds your hips still for a minute before shoving you off of him.

“rafe!” you yelp as you tumble back to your side of the bed. rafe is quick to pounce on you, pressing your chest firmly into the mattress. his legs barricade your thighs, and you can feel his half hard cock against your ass. your hips lift, but rafe shoved them back down.

“wanna get fucked? hm? that gonna fix that fucking attitude? fine. i’ll fuck you. i'll make you feel good so that maybe next time, you’ll use your fucking words instead of bitching and whining all goddamn day,” rafe grits out as he rips your shorts down your legs. you gasp once at the cold air hitting your bare cunt, then again when rafe shoves your shirt up and yanks it over your head.

“rafe!” you yelp when rafe moves himself just enough to yank your hips up and give your dripping pussy a harsh slap.

“quit. start complaining and i’ll have to stuff that throat. you’ll take what i give you, brat,” rafe grunts, slapping your wetness again. pouting, you nod anyways.

rafe’s fingers linger near your clit, and it’s an effort to not grind yourself against his thick fingers. the bedsheets are wrinkled in your hands as you try to calm your breathing and keep your attitude in check. the temptation is there, but you refrain from begging him for something. anything.

finally, rafe sinks two of his fingers into you. a soft moan echoes out of your lips as your eyes flutter shut. before you can relish in the feeling for too long, rafe stops. he keeps his fingers buried inside you, but he doesn’t move. you wait. nothing. lifting yourself up, you turn to face rafe. your breath hitches when your movement causes his fingers to shift.

“rafe? please do something,” you beg him softly, mind reeling with need. at this point, you don’t care about keeping up the attitude. the need for his cock to be buried in you is too much to resist.

“oh, now that i’ve got my fingers in you, you’ll be nice? hm? i wanted to spend all night in this fucking pussy, but that fucking attitude…” rafe trails off, watching the way you shift your hips slightly, trying to thrust against his fingers.

“i’ll be better. promise, rafe,” you mumble when you notice the way he’s staring so intently at your exposed core. rafe thrusts his fingers a few times, watching as you match him with your own thrusts.

“you gonna work for it?” he mumbles. your hips falter but not from pleasure. you wanted rafe to do the work. wanted rafe to put you in your place. not make you do all the work even if it is your orgasm at stake here. rafe notices your hesitation and laughs darkly.

“no, i guess you wouldn’t. need me to do all the work to make sure you feel good. ain’t that right?” rafe teases. you open your mouth to respond, but he stops you. 

"if the next words out of your mouth aren't thank you, rafe, then don't say anything," rafe grunts as he pushes his fingers further into your cunt.

"thank you, rafe!" you gasp, lifting your hips slightly in an attempt to meet his thrusts.

"that's it, baby," rafe hums under his breath. your eyes snap shut when rafe's thumb starts toying with your needy clit. a whine rumbles from your throat as you tilt your head, trying to bury your sounds into the mattress. rafe grips your hair, tilting your head back until he can hear you better.

"don't fucking hide from me. you been begging for this," rafe snaps. his fingers slip out of you unexpectedly. you cry out, eyes snapping open as you look back at him. the pout on your face mixed with the pleading look in your eyes almost has him apologizing even if you deserve his meanness.

"need you, rafe," you whine, lifting your hips again. this time, rafe lets you grind your exposed pussy against his covered cock. your fingers ache, white knuckling the sheets under you. rafe's heavy hand is gripping your stuttering hips, and you can hear the breathy moans he's letting out.

"fuck, baby," rafe grunts. he stops your hips again, and you almost push him off of you, so you can finish the job yourself. you refrain though because an orgasm by yourself? wonderful. an orgasm given to you by rafe? fucking heavenly.

"rafe, please," you whine. rafe mumbles something along the lines of fucking impatient, but you ignore him, too focused on finding release.

you almost beg him again, but then rafe is slipping his hardened cock into you. you gnaw on your lip as he settles fully inside your aching walls.

this might be heaven, you think as rafe leans down to kiss your jaw. the action is a complete one eighty from his previous, but you don't object to it. you sigh in relief when he finally starts pumping his cock into you, slowly at first.

then, he's bottoming out repeatedly until your gasping for a single fucking breath. you grip at his arm beside your head, but rafe moves it out of your grasp before gripping your hand in his. your eyes lull shut as rafe continues to prove you wrong.

he had never been bad at fucking you, but you have always had an attitude problem.

rafe readjusts, lowering himself until his mouth is directly beside your ear.

"this what you wanted?" rafe asks quietly, slowing his thrusts while he deepens them. you nod, mind going blank when rafe slips his arm around you. he settles his bicep under your throat, effectively putting you in a headlock as he slips deeper into you.

"fuck, rafe. thank you," you pant. his hand leaves yours to rub at your clit. you moan out, your orgasm approaching. rafe fucks you through it, only using the slick to further your pleasure. you grip at rafe's bicep when he doesn't stop, even after you've cum.

"rafe, i can't-"

"you will," rafe interrupts. his voice is rough when he says it, and you almost beg him to keep going. he must have hear the thought because he doesn't slow down, continuing to fuck you even as you tremble under him. you try to push your hips further into the mattress, but rafe follows you. your eyes roll back in pleasure.

your second orgasm approaches faster than the last, and you can't stop the moans falling from your lips. you pry rafe's arm from around your throat. well, you attempt to pry his arm away.

his grip is firm as he finally spills his cum into your cunt. you pant when he finally slows down before fully stopping.

the two of you sit in silence, rafe still holding you tight in his grip. your cheek rests against rafe's bicep as you lay there, finally satisfied after being perpetually horny for the last week.

"thank you, rafe," you pant. rafe hums in acceptance.

"gotta learn how to fucking communicate, baby," rafe mumbles tiredly. you nod against him. rafe settles his weight against you, and it feels so good. so comforting. his cock is still buried comfortably inside you as the two of you drift off.

[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[failchild]

i can write so much more about why i think severance S2 isn't as strong or enjoyable as S1, but i could truly go on forever so i've organized my thoughts into three categories: lack of inter/departmental connection, dropped storylines, and how the world feels much smaller (1.2k words under the cut)

lack of inter/departmental connection

a significant theme of the S2 finale is the solidarity between different severed departments. MDR, mammalians nurturable, and the marching band department become impromptu allies against lumon management. innie mark is hesitant to save gemma not just because he might cease to exist, but so might the entire severed department. so why wasn't this a theme throughout the whole season?

episode 3 was building up to this: mark and "helly" made contact with mammalians nurturable, and irving visited O&D to share a nice moment with felicia. but that interdepartmental connection is completely dropped until the the finale, seven episodes later.

innie mark's concern for all severed workers rings a bit hollow when he doesn't seem to care about the three innies he got terminated in episode 1, and hasn't thought about irving at all. (i know ignoring grief is mark's whole thing, but he's known irving his whole life! there's not even a single moment of him acknowledging irving after his firing.) like, okay, mark said innie rights! does he really demonstrate that throughout the season, though?

EDIT: oh my god, miss casey—innie mark willingly killed miss casey. if he was truly so concerned about every innie, shouldn't he have been conflicted about leading her to her death? the person he said "we're people, not parts of people" to? the person he said "no one gets to just turn you off" to? (mark! you just turned her off!)

what stands out more is the lack of connection within MDR itself: once irving's gone, MDR just doesn't seem to care about each other. their tight-knit friendship and "we're in this together" dynamic is supplanted by romance. sure, mark and helly love each other now—why does that have to come at the cost of their friendship with dylan? do they just not care that he's been disappearing for half the work day? in the S2 finale, it's a great character moment for dylan when he comes to the rescue, but would helly and mark do the same for him? they didn't seem to notice or care that he was gone for mark's completion of cold harbor.

dropped storylines and dramatic twists that lead nowhere

(i know how television works, i know that plotlines that begin in one season can get resolved in another. okay. now that's out of the way)

remember how bold of a decision it was to have mark reintegrate in episode 3? the building of tension, reghabi asking an increasingly confused mark basic questions ("what season is it?" "you mean, what quarter?"), mark waking up on the severed floor table, and the triumphant soundtrack that follows? none of that seems to matter now: reghabi is out of the picture and mark doesn't get reintegration sickness or hallucinations anymore. reghabi kept warning mark to not move his head—then he fell to the ground and slammed his head, and was beaten in the head by drummond. is his brain okay? did the reintegration process even happen? did i dream this plotline? where am i?

what did the undercover helena plot accomplish? okay, so it was crazy when irving revealed that helena was impersonating helly. what exactly were the consequences of this? besides irving getting fired, there were barely any ripple effects for this seemingly momentous betrayal—mark was uncomfortable for two episodes, and helly was upset for, like, ten minutes tops. it's a fun plot twist for sure, but it doesn't seem to truly affect the character it should matter most to, and helly isn't given the time to wrestle with the fact that she's an eagan (royalty! a god!) and found out mere hours ago. we get to know helena a bit, i guess, but she was already compelling when she was just a face on a TV screen, telling helly that she wasn't a person.

speaking of irving's firing, this was the perfect setup for learning more about his outie, but we learn nothing. we have the same questions as we did in S1: who's he working with? what's his motivation to infiltrate lumon? why does he know about the elevator to the testing floor? irving is just as much of a mystery as he was in S1—and now we don't know if we'll ever see him again and get answers to those crucial character questions.

milchick has undoubtedly the best character arc this season. in episode 9 he finally snaps at upper management and can barely process what it means when outie mark tells him, "work's just work". i don't think milchick would turn his back on lumon entirely, that wouldn't be realistic, but all his character moments throughout the season seemed to be culminating to him realizing that, yeah, work is just work, it's not that serious. it makes sense that he would try his hardest to escape the bathroom, then get greeted by an innie uprising—but that would have also happened to a S1 milchick. after the kier animatronic microaggressions and all the shit he has to do to prepare for cold harbor's completion, would he really try to escape the bathroom that hard? or would he be having a midlife crisis, staring himself down in a mirror? i'm genuinely not sure.

i know i'm in the minority here but i loved ricken in S1—he and his strange followers bring an earnestness and sense of humor that made the show feel unique in how it juggled wildly different tones. ricken was also crucial to the innie story, and helped innie mark realize his potential as a human being. but besides appearing in a single flashback during the gemma episode, ricken's been completely absent since episode 3. what happened to his lumon sellout arc? what does he think his wife, who he has a newborn baby with, is doing? did he die in a private yacht explosion?

we still don't know what cold harbor is, right? we know that each file MDR completes is another room for gemma, but what's cold harbor specifically, and why would it kill her? she starts to disassemble a crib without feeling negative emotions—how is that any different from any other innie? is the point to sever away specific trauma? is that really it? and again, why would that kill her?

the world feels much smaller

the world outside of lumon is absent in S2. S1 had ricken and his weird friends, mark going on dates, back alley concerts, anti-severance protests, snippets of the news—there was life outside of lumon! S2 leaves that all behind to tighten focus on lumon and the people directly involved in the company, which makes the story very insular.

characters are so vitally important now: helly is an eagan, mark is the only one who can finish cold harbor and cold harbor is The Most Important Thing In The World We Have To Complete It Now, everything MDR does is because of gemma, and cobel invented severance. everyone else feels supplemental—people like irving and ricken can be easily discarded. the science fiction aspects, which were bizarre and unknowable in S1, are now directly personal to everyone. it's like milchick lying about the tallest waterfall in the world: it just makes everything seem smaller.

this also muddies S1's central themes and satire of the corporate world. mark isn't just another cog in the machine anymore, he's the most important guy (they fired and rehired a bunch of people, just for him!). the work isn't mysterious anymore, we know exactly what they're doing. mark being an ordinary guy who goes to an office job he doesn't really understand was the point of the corporate satire. severance just isn't interested in that anymore, which i guess is understandable; the show can grow into something different. but using a sci-fi concept to comment on office culture and the different personas we inhabit for work was so clever and special, and now they're just exploring well-trodden ground like identity and what it means to be human. sci-fi has already done that one, guys! many times!

again, i can say a lot more but i think this sums up my main thoughts. and i generally liked each episode individually, but when i look at the season as a whole it just doesn't cohere nearly as well as S1 did.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Soft Landings

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader x Azzi Fudd

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: After giving birth to baby Skylar, you returns home with Paige and Azzi for their first day as a family of three.

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paige05bby , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @shikaizer

There’s something about hospital mornings. They’re too bright and too slow. And everything smells like disinfectant and banana pudding that’s been sitting out too long.

I was already propped up in the bed, Skylar sleeping in her bassinet, when the nurse came in with our discharge paperwork. Paige was up and stretching like she hadn’t just spent the last two nights sleeping in a half-chair, half-human-pretzel formation. Azzi was brushing her teeth with a travel-sized brush and one sock on. She’d been crying quietly again this morning—happy tears, she said.

I felt like I’d been run over by several buses. But Skylar was here. Healthy. Perfect. And we were finally going home.

“Alright,” the nurse smiled. “Ready to go meet the world, Skylar?”

Azzi gasped and immediately scooped her up. “Nope! The world can wait. We’re on private access only for at least 24 hours.”

I laughed softly. My body still ached in strange places. My boobs felt like overinflated water balloons. I was sweating even though the room was cold. But my heart?

It had never been fuller.

Packing up was chaotic in the sweetest way. Paige had a whole system.

“Okay, baby bag, double-checked. Swaddle blanket. Car seat installed last week. You did watch the video I sent, right, Az?”

“I helped install it, Paige.”

“Yeah, but did you watch the video?”

“I was the video!”

I grinned from the bed, watching them buzz around like two over-caffeinated bees. Azzi was checking Skylar’s cap, adjusting it like she was preparing her for a photo shoot. Paige was busy making sure my water bottle, nipple pads, snacks, and every single form the hospital had given us were packed away in the overstuffed duffle.

“Alright,” Paige said, finally exhaling. “You ready, mama?”

The nurse returned with a wheelchair.

“I can walk,” I said immediately.

“Nope,” Azzi grinned, already helping me swing my legs to the edge of the bed. “Hospital policy.”

“But I feel fine—”

“Wheelchair.” Paige pointed. “Sit down, superwoman.”

I scowled, but I sat. The moment I did, I exhaled with relief. My body was not ready to be walking around like I didn’t just push a baby out 72 hours ago.

Paige picked up Skylar, who was strapped into her newborn car seat like a little burrito. Her head lolled slightly and her pouty lips parted in her sleep.

And then Paige did it.

The dad walk.

She held that car seat like it was the most precious, breakable object on Earth—elbows locked, eyes wide, moving like someone carrying nitroglycerin through a war zone. Azzi and I both burst into laughter.

“Stop laughing,” Paige said, turning slowly. “If I tilt her even slightly wrong, she’ll wake up. This is serious. I trained for this.”

Azzi leaned down and kissed my cheek before grabbing the wheelchair handles. “Alright, mama. Let’s get you and Miss Skylar home.”

The ride home was quiet, with only a few occasional whimpers from Skylar in the back seat. Paige drove like she was hauling royal cargo, glaring at every pothole and going 5 under the speed limit.

Azzi held my hand the entire way home.

I don’t know why I teared up when we pulled up to the apartment. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was the fact that the “Welcome Baby Skylar” banner Kayla taped to the front door was crooked and adorable and spelled ‘Skylaur’ before she crossed out the ‘u’ in Sharpie.

“I love you guys,” I sniffled.

Paige turned off the car and looked back. “We love you more.”

Once we got inside, I barely made it to the couch before Skylar started to fuss. Azzi unbuckled her and brought her over, already cooing.

“Okay, baby girl, let’s try skin-to-skin, huh?” Azzi said, slipping out of her hoodie and cradling Skylar to her chest. Within seconds, Skylar calmed, nestling right under her collarbone like she belonged there.

“She likes your heartbeat,” I whispered, watching from the couch.

“She likes her mommy,” Paige said, settling beside me and handing me a blanket. “And her mama. She knows she’s safe.”

“I thought we were gonna let people come by today,” I said, watching Skylar yawn.

Paige reached over to brush a strand of hair from my face. “We talked about it while you were sleeping. And we said no. You’re not entertaining anybody. You’re healing.”

Azzi nodded, still swaying with Skylar in her arms. “They all saw her enough at the hospital. They’ll see her soon enough. Right now, it’s just us.”

They treated me like a queen the rest of the day.

I tried to clean up after lunch? Paige took the sponge out of my hand.

I tried to fold some of Skylar’s blankets? Azzi gave me a look and pointed toward the couch like I was on a time-out.

I tried to vacuum? Paige literally unplugged the vacuum and said, “Babe. Sit. Down.”

Instead, they brought me food. My favorite food.

All the stuff I couldn’t have while pregnant—sushi, deli meat, extra espresso in my iced coffee. And they didn’t stop there. They brought out a tray full of sweet treats: brownies, sour candy, strawberry cheesecake bites.

“You’re gonna give me a sugar crash,” I groaned, halfway through my brownie.

“That’s the goal,” Azzi grinned. “Then you’ll have to nap.”

Skylar was fussy that afternoon.

Nothing crazy—just those newborn squeaks and whines that made you want to both cry and laugh at the same time. She spit up all over Paige during one diaper change, which Azzi caught in a photo and is absolutely never going to delete.

“She’s so cute,” I whispered that night, just watching her sleep in her bassinet beside our bed.

Paige was rubbing my back with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other. “You’ve said that like thirty times today.”

“She is though.”

Azzi poked her head in from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. “She’s gonna get a complex.”

“She’s already got one,” I muttered. “Every time we stop looking at her, she squeaks for attention.”

“Just like her mama,” Paige teased, kissing my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said. “Not wrong. But hey.”

What they didn’t prepare me for?

The breast milk thing.

I woke up at 2am sweating through my shirt and practically leaking.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, staring down at myself. “What the hell.”

Paige stirred next to me. “You okay?”

“I look like I went swimming in my own milk,” I muttered, climbing out of bed slowly. “My boobs feel like they’re gonna explode.”

Azzi helped me set up the pump, both of them whispering sleepy encouragements as I filled the freezer bags with what felt like way too much milk for someone who’d only been home for a day.

“I’m overproducing,” I said quietly, trying not to panic. “It’s too much.”

“You’re amazing,” Paige whispered. “Skylar’s lucky. We’ll make space in the freezer. Don’t worry.”

Azzi kissed my forehead as she labeled the bags. “You’re doing perfect, mama. We’ve got this.”

At 3:30am, I was still awake. Watching Skylar sleep. Her tiny hand rested near her face, lips parted, chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. She made a soft little sound and my heart flipped all over again.

“I see you,” Paige said softly from behind me.

“I’m just watching her.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“She’s so quiet when she sleeps. Like a little angel.”

“You’re also an angel,” she murmured, gently pulling me away. “A tired one. Back in bed, baby.”

Azzi was already fluffing pillows.

“Okay, okay,” I sighed as I climbed in. “But if she cries—”

“She won’t,” Paige whispered, kissing my forehead. “And if she does, we got her.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

That night, wrapped up between them, I felt everything hit at once—the exhaustion, the soreness, the overwhelming love. Not just for Skylar. But for Paige and Azzi. For the home we’d made. For this messy, sacred, beautiful little beginning.

Skylar stirred softly in her bassinet.

Azzi’s hand found mine in the dark.

Paige pressed her cheek against my temple.

And I whispered, “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤEASTER SPECIAL: PAW PRINTS * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where Matt and Y/N spend the early hours of Easter creating baby powder bunny prints on the living room floor and biting into carrots, just to make sure their daughter has the best Easter morning.

FEATURING　dad!Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: Happy easter to everyone who commemorates it 🤍✨️

1:07 AM - Sunday, April 20th

The house was finally quiet.

Well... mostly.

Y/N slowly tiptoed down the stairs, one hand on the wall to steady herself in the dim, cozy glow of the hallway nightlight. Her sock-covered feet barely made a sound on the steps, the wood creaking only the tiniest bit under her weight.

She took it slow - real slow - because she’d just spent the last thirty minutes doing the most exhausting, soul-sucking, patience-testing thing known to parents, putting a toddler to sleep.

And not just any toddler. Their toddler. Three years old. Full of personality. With curls that never stay tamed and a voice that could rival a megaphone at bedtime.

But she was finally asleep.

After four stories, two songs, a stuffed bunny hunt, and one mini meltdown about how she "NEEDED her sparkly Easter socks or the bunny would skip their house".

Y/N was drained.

But as she reached the last step, her tired eyes blinked, adjusting to the soft light of the living room, and what she saw instantly erased all of her exhaustion.

There, standing on the hardwood floor, was Matt.

Messy brown curls flopping down into his eyes. His favorite red sweater - that she was 99% sure had been balled up on the laundry chair an hour ago - now pulled over his tall frame, wrinkled and crooked at the collar like he’d thrown it on in the dark. His black sweatpants hung low on his hips, one leg slightly tucked into his sock without him even noticing.

He looked so sleepy.

Like, painfully sleepy. Eyes heavy. Shoulders low. But he was moving around with purpose, his hands busy with a bottle of their daughter’s baby powder, a half-eaten carrot, and the softest little bunny ear headband looped around his wrist.

Y/N squinted.

"Matt?" She whispered, barely above a breath.

He jumped a little and spun around with big blue eyes like he’d been caught breaking into his own house.

"Shit- you scared me, angel." He whispered back, his voice all raspy and deep and tired.

"What... what are you doing?" She asked, tiptoeing closer, trying not to laugh.

Matt looked down at his hands, then at the floor in front of him. There was a perfect trail of tiny powdery bunny prints starting at the kitchen door, leading all the way toward the couch. Some were tilted like the bunny had hopped, some overlapped like it got excited. He had obviously made them with his own feet and hands, dipped in powder.

"I’m... making evidence." He shrugged.

Y/N tilted her head.

"Evidence?"

"That the bunny was here." Matt said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, holding up the carrot like a prop. "She’s gonna freak out when she sees it. You think it looks real?"

Y/N blinked at the mess on the floor. The powdery mess. His hands were literally coated in white. So were his feet. His sweater had smudges, too. His hair was sticking up in four directions. And yet, she felt her heart melt right into the floor.

"You stayed up for this?"

Matt nodded slowly.

"Yeah. I mean... she’s been talking about it all week. I told her the Easter Bunny leaves footprints. You should’ve seen her face when I said that. I couldn’t-" He yawned mid-sentence. "I couldn’t let her wake up and not find anything."

Y/N smiled, her eyes softening. She walked over and gently grabbed the carrot from his hand, inspecting the bite marks in it.

"Did you really nibble it?"

Matt looked mildly offended.

"Duh. You think the bunny would leave a full carrot behind?"

She snorted, covering her mouth to avoid waking their daughter.

"You’re such a dork."

"You married this dork." He mumbled sleepily, stepping in baby powder again and crouching down to press another bunny paw onto the floor.

"I did." She whispered, crouching beside him. "And I’d do it again. Especially if I knew you’d look this cute at 1am while preparing our house for Easter morning."

He glanced at her sideways.

"You think this is cute?"

Y/N reached up and gently brushed some powder off his cheek, smiling with the little scrunch his nose instantly created.

"Absolutely. You look like the world's most exhausted Easter Bunny."

Matt leaned in closer, nose almost brushing hers.

"Might be. Definitely the hottest one, though."

She giggled, giving him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose before sitting back on her heels.

"Okay, lemmd help. Gimme the powder."

It didn't take any second thought from Matt. The next minute, they were both sitting cross-legged on the floor, whispering quietly about their day, dipping their hands and feet into the baby powder and making more tracks. Matt would press one paw down, and Y/N would do the next.

At one point, Matt reached over and smeared powder across her forearm, and she gasped like she'd always do when he threw snowballs at her on winter mornings.

"You wanna start a war?" She whispered playfully.

"Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time." He grinned.

They were careful. Matching the spacing, tilting the paws slightly, even leaving a few little white "fur" smudges on the baseboards like the bunny had rubbed against them.

They placed her Easter basket beside the couch, overflowing with chocolate, candy, plushies, and one little sparkly egg with a note tucked inside that read:

"Thanks for the socks. I love them.

Hoppy Easter!

- Mr. Bunny"

By the time they were done, Matt had powder on his neck, Y/N’s black leggings were speckled white, and the kitchen smelled like baby lotion. They stood in the middle of their living room at 1:38am, looking down at the chaos they created like two kids who just got away with something.

"She’s gonna scream when she sees this." Y/N whispered.

Matt wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.

"She definitely will."

Y/N looked up at him, and he looked down at her with the most soft eyes, a sleepy smile taking over him pink lips.

Matt reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"You did good today." He murmured.

"So did you."

He pressed a kiss to her lips, heavy eyelashes brushing against her cheekbone.

"Let’s go to bed before she wakes up at 6am and demands chocolate for breakfast."

Y/N groaned, already dreading it.

"Please, no. I need, like, five more hours of sleep, or I’ll turn into a ficking villain bunny."

"Too late." Matt grinned, guiding her toward the stairs. "You already married me. That makes you the main character and the villain."

"Shut up, Easter Bunny."

They walked up the stairs holding hands, powdery footprints behind them, and carrot crumbs on the floor.

7:12 AM - Easter Morning

"Mommy!"

"Daddy!!"

"MOMMY DADDY COME LOOK!!"

Y/N jolted awake first, instinctively reaching across the bed to Matt, who was already halfway sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Was that her?" He mumbled, voice thick and scratchy with sleep, fingernails scratching his beard covered jaw.

Y/N blinked.

"She’s... shouting?"

Before either of them could fully process it, their daughter burst through the bedroom door with a slam, her tiny pink pajama set covered in glittery bunnies and one sock halfway off her foot. Her curls were a disaster. Her face was glowing.

"HE CAME!" She screamed, full volume, absolutely breathless.

Matt sat up straighter.

"Who came?!"

"THE BUNNY!" She shrieked, bouncing in place like her little body couldn’t physically contain the excitement. "THE EASTER BUNNY! HE WAS HERE! HE WAS HERE, DADDY!"

Y/N pressed a hand to her chest, trying not to laugh, feeling her heart melt with the genuine smile on her daughter's face.

"What?? Baby, what do you mean?"

"There’s FOOTPRINTS!!" She gasped, eyes so wide they barely blinked. "And a carrot with BITES! And a note! And he said thank you for my socks! HE KNEW I gave him the socks! He actually KNEW!"

Matt dramatically gasped.

"No way."

"Yes way! Come see! Come see right now! I didn’t even open my basket yet ‘cause I needed you to see the proof first!" She yelled like it was an emergency.

Matt threw the blanket off with fake panic.

"Okay, okay, okay! We’re coming!"

Y/N was already getting out of bed, tying her soft beige robe around her waist, trying not to laugh as their daughter literally sprinted out of the room again. Her little feet slapped the floor with speed that didn’t match her size.

"IT’S REAL! I TOLD YOU IT’S REAL! I’M GONNA DIE!!"

Matt looked at Y/N, eyes half-closed, hair a mess.

"She said she’s gonna die."

Y/N bit her lip, grinning.

"You made her whole universe."

Matt walked to her with gentle steps and kissed her cheek, his beard tickling her soft skin.

"We made it."

They followed the giggles and gasps downstairs.

And there she was. Standing in the middle of the living room. Hands in the air. Eyes sparkling. One finger pointing at the powdery footprints and the messy trail leading to the half-nibbled carrot beside the basket.

"LOOK!" She shouted, turning to face them with her arms out like she had just discovered treasure. "LOOK WHAT HE DID! HE HOPPED RIGHT THROUGH OUR HOUSE! AND THEN HE ATE THE CARROT! DADDY, HE ATE IT!!"

Matt gasped again and dropped to his knees beside the scene, his legs cracking with the movement.

"This is some serious bunny activity."

"I know!!" She yelled, practically vibrating. "He even LET IT ON THE WALLS! That means he was REAL FLUFFY!"

Y/N knelt beside them both, brushing hair out of her daughter’s face and smiling so big her cheeks hurt.

"And he left you something too, huh?"

Her daughter’s eyes widened all over again, and she spun toward the basket.

"MY BASKET!!"

She tore into it like her life depended on it, candy flying, plushies squeaked, glitter eggs cracked open. But the loudest gasp came when she saw the note inside the shiny sparkly egg.

She clutched it like it was a signed autograph.

"He WROTE TO ME! With his paw-hands! Bunnies don’t even write, but he DID!"

Matt dramatically leaned in.

"He must’ve learned just for you."

Her eyes filled with wonder.

And then, with her curls bouncing and her whole body shaking with joy, she launched herself at Matt, wrapping her arms around his neck so tight he almost tipped backward.

"Thank you, daddy." She whispered.

Matt blinked.

"What?"

She looked up at him with a shy, soft smile.

"I know you helped him create this big, big plan. You're his bestest friend, right?"

Y/N's heart squeezed.

Matt pulled her in close and kissed the top of her head.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Bunnies never tell."

Y/N scooted close and wrapped her arms around both of them.

"We need to call uncle Nick and uncle Chris!"

© vanteguccir