#you deserve everything you worked for and more

[mattrempeswife]

IN EVERY GENTLE WAY

pair: quinn hughes x f!reader

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, drama, domestic.

warnings: jealousy, disrespectful comments toward c-section delivery, brief mention of breastfeeding/milk clot pain, emotional vulnerability, but ends with comfort and love.

summary: on your first trip back home as a family of three, quinn is nervous but devoted, doing everything to protect you and finn. tension arises when a childhood friend makes a cruel comment about your c-section, bringing out a rare side of quinn. later, when a painful milk clot hits you unexpectedly, quinn reminds you once again that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for the two of you.

fia’s notes: once again, this little fic can totally be read as a standalone, no pressure to read anything before it! but if you have been following along, it also works as a continuation of ‘wait for me, little one.’ so basically, choose your own adventure vibes! either way, you’re getting a healthy dose of dad!quinn being soft, sweet, and so hopelessly in love with his little family. and honestly? i’ve been in the deepest dad!quinn spiral lately. like, the kind where i catch myself daydreaming about him holding a baby in one arm and a bottle in the other while looking all sleepy and shirtless. he’s just so gentle and attentive and ugh, it’s giving heart eyes all around. expect more content like this because clearly, i can’t get him out of my head.

“Quinn,”

You whispered, smoothing your fingers along the back of his hand as the car cruised down the road.

“Are you nervous?”

He glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, then at the rearview mirror where Finn sat strapped in, wide-eyed and content, his tiny fists wiggling beneath a soft blanket.

“Little bit,” he admitted.

“I don’t know why. Your family’s always been nice to me.”

You smiled, the sight of him in dad mode with his baseball cap on, one hand steady on the wheel, the other reaching over to squeeze your knee which made your chest bloom with warmth.

“I think it’s because this is the first time we’re going back with Finn.”

He nodded, expression soft.

“Exactly. I just… I want to do everything right. I know he’s only a few months old, but I want your family to see I’m taking care of you both. That I’m serious about being the kind of man you deserve.”

You reached up to touch his cheek.

“They already know that, Quinn. They love you. And so do I.”

He grinned, turning his head to kiss your fingers.

“Still doesn’t stop me from making a list of rules in my head. No strong perfumes, no passing Finn around without asking, no alcohol…”

You laughed. “The Great Hughes Rulebook.”

He laughed with you, but his eyes were still flicking back to Finn protectively.

“I mean it though. He’s tiny. I just want to keep him safe.”

By the time you arrived at your childhood home, the house was already full of guest, chatter and foods. Your mom opened the door with a squeal and immediate tears in her eyes at the sight of you, then zeroed in on Finn.

“Oh, my goodness, he’s beautiful!”

You let her hold him for a moment, after a thorough hand sanitizer session, per Quinn’s firm but gentle request and then introduced Finn to your aunts, cousins, and family friends.

It wasn’t long before Dean arrived.

Dean, the boy next door who once lent you comic books, helped you learn how to bike, and confessed his crush the summer before you left for college. You had gently, kindly said you didn’t feel the same. Since then, something bitter always brewed beneath his smiles, especially after Quinn came into your life.

You caught Quinn subtly shift closer to you when Dean entered, carrying a bottle of sparkling juice, per your no-alcohol request and that same forced, tight-lipped smirk he always gave Quinn. The tension wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but you knew your husband. You saw the small ways he shielded you by standing between Dean and you when conversation sparked, keeping Finn near.

Despite that, the evening flowed easily at first. People asked about Finn, your birth, future plans. You shared your story, how he arrived by C-section after a long labor, how brave Quinn had been in the room with you.

And then Dean, who had been quiet for most of it. spoke, tilting his head in that all-too-familiar smug way.

“Guess some people don’t push through the hard parts of motherhood, huh?”

It was a needle prick dressed as a joke, loud enough for the others at the table to go silent.

Quinn’s arm immediately stiffened against yours.

You didn’t need to look at him to know his jaw was tight. His hand found yours beneath the table.

He stood up slowly, cradling Finn who had just fallen asleep in his arms.

“You know,” Quinn said, voice calm but edged with steel.

“I’ve seen a lot of things on the ice. Broken bones. Knocked-out teeth. Guys playing with torn ligaments just to stay in the game.”

He glanced down at you before locking eyes with Dean.

“But I have never, in my life, seen anyone braver than the woman sitting next to me. She went through twenty-six hours of labor before being rushed into surgery. She let someone cut her open for our son. And I stood there, helpless, watching her bleed so that he could breathe.”

The room was completely still. Dean shrank a little.

“And you have the nerve,” Quinn said, now shifting his weight as if he needed to anchor himself, “to reduce all of that, her courage, her pain to a joke?”

His voice stayed quiet, but it hit like a punch.

“If you ever talk about my wife, mother of my child like that again,” he added.

“You won’t be invited to any room she’s in. And let’s get one thing clear, Dean, you weren’t invited to this family-and-friends-only event, so the fact that you showed up unannounced is not only out of line, it’s straight-up disrespectful.”

You reached for his hand, heart thudding at how fiercely protective he was. Quinn looked at you next and immediately softened.

He kissed your temple, then turned back to the group.

“Sorry, everyone. Just had to make that clear.”

And just like that, he sat back down, rocking Finn gently in his arms.

The rest of the night was a little quieter, a little tenser, but still filled with laughter and joy, especially when your little boy gurgled in his sleep and made your mom cry again.

Back home, your body began to ache.

It started as a dull throb in your breast, then tightened. By the time you were in bed, it was pulsing with sharp pain.

You tried to massage it gently, hoping it was nothing but the lump was firm and the ache unbearable.

“Quinn…”

You whispered, curled on your side, your voice small.

He was halfway through unpacking Finn’s diaper bag when he turned, already concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think… I think I have a milk clot.”

Quinn was at your side in seconds.

“Okay. Okay, come here, honey. Let me help.”

You were embarrassed, frustrated with the pain, with the leak that had already stained your sleep shirt, with the way the bed sheets were now damp. But Quinn didn’t even care. He helped you sit up, supporting you with one hand and grabbing a warm compress with the other.

Your breast leaked milk, and some of it got on his shirt.

“Quinn, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry, my love.”

he interrupted gently, cupping your face.

“Do you think I care about a shirt?”

He carefully eased the wet sheets off the bed, replacing them with fresh ones while you laid in the guest room for a moment. Then he returned, shirtless now, and helped you lie down again.

“Anything else I can get you?”

You shook your head, eyes glassy from the pain and exhaustion.

Quinn leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“You’re doing amazing, my love. I’ve got you.”

Once the pain had subsided and Finn was back to sleep, you rested against Quinn’s chest.

“You know,” he said softly, fingers tracing your arm,

“If I ever have to fight someone again, it’ll probably be over you.”

You chuckled tiredly. “You didn’t fight.”

“No, I did not” he agreed.

“But I wanted to. And I meant what I said. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

You turned slightly to look at him. “Even when I make a mess? Leak milk all over the bed?”

He smiled. “Especially then.”

And before you could say anything else, he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, then lower to your scar, still healing, still tender.

“That’s the mark of the day I became a dad,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing more beautiful.”

Tears slipped from your eyes. Not from pain. But from love.

From Quinn.

Always, Quinn.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic idea: The Cousin

Clark had always known that Krypton was an entire planet with more than just a few cities scattered about, but it was a very distant knowledge that he grew up with.

Yes, it was sad that he was among the few Kyptonians left in the universe, but Clark has always considered himself human before anything else. He was Jonathan Kent and Martha Kent's son long before he learned of his identity as Kal-El.

It made him feel guilty that he preferred being Clark Kent to Kal-El, but it was the honest truth, as mean as it was.

Kara had once accused him of not understanding what it mean to have lost their home planet like she did. She often pointed out that his Kryptonese sounded like someone who had learned it as a second language. She also claimed that he was only pretending to be Kryptonian in another argument, and the worst was when she stated he wasn't Kryptonian enough. She raged because she was mourning the loss of her planet and people, and lashing out at him was easier.

He knew that, but it still stung, though not in the way she wanted. It stung because of the guilt: He agreed that he was prouder to be considered an Earthling than a Kryptonian.

He couldn't help that English rested more comfortably on his tongue or the scents of Earth's food were far more appetizing than the meals Kara made (As close to her family's recipes as she could. There were some spices Earth similarly couldn't substitute)

His rocket ship was his parents' attempt to stuff as much of their culture as they could into it before their people were wiped out. He tried hard to learn everything they managed to save, but he didn't connect to it as strongly as he did in history class listening to the USA's humble beginnings.

He felt guilty about that, too.

When they found Kon-El, he let Kara give him a name, only to later discover what Kon in Kryptonian meant. By that point, the clone had built an entire identity out of the name, and seeing his cousin's smug smirk made his insides turn.

He didn't like the clone, but he didn't think the boy deserved that. Though Clark should have done something, eventually, he would help rebrand the name, shifting the translation of the more modern (or it was before Kypton was no more) to an older Kryptonian one. Although Kara acted like he was destroying more of their culture, Clark felt it was better this way.

It was a struggle to be trapped between two worlds, but Clark knew which one he would choose every single time.

Then Bruce found the boy.

As usual, Bruce kept an eye on all major powers, including up-and-coming heroes. He first gained wind of the young hero in Amity Park from a young Wes Weston, who posted daily about Phantom. Since Phantom seemed to fall under the jurisdiction of the Justice League Dark, Clark didn't pay much attention to him.

Bruce had eyes on the young hero and had sent Robin to offer training and support, but the boy seemed much more interested in staying in his own part of the world and fighting the dead. Clark could respect that.

All heroes had an area that was undoubtedly theirs, and Phantom picked the most haunted place in the country to protect. It made sense. Months went by with Bruce occasionally bringing up the boy in meetings, to either update them on his work or praise the child for his missions in that weird, emotionless way Bruce talked as Batman.

Then, one day, Kara barged into the meeting, about to argue for her right to join the Justice League, when her eyes landed on the hologram of Phantom, which was frozen in place. Her mouth opened and closed, eyes wide, before she blurted out, "You found someone from the house of Lor-Van!?"

"What?" Clark sat up, recognizing his mother's maiden name.

"Look at his chest! That's the Lor-Van symbol!" Kara screeched, hope starting to bloom in her eyes. "He's your cousin, Kal. Likely from your mother's young brother! I heard he was attempting to make a rocket on the other side of Kypton, but I never knew if he was successful....but he must have! He has your mother's eyes!"

Clark feels like someone kicked him in the chest. His voice cracks as he asks, "There were other refugees from Kypton?"

Whatever glee was on Kara's face died a painful death as she turned away, hiding her tears. "Not everyone believed Uncle Jor, but not everyone thinks he was lying. They just didn't make it."

The silence in the meeting hall is heavy. Clark is only half aware of his teammates shooting unsure glances between the two aliens until Bruce clears his throat. "If Phantom is truly of house Lor-Van, I think it's time to approach him again, especially since he's a ghost. Anyone with magic can take control of him."

"Oh," Kara's voice is small. "He didn't make it either."

Clark leaps to drag Kara into a hug. She goes willingly, but doesn't hug back as she stays stiff as a board, hiding her face in his chest. "He should have been your age. Makes sense why he's still a teenager."

He doesn't know what to say to make her feel better. Nothing will feel better when you lose your entire world.

"We could go meet him, " he offers instead. Clark feels Kara move her head against his chest in one brisk nod, but it's enough for him to excuse himself from the rest of the League. They wave away his apology, offering to come with them for moral support, but Clark feels it's something he and Kara should be able to handle on their own.

She's crying on her way back to Earth, aiming for the part of the planet that houses Amity Park. Clark could have just had the Zeta beams from the Watch Tower, but he felt a flight would have done her some good.

"I don't know why I'm sad," She laughs wetly. "It's not like he's my cousin. He's a cousin of a cousin. I just thought...."

"I know," he tells her, pretending not to see the flooding tears behind her. Maybe we can find out what happened to him."

Maybe he was raised on Earth before his early death. Maybe Phantom is like me. Clark says, but he hopes. Even if it were a ghost, it would be nice to have someone understand.

The two Supers don't say anything else as they re-enter Earth's skies, and they can spot a ain't green glowing monster fighting against another smaller white glowing figure on the horizon.

[iamthatonefangirl]

riding beefy bucky while he praises the living shit out of you bug also degrading you just a little (freaking love your work!!!!!!!!)

forever - nsfw beefy bucky

oh you know it anon. I love beefy bucky and his LIPS and his HAIR and his ARMS

(lmk if you'd like to pick an emoji ily)

~~~

he's laying back on the bed, sheets mussed and soaked in sweat. he's craning his neck up to look at you, all while he's whining like a baby and watching you move up and down so perfectly on his dick.

"god, you're such a good little whore for me. taking it so well for me, just like always, you know that, babydoll?"

he grabs at the flesh of your ass before running his hand up to the small of your back where he pushes gently down on you to keep you from moving again. the sudden change surprises you when he doesn't let you up, holding you in place, just admiring the view from behind.

you've never ridden him like this before, facing away from him. while the feeling is heavenly, he misses seeing you.

"wanna see your pretty face, baby," he admits, completely out of breath. you smile to yourself, even as tired as you are, sweat dripping down your forehead and narrowly missing falling into your eyes.

you un-straddle him and turn around to lay on him for a moment, resting a hand on his chest as you lean down to kiss his soft, perky lips.

he grips you by the waist, dipping his tongue into your mouth lazily as you kiss for a few slow minutes. everything else seems so infinitesimal as you feel him kissing you so perfectly. somehow he just makes you feel whole, especially when he kisses you like this, like he's truly trying to show you how much he loves you.

eventually, you both get yourself worked up again. he manhandles you without any effort at all, easily picking you up and moving your entire weight on top of him. he wraps a hand around the base of his length and begins to rut up against you, coating himself in your arousal once again.

"love the way you react to me," he says, still sounding like he's stunned into breathlessness. you always take his breath away with your inherent beauty. "such a good girl. so pretty. letting me fuck her the way she deserves," he heaves while he notches his tip against your opening.

he slowly pulls you back down onto him, stretching you out once again. he's far more pleased with this position, watching your every facial expression as he opens you up for him.

he's so big, you wonder every time how it fits inside you. "made for me," he whispers when your hips meet his, taking his entire length in stride.

"you're gonna be gaping for me, all open and loose, aren't you baby?" he teases, and you throw your head back a little bit while you begin to move on top of him.

he helps you, taking the strain off your knees. he's fucking you so beautifully, adjusting your hips under his grip to try and find your sweet spot.

"look at me, sweetheart," he pleads. he needs to see your face, the way your eyes are hooded with lust for him, the way your jaw clenches and relaxes...

"tell me you're my good girl.”

"oh..." is all you manage as he finally thrusts just right to make you whine out into the room.

he watches as your jaw drops slightly to form the syllable, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating your skin and the droplets of sweat on your brow.

you're fucking stunning like this. tits on display, face tilted perfectly to let him watch you, letting yourself go as you ride him.

"sweetheart?" he goads, patting your ass gently. "what did I say?"

"your good girl," you affirm for him, knowing it's true. "only for you."

"who stretches you open so good, hmm? who's allowed to fuck you til you're a wet, gaping mess?"

"you, Bucky. only you," you whisper, bringing your fingertips to your clit to send you over the edge.

"uh-uh. when I'm fucking you, I'm the one who pleaures you, baby," he corrects, batting your hand away and replacing it with his own.

once upon a time, you were too scared to ride him like this. but with a lot of encouragement and kisses and orgasms, you gained the courage. he fucking adores the way you're so shameless, granting him the privilege of seeing every inch of you this way.

"yes, please, Bucky," you reply, so in love with the feeling of his fingers on you.

he sees the way you're getting tired, and even with his help, it's a lot of work. good thing he's so damn strong.

he digs his metal fingers in deeper to the plush of your waist and sits up, bringing your chests together. he practically lifts you over and over, doing all the work for you, all with one hand. you love how strong he is, how his muscles and his tits and his tummy are all so delectable.

his flesh fingers continue to work you between your legs where you're joined, and he begins to whisper in your ear. "my pretty baby. too weak to even ride me til she comes, isn't that right?"

"need your help, Bucky, always," you say, spurring him on. you love when he gets like this; you know how it helps his self-esteem, feeling like you actually need him for something. which of course, you do. how he could ever doubt that is beyond you.

"tell me you love me," he says out of nowhere. "please, baby. say my name when you come. and tell me you love me."

he's the one sounding so desperate now. you hear the vulnerability in his words, the way he's getting in his head.

you grip his hair gently but firmly, bringing him to make eye contact with you.

"I love you, James. I love you forever," you affirm.

he nods, taking in your words. it's hard for him to accept, but he knows you mean it. he trusts you, he loves you. he knows you're going to tell him the truth, always.

"I love you, too, baby. love you forever, too," he whines. even for a man of such strength and resolve, you see it begin to crack as his face contorts in need and the movements of his hips begin to falter.

"come on, pretty girl. let me see you come," he encourages. "let me see how good I make you feel written all over your gorgeous face."

at that, you grit your teeth and let it happen. he loves your expressions, the natural responses you have to everything, and he loves to see your face when you come.

you tried to hide your face from him one time when you came, and he was not pleased.

"James," you whine, and your voice breaks as you come. you squeeze him like a vice, sending him into his own orgasm.

he lets out a beautiful cry, saying your name and a soft "love you, baby."

he leans into you, holding you close to his chest, letting your heat soak into his skin. you pepper kisses over his soft cheeks and his lips.

"I love you, baby. so much. always and forever," you whisper as you worship him the way he deserves.

"I love you, baby. gonna make sure you're mine forever. never gonna let anything happen to you..."

~~~

uhh someone tell me where this softness came from. but I guess even with the shameless smut I write I'm still a lovergirl at heart smh

anyways its after 11:30pm and I just wrote this but I had to get a post out before the day is over bc i love you all

masterlist

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bucky tag list:

@clavedelune @starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @bananababygirl10 @multiversefanfics @winchestert101 @andziabarnes @chrisevansleftnipple @daisydark @luckyhornet @maryevm @avengemepercy @mandoloriancookie @starstruck-cowgirl @doubledizzy22 @yvespecially

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which this is the end

She drives you home with one hand on the wheel and the other never letting go of yours.

You’re quiet in the car—not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything has already been said.

You’re engaged.

And somehow the world hasn’t stopped turning.

The first call is to your closest friend.

You barely say hello before you hear, “Did she do it?!”

You laugh through tears. “She did.”

Screams. Actual screams. You hold the phone away from your ear as Paige grins behind the wheel.

The second call is Paige’s.

She FaceTimes Nika, KK and Azzi from the couch while you’re curled into her side, your head on her shoulder, ring catching the afternoon light.

Azzi starts sobbing immediately.

Nika just nods like she knew.

“You guys are gross,” she says.

But her smile doesn’t fade for hours.

The texts come in waves.

Your people.

Her teammates.

The group chat explodes.

KK sends confetti emojis. Geno sends a picture of a bottle of wine with the caption finally. Your aunt texts, I’m crying at work. Your old chef mentor just replies, She better deserve you.

She does.

God, she does.

You keep the engagement offline.

Not because it’s a secret.

Because it’s sacred.

It’s just for now.

Just for you.

The world can wait.

You start planning that same night.

Not for a big ceremony.

Not for a hundred guests or a designer gown.

You want intimacy.

You want to hear her vows without a microphone.

You want to feel her hand in yours without a spotlight.

You want a wedding that feels like an exhale.

Paige offers to plan the whole thing.

You say no.

“I want to plan it with you,” you tell her. “Because I want us to build it together. Even this.”

She nods.

And from then on, every spare moment is yours.

You tour a small vineyard just outside the city.

Paige squeezes your hand as you walk the rows of vines, golden light falling over everything.

“This,” you say.

She doesn’t even ask why.

Because she feels it too.

She picks a suit.

Cream-colored. Soft lapels. No tie.

You run your hands along her collar the moment she tries it on.

“Damn,” you whisper. “I’m in trouble.”

She smirks. “You’re the one marrying me.”

You grin. “That’s exactly why I’m in trouble.”

Your dress is simple.

Light fabric. No corset. No lace.

Just something that breathes with you.

That lets you dance.

That lets you feel like yourself.

You cry when you put it on.

Not because it’s perfect.

But because it’s right.

One night, two weeks before the wedding, you sit on the floor together writing your vows.

You don't share them.

But she looks at you, pen in hand, and says, “You know... every time I think I couldn’t love you more, you prove me wrong.”

You reach over, brush your fingers through her hair.

“Then I’m going to keep trying. Every day we get.”

She kisses your wrist, right where the pulse beats strong.

And you both write the rest of your hearts onto paper.

Together.

The vineyard sleeps under a silver sky.

You’re staying in a tiny guesthouse tucked between the vines. The walls smell like lavender and old books. The windows creak softly in the wind.

The wedding is tomorrow.

And Paige is sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of your hoodies and a look you’ve never seen before.

A mix of nerves and awe.

“You okay?” you ask, brushing a hand down her leg as you pass by.

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Just watches you set down two mugs of tea on the nightstand. Honey chamomile. The same kind you made her the first time she stayed the night, long before either of you called this love.

You sit beside her.

She leans in.

“I keep thinking,” she says softly, “what if I forget to say the right thing?”

You smile. “You won’t.”

“But what if I cry in the middle? Or trip? Or say your middle name wrong?”

“You definitely will.”

She laughs. “You're not helping.”

You take her hand.

“Hey.”

She looks at you.

“You could stand there and read me the ingredients on a cereal box and I’d still marry you.”

She exhales. Shaky. Grateful.

You lean in, rest your forehead against hers.

“Tomorrow isn’t about being perfect,” you whisper. “It’s about being real. And I’ve never been more sure of anything than I am about you.”

She wraps her arms around you then.

And holds you like she’s saying thank you without words.

Later, you both lie on the floor.

Backs pressed against the rug. Lights off. Only the glow of the moon washing through the windows.

“Do you remember the night I asked you if you wanted company?” she asks.

You smile in the dark. “Your famous Thai food and chaos text.”

“I was scared,” she says. “You didn’t know that. But I was terrified I was too late. That someone else had already seen you the way I had.”

You turn your head toward her. “You weren’t late.”

“I was just in time.”

You nod. “You were exactly in time.”

Silence again.

But full.

Brimming.

You reach for her hand.

She laces your fingers together without a word.

At some point, she whispers, “Can I tell you something I’ve never said out loud?”

You nod, even though she can’t see you.

“Sometimes I still wake up thinking this is temporary. That you’ll be gone. That I imagined you.”

Your chest tightens.

“Then I reach out,” she continues, “and there you are. Real. Warm. Breathing. And every time, I promise myself I won’t take another second for granted.”

You squeeze her hand.

“You don’t,” you whisper.

“I try not to.”

“You don’t have to try,” you say. “You already love me like time is made of glass.”

You feel her breath catch.

And then she turns toward you.

Pulls you into her chest.

And for a long time, neither of you speak.

You just hold each other.

Letting the night be quiet.

Letting it hold you both before the morning opens everything.

You wake before the sun.

The light hasn’t touched the sky yet, but you’re wide awake, heart pounding like it’s running toward something. Your room is quiet. Paige isn’t here—by choice. You decided the night before to sleep separately, not out of superstition but to feel the moment when you see her again. Fresh. New. Yours.

You roll over and stare at the ceiling.

Today, you marry her.

Today, you promise everything—with no timeline, no guarantees, just love.

You exhale slowly.

And begin.

By 8:00 a.m., your people arrive.

Your best friend brings coffee. Another friend brings a small speaker and plays your “soft mornings” playlist while doing your hair. Your cousin quietly unpacks your dress and steams it, hands trembling just a little because she can’t stop crying every time she looks at you.

You sit by the window while someone curls strands of your hair around their fingers.

No one talks about the illness today.

No one talks about time.

They just talk about love.

About how they knew it would be her.

About how you started glowing the moment she walked into your life.

You laugh.

You cry.

You sip too-hot coffee from a chipped mug and say, “I feel like I’m floating.”

Your best friend smiles. “Then we’ll hold you down until she lifts you higher.”

Across the vineyard, Paige is getting ready too.

Azzi is tying her tie—yes, she changed her mind and went with a soft beige tie after all.

Nika is ironing the hem of her suit jacket.

KK keeps pacing.

“She’s going to pass out,” she mumbles.

“She’s going to cry,” Azzi mutters back.

“I’m already crying,” Paige says, holding her phone in one hand, reading a note she saved weeks ago.

Things I’ll say if I can’t get through my vows without sobbing.

1. I love you more than your banana bread. 2. You are the only one who makes me want forever—even if forever is shorter than it should be. 3. You are the bravest thing that ever happened to me. 4. Yes. Always, yes.

She snaps it shut and stands.

Hands shaking.

Voice steady.

“Let’s do this,” she whispers.

Back in your room, you stand in front of the mirror.

Your dress hangs soft and light around your body.

Your heart feels like it’s beating against your ribs, like it’s trying to get to her before your feet do.

Your friend steps forward and gently clips your necklace.

The same one Paige gave you the night she said “I love you” for the first time.

You look at yourself.

Eyes wide. Lips trembling. Chest full of everything.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

Your friend smiles through her tears.

“That’s how you know it’s real.”

You nod.

And then the knock comes.

Soft. Intentional.

The coordinator opens the door.

“They’re ready for you.”

You step outside.

The wind is gentle.

The light is gold.

Your hands are cold, but your heart is burning.

And somewhere, just beyond the vineyard rows—

She’s waiting.

You step out from behind the vineyard trellis, and for a second—just a second—everything stops.

The sky has turned that exact shade of honey it only holds right before sunset. The rows of grapevines stretch out like open arms, and the soft hum of strings plays from somewhere hidden behind the altar.

But none of that matters.

Because you see her.

And she sees you.

Paige stands at the end of the aisle, under the arch you both chose, her suit kissed by golden light, hands clasped tight in front of her, like she’s praying and shaking and flying all at once.

When her eyes land on you, they don’t blink.

Her breath catches.

You see her whisper something to herself.

There she is.

You take one step forward.

Your knees are trembling.

Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, and for a terrifying moment, you don’t know if you’ll make it the whole way without falling apart.

But then she smiles.

Soft. Disbelieving. Like she’s never seen anything so holy.

And you forget fear.

You walk.

Not fast. Not slow.

You walk like time has bent itself around this moment.

Like nothing before and nothing after could possibly compare.

The breeze picks up as you pass the first row of chairs—your friends, your people, all of them rising to their feet. Some are already crying. Some are smiling through tears. One of your friends whispers, “Oh my God,” like she’s seeing something divine.

But you don’t look at any of them.

You only look at her.

Paige’s eyes never leave yours.

You see it all in them.

The memory of your first conversation over curry.

The quiet nights.

The broken plate.

The diagnosis.

The fear.

The yes.

The yes.

She swallows hard as you near.

One hand lifts—like she’s reaching without thinking.

You reach back.

The moment your fingers touch, the crowd disappears.

There’s only her.

Only you.

Only this.

“You came,” she whispers.

You laugh through your tears.

“I always was.”

She takes your hand fully now, steps forward, gently presses her forehead to yours.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

“Hi,” you breathe back.

And together, with fingers laced and tears already falling, you turn to face the one person standing at the arch—your officiant, your friend—who says, voice steady, “Are we ready?”

You and Paige look at each other.

Smiling.

Breaking.

Becoming.

And you both say, together,

“We are.”

The wind quiets.

The crowd stills.

Even the sun seems to pause, lingering in the golden sky like it knows this moment matters.

You and Paige stand beneath the arch—hands still joined, eyes full of what words could never contain.

The officiant speaks softly.

“We are gathered here not just to witness a marriage, but to honor a choice. A choice to love boldly, presently, completely—regardless of how many days are ahead. This is not about forever in time, but forever in devotion. In choosing. In staying.”

You squeeze Paige’s hand.

She squeezes back.

Then the officiant nods toward her.

“Paige,” they say. “Your vows.”

She turns to you.

And for a second, she doesn’t speak.

She just stares—eyes glistening, jaw trembling.

And then, in a voice that breaks halfway through the first word.

“I never expected it to be you.”

She smiles through the tears.

“Not because I didn’t believe in love. But because I didn’t believe love could look like this. So quiet. So steady. So brave.”

You bite your lip.

“I thought I knew what strength was,” she continues. “I thought it was scoring in the fourth quarter, pushing through pain, carrying the weight of pressure. But then I met you.”

She steps a little closer.

“And strength became something else entirely. It became waking up with a diagnosis and still smiling at me. It became letting me see you on the hard days. It became writing letters you thought I’d never read. Loving me even when you were scared. Letting me love you even when I was.”

Her voice cracks.

She breathes.

And keeps going.

“I don’t know how much time we have. But I do know this—every second with you has already been a lifetime I wouldn’t trade for anything.”

She reaches for your cheek, brushes away a tear.

“I vow to make joy louder than fear. I vow to make coffee, even if I burn it. I vow to remind you every day that you are not your illness, and you never will be.”

You’re sobbing now.

So is she.

“I vow to stay. As long as I’m allowed. And then longer still—in photos, in stories, in every recipe you taught me, and every breath that carries your name.”

She lets out a shaking breath.

“I love you. And I always will. Still.”

There is no applause.

Just silence.

And then the officiant turns to you.

You nod.

And begin.

“You were supposed to be a customer.”

The crowd chuckles softly.

Paige smiles, crying.

“You sat at my counter and asked for comfort food. I didn’t know then that you’d become it. That you’d sit across from me for so many days that you’d start to feel like home.”

You pause. Blink away the tears.

“I never thought I’d fall in love with someone like you—so focused, so public, so big. But then you laughed at my burnt cookies, cried when you read poetry badly, and showed up with Thai food and hope on the night I couldn’t move.”

Your voice shakes.

“I didn’t know how to let someone stay. But you made it feel safe.”

She’s sobbing.

You step closer, hands shaking in hers.

“I don’t have forever to give you. I wish I did. But what I do have is this. I vow to live every moment with you like it’s the only one that matters. I vow to kiss you like time is folding around us. I vow to let you carry the weight with me—even when I pretend I’m fine. I vow to say ‘I love you’ every morning, even if one day I can’t say much else. And when I can’t say anything anymore…”

You take a trembling breath.

“…I vow that my love will still be here. In the songs you hum. In the recipes we wrote. In the way you breathe in the sunlight and remember that we chose each other.”

A pause.

“I choose you. Still. Always. Yes.”

The officiant steps back, eyes full.

And simply says…

“With these vows, you are already bound. But if your hearts are ready—go ahead and seal it with a kiss.”

You don’t wait.

Neither does she.

You crash into each other with the softest, fiercest kiss—tears on your cheeks, laughter in your mouths, promises on your lips.

Your people cheer.

The sun sinks behind you.

And just like that—

You are wives.

The crowd fades.

The music swells.

But all you feel is her hand in yours.

You and Paige walk back up the aisle to cheers and flower petals and laughter—but it all blurs. She squeezes your hand so tightly, you think maybe it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

When you reach the edge of the vineyard, just past the last row of chairs, she tugs you aside.

Around the corner.

Away from everyone.

Just for a minute.

And then she wraps her arms around your waist, lifts you off the ground, and spins.

You laugh into her neck, still crying, still stunned.

“We did it,” you whisper.

“We did,” she murmurs back. “And you—you were…”

You pull back slightly.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

She cups your face.

“You were the most beautiful thing this world has ever seen.”

You laugh, lips trembling.

“So were you.”

The sun sinks low.

Dinner is soft and loud all at once—clinking glasses, candlelight, warm food, warm eyes.

Toasts are made.

Nika starts hers by saying, “You both are a disaster. But you’re our disaster.”

Your friend reads a line from your favorite poem.

Azzi just raises her glass and says, “To the both of you.”

You look at Paige.

She’s already looking at you.

You reach for her hand under the table.

Later, long after the cake is cut, someone plays your song—the one she danced to in your kitchen the first time she tried to cook for you. The one that makes you cry in the car when it rains.

She stands, holds out her hand.

“May I?”

You nod.

She leads you into the grass, just past the lights, where the shadows are soft and the stars are just beginning to breathe.

You dance barefoot.

Slowly.

No one else joins.

It’s yours.

Only yours.

She rests her forehead to yours.

“I think the universe made you out of everything I needed,” she whispers.

You close your eyes.

“I think the universe gave me you right on time.”

You both cry, swaying under the sky.

Not from sadness.

From fullness.

From wonder.

That night, she carries you over the threshold of the guesthouse, even though you laugh and say she’ll hurt her back.

She says, “I’ll carry you forever if I have to.”

You believe her.

You change into soft clothes—nothing fancy, just you and her, bare feet and quiet sighs.

You brush your teeth beside her and keep catching her looking at you in the mirror like she still can’t believe you said yes.

She wraps her arms around you from behind and whispers, “I love my wife.”

You breathe out a laugh.

You whisper it back.

And when you lie down beside her, pressed together beneath the sheets, legs tangled and fingers tracing rings you haven’t taken off since the ceremony—

You whisper one more thing into the stillness.

“Thank you.”

She pulls you closer.

“For what?” she asks.

“For choosing me,” you whisper. “Even when time doesn’t.”

She kisses your knuckles.

“No matter how much time we get,” she says, “this night will live forever in me.”

And then she kisses you like the vow still lives on her tongue.

And you fall asleep in her arms.

Married.

Still.

It’s been months.

The world hasn’t stopped.

It’s just… slower now.

You and Paige live in rhythms now. Not plans.

You take mornings as they come—some with sunshine, some with numb hands and aching joints, some with tears before coffee.

She never flinches.

She just holds you like the world is still good.

Because with her—it is.

Your body betrays you more often now.

Some days you can’t button your own shirt.

Some days your legs tremble too long after standing.

But Paige learns with you.

She learns how to tie your laces.

She learns how to hold your arm without making it feel like pity.

She learns how to look at you like you’re still you.

And she says, almost daily, “You’re more you now than ever.”

You cook less now.

She tries more.

Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s chaos.

Once, she confused salt and sugar and served you the saltiest pancakes known to mankind.

You ate every bite.

She cried when you told her they were “aggressively unique.”

Then you both laughed until you forgot what pain even felt like.

You still take pictures.

Every morning, just like she asked.

Hair a mess, eyes tired, sun sometimes not even up yet.

She says every photo looks like a love letter.

You say she’s biased.

But maybe she’s right.

Some days, you write.

When your fingers let you.

You keep a journal on the windowsill.

One line a day. No pressure.

She danced with me in the kitchen again.

Today the pain wasn’t louder than her laugh.

She still looks at me like I hung the stars.

You never talked about the countdown again.

Not in numbers.

You just talk about today.

And sometimes tomorrow.

But mostly just now.

It’s been a year.

The doctor calls it progression.

You call it redefining.

You walk slower. Rest more. Your speech has softened, slurred on long days.

But you’re still here.

You’re still.

Paige learns new ways to care for you without making it feel like sacrifice.

She reads to you when your voice gives out.

She paints your nails on days when your hands ache.

She kisses your scars like they’re sacred.

Like they’re proof you’re still fighting.

You don’t go out as much.

But friends come over.

They bring food and flowers and sit on the floor like they always have.

They cry less now.

You all laugh more.

Once, someone said, “You’re teaching us how to live.”

You said, “I’m just learning how to stay.”

And every night, before bed, Paige tucks you in.

Sometimes with a kiss.

Sometimes with silence.

Sometimes with tears.

But always with love.

You rest your head on her chest and whisper, “Another day.”

She holds you tighter.

“Another day,” she repeats. “Still.”

You haven’t been to a game in months.

Not since the symptoms worsened.

Not since travel started taking more from you than it gave.

But when Paige comes home with that look in her eyes—wide, teary, stubborn—you know she’s already decided.

“We’re going to the arena,” she says softly, kneeling beside your chair. “Just one more time.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she shakes her head.

“I want to give you this.”

You press your forehead to hers.

She’s trembling.

So are you.

But you nod.

Because this love has always been about the one more.

The team pulls every string.

The Wings staff reserves a private suite just for you. No cameras. No crowd. Just glass windows and soft lighting and space for Paige to come to you when it’s over.

Your friends help you dress.

A soft jersey over your shoulders. The one with her number on it. The one she signed months ago, when neither of you could say why.

You hold it together until the drive to the arena.

Then Paige reaches across the console, threads your fingers together, and says,

“This one’s for you.”

The crowd is loud.

The lights are bright.

But none of it touches you.

All you see is her.

Number 5. Your wife. Your heart.

She walks out for warmups and glances up at the suite. You’re already there, hands curled in your lap, eyes on her.

When she sees you, she smiles.

Big. Unapologetic. Like you are the sun breaking through the roof.

She taps her chest.

Then points at you.

You mouth, I love you.

She mouths, Forever.

The game starts.

And Paige plays like the clock doesn’t matter.

She weaves through defenders like they’re mist.

She shoots like the basket owes her something.

She flies.

The arena chants her name.

But every time she scores, she looks up.

Not at the scoreboard.

At you.

Fourth quarter. Tie game. Final seconds.

Ball in her hands.

She could pass.

She doesn’t.

She takes the shot.

Swish.

Buzzer.

The crowd erupts.

You don’t hear it.

Because your ears are full of your heartbeat.

Of her name.

Of the weight of this moment.

She did it.

For you.

After the court clears, she sprints up the tunnel.

Still in her jersey.

Still catching her breath.

Your door opens.

She falls to her knees beside your chair.

And you see it—right there in her eyes.

She knows.

So do you.

This was your last game.

Your last adventure.

You smile anyway.

Because what a damn goodbye.

She buries her face in your lap, crying hard now, breath hitching.

You run your hand through her hair, slow, unsteady.

“You were amazing,” you whisper.

She lifts her head.

“You were here,” she says. “That’s what made it everything.”

You pull her close.

“You gave me a life inside a year.”

She nods, broken and shining.

“You gave me every lifetime,” she whispers.

And in that moment, the ending feels less like a goodbye.

And more like a thank you.

—

The house is warm.

Afternoon sun spills across the living room floor in long golden lines. Somewhere outside, wind chimes tinkle softly in the breeze. Inside, crayons are scattered across the kitchen table, a pink plastic tiara lies abandoned on the floor, and a little girl—six years old, with tangled curls and wide eyes—climbs into her mother’s lap, thoughtful.

“Mama,” she says. “Can I ask something?”

Paige Bueckers looks down at her daughter, smiles. “Always.”

“Why is my name Y/N?”

Paige stills.

Just for a second.

A blink. A breath. A flicker of time folding in.

But it’s enough.

Emily—her wife—watches from the hallway, her smile softening, her heart already bracing.

Paige swallows.

Her hands, rough from coaching and gardening and life, wrap gently around their daughter’s smaller ones.

She could lie.

She could say the name just sounded beautiful.

She could say it came to her in a dream.

But instead, she says the truth.

“There was a girl I loved,” Paige begins, her voice steady. “Before you were born. Before even Mommy.”

Little Y/N tilts her head. “Like a girlfriend?”

Paige smiles. “Yes. A long time ago. She was my first great love.”

“What was she like?”

Paige’s eyes glaze, just slightly—like she’s not looking at the room anymore.

“She was... brave. The kind of brave that doesn’t need to shout about it. She made people feel safe just by being near. She cooked like it was magic. She laughed with her whole body. And she had this way of looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.”

Y/N blinks, leaning in. “What happened?”

Paige hesitates. Then continues, voice gentler now.

“She got sick. Really sick. And we didn’t have much time.”

Y/N frowns. “Did she die?”

“Yes, baby,” Paige says, brushing hair back from her daughter’s forehead. “She did. But before she did, she gave me everything. A year that felt like a lifetime. A love that I still feel, even now.”

“Was she sad?”

“Sometimes. But mostly she was kind. And funny. And so, so full of love. She made every day count.”

Y/N stares at her hands for a moment.

“So... I’m named after her?”

Paige nods.

“Because I wanted to remember. Because she deserved to be remembered. And because when you were born, I looked at you and thought—of course. There you are.”

Y/N’s lip wobbles. “I wish I could meet her.”

Paige swallows a lump in her throat.

“I think... in a way, you already have.”

Y/N wraps her arms around Paige’s waist and holds her tight.

Then, a moment later—because she’s six, and that’s what six-year-olds do—she wriggles out of the hug and runs off to play with a cape around her shoulders and mismatched socks on her feet.

Paige watches her go.

And lets the silence return.

Emily steps into the room.

She doesn’t speak.

She just walks up behind Paige and places her hands gently on her shoulders.

Paige leans back into her without looking.

“I didn’t think it would hit me like that,” she murmurs. “It’s been so long.”

Emily presses a kiss into her hair.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

Paige finally turns her head.

Her eyes are glassy. Distant. But not broken.

“She was everything,” she says.

“I know.”

“She’s still in here,” Paige says, pressing a palm to her heart. “Even now.”

Emily nods, kneeling beside her.

“I don’t want to forget her,” Paige whispers.

Emily cups her cheek.

“You never could.”

They stay like that for a while—quiet, held.

And outside, their daughter runs in circles, laughing loud enough to echo.

A name carried forward.

A love still breathing in the spaces between.

Still.

Always.

It had been years.

Paige had stopped counting a long time ago—not because she forgot, but because time began to feel less like something that passed, and more like something she carried.

She kept your memory in quiet places. In the music she played while cooking Sunday breakfast. In the old Polaroid stuck to the back of her journal. In the small ceramic spoon rest you made that still sat by the stove. She didn’t bring you up every day, not out of denial, but reverence.

She had a family now. A beautiful one. Emily was sunlight—kind in the mornings, steady at night. And their daughter, Y/N, was this wide-eyed, wild thing who asked hard questions and loved the moon.

They had a good life.

But grief doesn’t disappear.

It settles.

It takes up residence in the softest corners of joy.

And that’s where it lived now, years later, when Paige opened a box labeled “Kitchen (Keep)” and found the old recipe binder.

She hadn’t touched it in years. Not because she forgot it existed, but because she always knew exactly where it was. She just wasn’t ready. Until now.

It still smelled faintly like rosemary and something sweeter.

She opened it slowly, running her fingers over the familiar cover, smudged with butter, penciled-in substitutions, faded ink.

And then, tucked between the page for your lemon ginger soup and the notes for your banana bread, she saw the envelope.

Her name.

In your handwriting.

And underneath it, smaller, almost as if you’d written it at the last second…

If it’s been a while—read this.

She sat down on the floor, legs folding under her like she was twenty again. Her fingers trembled, but not from fear.

She opened it.

And you began.

Hi, my love.

If you’re reading this, it means I’m not beside you anymore.

And God, I wish I was.

I wish I could reach over and squeeze your hand the way I always did when I couldn’t find the words. I wish I could make you coffee with way too much cinnamon like I did that one time you teased me about seasonal flavors. I wish I could look you in the eyes and tell you, again and again, how proud I am of you. How grateful. How lucky.

But I can’t.

So I’m writing it down, hoping these words hold weight long after I’m gone.

I never imagined a love like the one we built. Not because I didn’t believe in love—but because I didn’t think it could live this quietly. This fiercely. This gently.

You taught me how to be held without shame. How to laugh even when my body hurt. How to sit in silence without needing to fill it. You showed me what it meant to live—not just exist, but live with both hands open.

You were my favorite place to land.

I know the days after me were hard.

I know the air must have felt heavier without my laugh in the kitchen or my voice beside yours in the early morning light. I know that for a while, everything probably tasted a little like salt—grief in the back of your throat, even when you tried to swallow joy.

But I also know you.

And I know you stayed soft. Stayed bright. Stayed Paige. Even when it hurt.

Thank you for that.

If you ever doubted whether you could love again—know this…

I want you to.

I want you to find warmth again. A lap to rest your head. A person to carry your tired. A laugh that stitched your heart back together.

I wanted you to have someone who loved you the way I did—openly, endlessly, and without apology.

To the one who gets to love you, if you’re reading over her shoulder—I hope you know how grateful I am.

Thank you for holding her through the storms I didn’t live to see.

Thank you for loving my girl.

And to the child you got to have…

I never got to meet you. But you carry a piece of me. And I hope when you run through the house yelling about butterflies or astronauts or peanut butter toast, your mama sees the way your smile curls and knows I’m not gone. Not really.

Paige, my heart, I need you to remember something.

You didn’t fail me.

Not once. Not ever.

You loved me through the hardest year of our lives.

You held me when my hands couldn’t hold you back.

You stayed, even as the days grew shorter.

You gave me a thousand lifetimes in one.

And when I closed my eyes for the last time, it was your voice I carried with me.

You are my safe place.

My home.

Still.

So if you’re crying now, that’s okay.

But after you cry—go make something. Paint. Sing. Cook something ridiculous with too much garlic. Take your kid to the lake and tell them the story about the time you burnt the toast and I pretended it was intentional. Let them laugh. Let them know.

Let them know I loved you with everything I had.

Let them know I left this world full.

And when you whisper into the night, when the stars are quiet and the house is sleeping, and you say my name like a secret—

I’ll be there.

I’ll always be there.

Still.

Always.

Yours, 

Y/N.

Paige didn’t move for a long time after finishing.

Her chest ached. Not like it used to. Not hollow. Not breaking.

Just full.

Full of you.

Full of the life you lived together.

Full of the love that never ended—only changed shape.

She looked up.

Outside, Emily was laughing in the garden. Little Y/N danced through the grass, barefoot and fearless.

Paige stood slowly, folded the letter back into its envelope, and held it against her chest.

“I miss you,” she whispered into the quiet room.

Then she walked outside.

To the life she built because you taught her how.

Still.

Always.

[shinoko-oshi]

Kidnapper reader x retired Simon

Simon should’ve seen it, he didn’t expect it to happen, never to him— until he ended chained up in a rather nice looking basement, well, at least nicer than all the ones he’d been held captive in.

But that was before, when he was still in the military, working with the task force 141. This was now. He’d long since retired, so who the hell did he piss off this time?

Though it was quite the opposite of “pissing off.” Quite different when he hears soft footsteps come down the stairs rather than harsh ones. No cruel look or barked orders: just a pretty bird with a plate of home cooked food in her hands.

You crouched, petting his head, looking at him with such love in your eyes he thought this was some kind of sick joke.

When he asked where the hell he was, you only replied with one word. “Home.” Then you told him to open wide, spoon filled with soup. When he didn’t, skeptical, all you did was smile, taking a sip yourself, reassuring him he was safe.

And that’s how the next few days went. You’d feed him, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, and look at him with a gaze that screamed obsession. When he finally demanded to know what this was, why he was here, you answered soft, like it was nothing more than a chat about the weather.

“I saw you at a cafe one day and knew you were perfect. That we were made for each other. So I stalked you, Si, and when I found the right move, I took you home. We’re soulmates, Simon.”

“You just need time to see that, though,” you added, peppering one last kiss to his forehead before walking back up the stairs.

The next time he woke, he was chained to a bed, both ankles and wrists. It was a change of scenery from the basement.

On the dresser in front of him sat a bottle of the cologne he wore regularly, alongside a woman’s perfume. Taped to the mirror were a few photos of you and him. All ones he didn’t even know existed, because he was asleep in his apartment in every one of them. One showed you kissing his cheek, grinning at the camera as you held it up.

The door creaked open. You walked in wearing one of his old shirts and pj shorts like you’d been living in his skin this whole time.

“I’m sorry I drugged your food earlier,” you frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I just needed to make sure you didn’t leave me.” You caressed his cheek, before sliding in beside him, resting your head on his chest as you pulled the covers over you both, muttering a quiet good night.

Simon had expected many things when he woke up in that basement. Expected to die there. Expected torture. Starvation. Not to be chained to a bed while a pretty bird, who claimed she loved him slept soundly on his chest.

You were clever about it, too. Made sure the chains both in the basement and here were strong enough to hold him. Though Simon knew he could escape. Should’ve. Two weeks here, and he’d had plenty of chances. But he didn’t.

Didn’t know why. Maybe some sick, twisted part of him liked being taken care of. Liked being loved so much someone like you would go to the ends of the earth to keep him. Even with all the scars and the past he carried. Even after everything he’d done with his own hands, you still loved him.

You were an angel. One sent by whatever gods still gave a damn.

A deranged, beautiful angel that would force him to be happy. That would chain him up and feed him soup and love him like he deserved good things.

His angel.

Should I make a part two..?

[jordiemeow]

summary: when anakin gets denied the rank of master, he's overwrought with tension. no better way to deal with it than sneaking out to visit his favourite girl at his favourite brothel on the lower levels of coruscant.

warnings: smut 18+, face-sitting, mild sub!anakin, reader is a prostitute, brief comfort ending in f!receiving oral, anakin is a giver!! cathartic head-giving

notes: in honour of may the fourth! need to remake my taglist for specific fandoms so not tagging anyone here. not my usual audience so if this flops idc but anakin has been on my mind a lot recently (when is he not). anyways happy star wars day :)

"It's... it's a joke, is what it is. And he didn't stick up for me. Not once. What an excuse for a mentor if he's just going to—"

You're not listening at this point. Head tilted, lips slick with red paint, body on display. It's a shame the sheer two-piece is going to waste on a Jedi rambling on about how betrayed he feels by the Order. It's also terribly hard to listen to said 'betrayal' when his robes and tunic have been shrugged off to leave him in just his pants, defined muscles rippling under the dim light of your private room.

Something about feeling too restricted. You'd laughed and said the removal of clothes was pretty typical in this establishment, but your attempts at levity proved futile. Fast forward to now...

"—And don't even get me started on Master Windu." (You weren't going to.) "How can he look me in the eyes and tell me that? Like I don't deserve it for all the work I've done for them. Risked my lives countless times. Saved millions—no, dare I say billions—and this is the thanks I get!"

Billions? You aren't so sure about that. You keep the comment to yourself—maybe he's right. You don't ask him for information; it's always willingly passed on. He could be the most decorated Jedi in the Order after this war and you would be none the wiser.

He paces back and forth restlessly, hands tightened into fits and jaw taut with tension. You'd almost be a little frightened if most of your visits from him didn't start with some sort of temper tantrum. All this just for you to soothe him into bed and make him forget.

"Ridiculous," he spits as you watch on plaintively. It's like spectating a meltdown, you can't help but think. You're surprised he hasn't thrown something yet. Destruction is always a symptom of his annoyance. You wonder briefly if his room back at the Temple is in disarray. "And then Obi-Wan has the audacity to ask me to—"

You cross the room to reach him just in time to stop him from saying something he absolutely should not be telling a prostitute. You know half the Jedi Order's secrets by now from his visits. A hand rests upon his left arm, the one made of human flesh. Gentle, tentative, like you're trying not to scare off a frightened animal. He almost jerks it back, but his eyes soften when you speak.

"Ani," you croon gently. The nickname makes the tension in his shoulders ease. "Just come to bed. You're getting yourself all worked up."

He sighs. He knows you're right. But he's stubborn on a good day, and today is not one of those.

"You don't understand. They're treating me like I'm less than them just because the Chancellor recommended me. Like I haven't done everything to prove I'm more than just a Knight before he got involved."

"You aren't less than them just because they go around calling themselves Masters. A lot of men in here do that, you know. Makes them feel powerful. If it makes you feel better, I could call you that."

He rolls his eyes. Fond. Amused. "That doesn't really count."

"No, I suppose not," you smile. The kind with your eyes that crinkles softly. The kind that always makes him wonder whether you're actually being authentic. Sometimes he forgets you're human under all the sequins and smoke, when you strut around the room like you're one of the suns and everyone else is in orbit.

You seem like you genuinely want to put him at ease right now, even with all your playful little jabs. It makes him sigh, shoulders slumping as his hand finds your waist.

"You're good at this, you know," he murmurs.

"And you're good at being a Jedi hero," you counter, gently urging him back towards the bed. "But enough moping. I'm not wasting this outfit on you if you think your credits are going towards therapy."

He laughs as the back of his legs hit the bed, letting himself fall. He props himself up on his elbows to watch you trail a tantalising finger down your chest, through the valley of your breasts. It's enough to make any man's throat go dry. Especially a Jedi who's only form of action is the rare occasions he can sneak away to see you.

"No? What are they going towards, then?"

"Depends. Whaddya want tonight?" You ask playfully, tugging at the alarmingly thin strap between the two cups barely concealing your tits. His eyes are drawn to them, watching the way the fat spills out of the satin, the red material a stark contrast to your skin.

He swallows thickly.

"Eyes up here, big shot."

His blue eyes flick up to your own, a little sheepish. This is the part where he has you sprawl out beneath him for his perusal. But instead, he says:

"I just want to feel good at something. Make you feel good."

It surprises you a little, your hand faltering where it's been idly exploring your cleavage. You recover quickly enough that he doesn't comment on your blunder. "You always make me feel good."

"That's a practiced answer," he accuses.

"Practiced but true in your case."

"Fine. But I mean it. I could use the ego boost."

"But—"

"Who's the paying customer?" Anakin interjects.

"You aren't making me feel very good by smart-mouthing me, you know."

He ignores your faux-admonishment. "So you'll let me?"

It's not as if you're opposed to it. Not in the slightest. It's just surprising.

"I'd let you do anything. You know I would."

A shadow of a grin crosses his face, before his braced elbows fall and he lays down. Dark hair spread across your pillows, fanning out in messy curls against the satin.

"Ride my face."

He says it so earnestly you almost laugh. Sometimes you forget how young he is. Nothing like the old timers who come in here looking for a quick fuck with no regards for anything but their own dicks.

"Are you sure? We've never done that before."

"You're not the only girl I've been with," he counters. It's almost enough to make your chest twinge with jealousy—you know he's seen other girls here. When you're busy, or before you became his favourite. You're a professional, though. Don't let it show.

"Okay," you relent. You can't help but be spiteful, though. Panties dragging agonisingly down your thighs while he watches through half-lidded eyes as the fabric inches lower, lower, lower...

Eventually they pool around your ankles, and you step out of them. The bra (a generous term for such a skimpy piece of fabric) follows as you move to straddle him.

"Higher," he says, hands finding your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his body. The contrast between cool metal and a warm palm on each leg makes you shudder.

You whack a hand gently. "Patient. Thought you wanted to be good?"

He bites back a groan, his hands stilling. They still rest on the plush flesh of your thighs, but he isn't tugging insistently at your limbs to get you where he wants you. You continue with your torturous pace, moving up his body. The slick of your cunt drags across his bare abs, and a sharp breath escapes him.

The friction is enough to have you sigh softly as you ease upwards. You take your time teasing his nipples until he's tensing underneath you, back arched up off the mattress and fingers curling into your skin.

"I didn't think this would make you so much of a tease," he says breathlessly.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Your eyelashes bat innocently at him. "This is what gets me off. You're being useful."

He gives you an unimpressed look for your faux-naïf, but he keeps his mouth shut. You're so close that he doesn't want to goad you into holding back any longer. And he's rewarded for his patience when you give a little pat to his pecs, and finally move to hover over his face.

He looks like an undercity kid who's seen the surface for the first time. Eager blue eyes, mouth salivating at the sight of your dripping cunt above him. It's hard to find the restraint to not dive in and bury his nose in your folds. Just the smell almost has his eyes rolling back.

"Please," he murmurs. Breathy and whiny, like a young man begging for a drop of salvation, not the famed 'Hero with No Fear' breaking his Code to spend the night in a pleasure house. "C'mon. Just let me. Oh, please, I need it—"

You sink down onto his mouth before he can finish his sentence. He moans into your heat, tongue flicking out to drink up whatever has already spilled from you. There's nothing tentative about it—it's like he's devoting everything into worshipping you with his mouth. Gone are the thoughts of his Master and the rest of the Council denying him. All he can comprehend is your sweet mewls as you sit atop his face.

His chin is soaked with the fluids of your pleasure, nose nudging your clit each time you roll your hips against his face. It's instinctive and you hardly mean to do it, but he grips your hips and guides you to grind against his eager mouth.

"Oh, Ani," you moan softly. "Just like that. Mhm."

It's enough encouragement for him to keep working. Dutifully strokes of his tongue, switching between nuzzling between your slick folds and sucking at your clit. Cheeks hollowed out and applying suction as you brace a hand against the headboard, the other nestled into his soft curls.

Your thighs tremble on each side of his head, toes curling into the sheets every time he flicks eagerly at the bud. Hips rocking upwards against the air in search of friction he physically cannot receive right now, cock hard and leaking in the confines of his pants. His erection is almost painful, but he wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to be good for something.

"You'd do wonders in here, you know,” you manage through a groan. “If you're looking to become a— oh, fuckkkk—different kind of master. Very skilled mouth."

His laugh vibrates against your dripping cunt. "Tempting, if I get to work in such close quarters with you."

"Mhm, maybe. Perhaps we could become a bit of a duo. They pay extra for that, you know. And the tips are great. You should really— oh!"

His teeth graze against that sensitive spot that has your eyes rolling back. "I didn't come here for a new career. Just let me make you feel good, please?"

All you can manage is a hum of agreement with the way he's redoubled his efforts. Tongue flattened against the roll of your hips, obediently letting you use his wet mouth to chase your own pleasure. The feeling of your sopping cunt grinding against his face chases anything but you from his mind.

The pleasure grows almost blinding. "Fuck, close," you gasp out, tugging lightly on his hair.

It earns a pleased moan into your heat. "Please. Wanna feel it," he mumbles, a rumble into you in between licks of his tongue. He doesn't think he's ever tasted anything sweeter.

A few more carefully placed laps and your thighs tense. One of your hands moves to cup your breast as you ride through your orgasm, release spilling over his awaiting mouth. He welcomes it all eagerly, working you through it as his name falls off your tongue again and again.

When you roll off of him, you're both short of breath. Neither of you bother to wipe the smear of your slick off his chin as you sink down next to him. One glance to the chronometer on the wall tells you he's spent most of his time worshipping your pussy rather than chasing his own pleasure. Another glance, this time to him, makes it very clear he isn't bothered by that in the slightest.

Oh, well. You still have a few more minutes for him to smother you in affection unbefitting of two people from your stations in life.

It’s quiet after that. Light, fleeting touches as you catch your breaths.

Aftercare with him is the best part, you think. When all the tension is released and he's all lazy, boyish smiles as he runs his hands absently up and down your bare arm. Soft kisses placed to your shoulders, an apologetic brush of his lips against any splotchy bruises left by the men and women before him. Most patrons are always right out the door, but Anakin...

Well, he likes to check in. Make sure you're okay. Have a bit of banter.

"Was I too much? Was that alright?"

You smile. A silly question, given you were calling most of the shots when you were actually on top of him. You answer anyways.

"No. No, you were perfect," you tell him softly, pushing a sweaty brown curl off of his forehead.

His brow pinches like he doesn't believe you. Not about the too much part. The perfect part. "But I—"

"Ani," you cut him off. The nickname makes him melt back into the sheets. More docile, relaxed. "You are perfect. Those Jedis all have sticks up their asses if they can't see you deserve to sit around their silly little table, or whatever it is they do up in their fancy pants Council Room."

He sighs. A beat of silence.

"... Lightsabers," he corrects.

You blink stupidly. "What?"

"They have lightsabers stuck up their asses."

There's the Anakin you know. You snort softly, bracing your forearm on top of his chest to peer down at him. "I'm pretty sure that'd burn them inside out."

"Maybe they deserve it," he fires back. Something about the way he says it makes you think he's not entirely joking. But you laugh anyways, head shaking softly.

"Maybe they do," you agree, ducking down to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Anyways, you best get going. I have to clean up before the next one comes in."

"Do I have to?" He groans. "Just cancel. Tell them you're sick."

"She's a regular. Unfortunately, you have to go face reality." You sit up, patting his chest. "Go be a big, brave Jedi for me, yeah?"

Anakin rolls his eyes, but he obliges reluctantly, even if he makes a big show of sighing loudly and dragging himself sluggishly out of the soiled sheets in search of his discarded robes.

If tonight has shown you one thing, it's that he probably shouldn't be a Jedi Master after all the rules he's broken in one evening alone. But you don't tell him that. You make your coin out of sleeping with sleazebags from all over the Galaxy in the Coruscant Underworld, after all.

Who are you to judge?

[hiiragi7]

Intersex people are continuously harmed, killed, objectified, used, and reduced to nothing more than a hypothetical or statistical anomaly, something to be violated and then discarded. Supposedly, at best, we can expect to be treated as something a little less than human. Often, we are put far below that.

Fuck that. We deserve so, so much better than that.

Intersex people have always, always, always existed, and we will always, always, always fight to exist and breathe in the world, present and future. We will create a path forward for ourselves, no matter what. We will live to hug, scream, kiss, laugh, cry, run, and be free. Dressed in flowing yellow and purple, we will be loud, passionate, and whole.

I need to see a future where intersex kids are celebrated. I need to see a future where intersex bodies are made divine. I need to see a future where intersex voices are glorious music, blasted on every speaker for all to hear.

No longer beaten into invisibility, no longer made small behind closed doors, surgical tools, and shame-ridden conversations. We will be open, joyous, and so, so loved.

I do not wish to assimilate, to be seen as "just like everyone else"; my soul yearns for so much more.

When I dream of an intersex future, when I participate in being one of a countless number working towards its creation, there is nothing neutral about it; It must be, by necessity, an act of resistance, an act of community, an act of care for each other and ourselves.

I need to see a future where the wonder and beauty of intersexuality is celebrated in everything.

If you are intersex, know that you bring so much to this world, so much more than you know. Keep going, keep pushing forward, keep uplifting your community and keep being yourself. You are so, so important.

We will continue to live on, now and always.

💛💜

[trampleddoves]

bad idea right

Holiday break with your new stepfamily gets more interesting when you catch your stepbrother's lingering glances.

Pairing: afab!reader x stepbrother!Spencer Content: angst + slight smut, 2.7k words, DDDNE, no kinks, but Spencer is your stepbrother (set just before-s1), reader is a college graduate and mentioned to wear dresses and makeup, reader gets tipsy, complicated family dynamics and unhealthy coping mechanisms, making out, dry humping.  Notes: MDNI. I do not condone the choices of the characters, this request truthfully just brought to me a fully-fledged idea that I could not ignore. Once again, scroll away if this isn’t your cup of tea. Title is indeed from the Olivia Rodrigo song, which I extensively listened to while I wrote. This isn’t even that smutty, but I really enjoyed exploring ideas of resentment simmering beneath the surface. I suppose this affirms a previous anon who accused me of being a freak—evidently. Of the highest order. Welcome. I bear cookies and milk. They’re poisoned.

Winter break. The chill wraps around the air like an overbearing mother—inescapable, looming in corners you wouldn’t suspect—although Spencer Reid wouldn’t know what having an overbearing mother entails. Diana Reid had never been overbearing even in her lucidity but the comparison seems apt. A certain foreboding attitude hangs over the house. Gathering here, with his father’s new family, a measly, pathetic attempt to be closer. 

He’s never particularly gone through the usual sulking phase of adolescence. Too busy growing up, being good, working hard to hide how he’s splintering at every corner—a young boy burdened by the weight of his genius and a mother absent from reality. A life without the support of a father. 

A father who is now desperately trying to reconnect, accepting him—forcibly, under the guise of love—into the fold of his new family. It’s all so performative, but then again Spencer knows all about performative. Having spent years trying to seem okay, like his mother isn’t rapidly deteriorating, hiding the fact that she’s unfit to be his guardian behind clean, well ironed clothes and his remarkable academic performance. His entire life is a laughable farce, so he sees through everything—the perfect spread of Christmas dinner, being forced to open presents in the morning together—they’re all facades precariously balanced on everyone’s cooperation. 

He'd played the part, baring his teeth as a way of smiling—he's never quite properly learned how to smile, having little cause for the action—posing for pictures, thanking his new stepmother for the new copy of Foucault’s Madness and Civilization. 

It’s a good gift, even though he’s already read the material. Shows that she made an attempt to know about him. Spencer could admit that the woman is kind, thoughtful, stable, he could see how his father would fall in love with her. But there's the underlying implication—she's nothing like Diana Reid. 

He decides he hates her the day after Christmas. He decides William Reid doesn't deserve her either. 

It feels like now he’s getting his life’s worth of teenage angst. After Christmas is over, he locks himself away, talking only when talked to. His father and stepmother are gone today, attending a fancy brunch with their shiny new friends, so Spencer ventures out of his room cautiously. His quiet footsteps are simply manifestations of his unease. Trying to create the least amount of noise, take up the smallest space. He does not feel welcome here, and he doesn’t want to.

Winter break. The chill insists upon invading the house, despite the heater. 

Yet you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of cereal in nothing but a slinky, emerald green slip. 

You. The most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

His stepsister. 

He pauses at the doorway, mouth dry, eyes trained on the way the fabric falls over your body, reflective silk casting shadows and highlights and making every single curve seem so supple and soft and oh so tempting.

He clears his throat. “Good morning.”

“Hey,” you look over your shoulder to regard him. He’s found that you’re even more displeased by this arrangement, this quick merging of two families. Traditional holiday festivities ring hollow now, obviously ornamental to make the marriage seem less dismal. Your way of showing your displeasure is the exact opposite of his. Instead of holing up in your room, you’re always outside if you can help it. He’s not sure where, but it’s obvious that neither of you are happy.

He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He’s finally reached a point where college graduates are age appropriate enough to be considered his peers. No longer the youngest person in the room. But at this point, his social grace is completely in reverse to his intellect. That is, nearing zero. He has no idea how to talk to you.

“I’m gonna meet a couple of friends for lunch,” you say, lifting the spoon to your mouth. His gaze follows, before he finds clarity and looks down.

“That’s good,” he mumbles, walking to the fridge and finding the milk carton.

“You wanna come?”

“Not really.”

He sees you shrug from the corner of his eye. Part of him wants to retract his rejection, but you’re already rinsing your bowl. Soon you’ll flounce off, and he’ll be alone. Good, he decides. It’s better off like this, holding you at a distance. He doesn’t need more fuel to add to his inappropriate attraction to you.

Leave it to him to mess this up. He doesn’t even want this new family—he’d much rather spend Christmas in Nevada. A small room he rents near Diana’s sanitarium, so he could spend time with her whenever he can. Still, he can’t believe he’s committing to this cliche. Nerdy step brother ogling his beautiful step sister. It’s as if he carries some permanent malady, inflicting it upon everything he touches.

“I’ll see you later then, Spencer.” your touch on his arm makes him flinch. 

He ducks and nods, hiding away from the odd look he’s sure you’re giving him. A look everyone gives him, even his mentor, the only man who could ever keep up with him. Weakly, he answers, “Yeah. Later.”

Later turns out to be way past dinner; Spencer is alone for far longer than he anticipated. His father and stepmother return around dinnertime, the woman drunk and stumbling about. William Reid pats his son on the shoulder, before quickly retiring to the master’s bedroom, “We’re both exhausted, Spencer. Make sure your sister gets home at a reasonable hour.”

What constitutes reasonable? He’d never gone out and partied when he was studying—or after, if he’s being completely honest. Still, he nods at his father, deciding there’s really no harm waiting up for you. 

It is quiet when you stumble into the house, but there’s a light in the kitchen that makes your heart rate spike. Your mother? William? Are you in trouble for staying out? Can you even get in trouble when you’re an adult? What are the rules for adults still living with their parents? You’re unsure. There’s no curfew, but the presence of the light reminds you all too well of past conversations when your mother had caught you sneaking back in.

It’s easy to regress back into the habits from your earlier years when you’re around her. Locked in this perpetual dynamic of mother and child—mother and daughter, which is arguably even worse—where you’re meant to forever stay young, her baby as she likes to say, with a beaming smile as if that would soothe the sting of having to move back home after college. 

Tail tucked between your legs, accepting defeat. You had plans of making it in a big city—didn’t everyone? But money and luck and a whole other host of factors are not on your side, so you’d begrudgingly accepted her offer. Come live with me until you get your feet solidly planted on the ground, she had said. Conveniently leaving out the part where she remarried. But you didn’t want to be homeless, so you had smiled through gritted teeth and moved back in, accepting William Reid as your new stepfather, as if your old, real father wasn't buried six feet down the ground only eight months ago.

It’s his son now that’s waiting in the kitchen. Spencer. Scrawny, bug eyed. Your mother had gushed about him in the past few weeks—apparently, he’s finished three PhDs., and is being considered for the FBI even though he’s technically too young to even apply. He’d never be like you, struggling to get past the first interview. No, he’s too brilliant for that.

He looks up from his book as you pad through the halls. Dim light softens the gaunt angles of his face, making him almost handsome. He smiles, and the illusion is gone, replaced by the reality of what he is: a boy still fumbling about how to be a man. 

“You’re back,” his voice is soft as he closes the book—some Italian writer you remember reading for a literature class.

You walk past him, grabbing a glass. “Yeah. Why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, training his eyes on the floor, but not before you catch his gaze lingering at your bare legs. “It’s so quiet around here.”

Right. He still lives in the city where, even in the dead of night, there’s an undercurrent of sound. Still accustomed to the slight hum, the pulse that lets you know there are other people awake around you, doing night shifts, or partying, or making love. Here in the quiet suburbs, with the strict homeowner’s association, a car revving down the street would be the cause for a noise complaint.

“Hm,” you gulp your water, “Should’ve come with me.”

“I didn’t want to intrude on you and your friends.” he replies, eyes flickering back to you. Clear amber, even in the dim light, “I hope you had fun, though.”

Try as you might, you can’t hate the guy. He’s much too earnest, too bumbling to ever be of any real danger. Besides, he’s stuck here just as much as you are, into this stupid tableau of family values your parents have forced upon you. Your resentment would only be wasted on him, especially since his resentment is just as obvious.

So you flash him a smile, lips reflective and mimicking wetness thanks to the lipgloss, “I did, thanks. How’s your book?”

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes trained on your mouth. 

“Spencer?”

“Oh, it’s good,” he turns his gaze back to his copy, old and worn, with papers sticking out of them, “I’ve read it before, I’m just reading through my annotations.”

“Ah,” you nod. Of course he’s the type to annotate. And reread said annotations. You walk closer, leaning against the table beside him. The way his eyes dart down your bare legs, not in full display, within touching distance, fills your mind with dangerous thoughts. So you steer the conversation that way, pressing his buttons ever so slightly, “Sorry you’re stuck here by the way. Could’ve been out getting laid at D.C.”

He shakes his head, a self deprecating smirk tilting at his lips. “I’m not—that’s not really my thing.”

“No?”

“Girls don’t really find me appealing.” he mumbles, risking another glance at your legs. You wait for the usual self pitying speech, the one with underlying anger and misogyny, but it doesn’t come. He simply looks wistful.

You find yourself filled with genuine intrigue, “No?” 

It’s interesting how the same word could carry such a different meaning with the slightest shift in inflection. Spencer seems to pick up on the softness of your voice.

“No, I don’t really—I spend most of my time reading.” he tells you.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t spend your time holed up in isolation,” your finger touches his chin, tilting it up to meet you. A strange sense of power fills your stomach as you watch his pupils dilate. “You’d find someone.”

You have a plethora of fucked up things upon which you can place the blame for why you do the next thing—your life not going the way you want it, the growing resentment for this entire holiday, your alcohol addled state of mind. That’s a problem you’ll figure out in the morning. Right now, you’re leaning in to kiss him. Your lips are sticky against his dry ones, palms cupping his jaw as you move your lips gently.

For a moment, you’re afraid you’ve misread the signals—he’s rigid, as though frozen by the permeating frigidity of the house. You consider pulling away, but then he is kissing you back. Slowly, at first, matching your pace, but then your tongue darts out to drag across the seam of his lips, mouth parting, and suddenly he’s moving with desperation. Kissing you as if he intends to meld your mouths together, making the prettiest little noises from the back of his throat.

There’s little time to think, not when there’s so much resentment and frustrations pouring out of both of you and into the kiss. He’s trying to keep up with your anger, but inexperience makes him uncoordinated. It’s sloppy and just on the edge of painful, clashing teeth and tongues poking harshly into crevices, not with the intention to explore but to take. 

When you tug at his pants, he pulls back, holding onto your hips like you’re some sort of lifeline. “W-we shouldn’t,” he pants.

“No?” you press your palm on his crotch, raising a brow at the obvious erection hiding beneath the fabric. 

He moans, eyes squeezing shut. “This is wrong, you’re drunk and—and my step sister.”

“I’m not drunk,” you mumble, moving to straddle his lap, dress hiking up to your hips and giving him a full view of your legs. Your cunt goes directly over his crotch. Only a few scraps of fabric separate you, and the thought makes you moan, makes you nip at his lower lip. He stiffens in response, face bright red.

“At least deny the step sister part,” he complains, resting his forehead against yours.

You don’t have anything to counter it, at least not with words, so instead you move your hips over the spot where you’ve settled. A moan trembles from his lips as you grind on his crotch, seeking friction from the growing bulge. You swallow the sound with another kiss, and this time he doesn’t fight it. 

“It doesn’t count,” you say in between kisses, hands tangling in his hair, “If we don’t actually fuck.”

He laughs, breathless and disbelieving, his breath warm on the skin of your jaw where he’s begun trailing kisses. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Yes, it does.” you insist, grinding your hips on his crotch, moaning as the thin lace of your panties grow soaked with your arousal, making the friction feel that much sweeter. “Makes perfect sense. Perfectly logical. It’s just masturbating then.”

Spencer is whimpering into your neck, large hands holding your waist to keep you balanced on his lap. “That’s still wrong.”

“Oh please, don’t act like you haven’t been jerking off to the thought of me.” That’s a risky sentence; you’re not actually sure. But with the way his hips jerk up into you, you realize he has done it. Lowering your voice, you lean in and bite his ear, rocking your hips into a rhythm that mimics the movements of sex. “You have, haven’t you? That’s why you spend all that time alone in your room?”

“I—fuck,” he groans, nails digging into your hips as he ruts his hips up to match you, “Yes. Yes, yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Spencer.” you moan, arms wrapping around his neck. “God, this feels so good.” Pleasure courses through your veins, heightened by the alcohol and the fact that neither of you shouldn’t be doing this. Beneath you, the chair he’s sitting on scrapes on the kitchen floor, creaking slightly from your rocking bodies.

“Yeah,” he groans, teeth clamping around the sensitive part of your throat. You hiss at the sting, grinding down on his erection harder, an action that sends his body into a fit of tremors, stiffening and then shuddering as he muffles his moans against your skin.

He’s coming, you realize, and the fact makes you go harder, eager to chase your own orgasm. His length is still rock hard, easy to rub your sensitive clit on it to find stimulation, and soon, you’re quivering on top of him as the pleasure finally snaps and overtakes your body.

He holds you tightly to him, arms around your waist as you try to regain your breaths. “W-we can’t do this again.” he whispers, voice hoarse, arms trembling despite their tight grip on you.

“Right,” you murmur, gingerly climbing off his lap, “Just this once, never again.” 

His arms linger, wanting to keep you against him longer despite every brain cell yelling at him about goodness and morality and legal complexities. Reluctantly, he lets go.

You regard him, strangely sober after such a high. Cheeks flushed, a stain at his crotch, the very picture of ruin. With a smile, you bend down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Keep this between us?”

“Of course.”

You make two promises that night. Only one of them is kept.

[hwaslayer]

[untitled] (khj) | one.

⎾ SERIES MASTERLIST | SERIES PLAYLIST

⎾ SUMMARY: hongjoong hasn’t been worried about anyone besides himself for a long, long time. he’s spent years dodging the idea of responsibility by getting into trouble and late-night chaos and running from a broken family he has tried to keep tucked away in the past. when unexpected circumstances name him the sole guardian of his 15-year-old step brother, suhyun, hongjoong finds himself struggling to be the person his brother needs him to be especially because they’re strangers. throughout his journey of stepping up, healing and facing the past, he meets you— someone who also comes to see the best in him and sees him as more than just a lost cause.

⎾ PAIRING: kim hongjoong x f. reader

⎾ GENRE: (18+ - minors dni) badboy/fuckboy, strangers to lovers, found family/slice of life au | fluff, angst, eventual smut

⎾ WORD COUNT: 3.7k

⎾ CHAPTER WARNINGS/CONTENT: cussing, basic intros, setting the foundation for the fic lol, mentions of like... idk, being in a a friends with [some] benefits kind of situation?, club scene, alcohol consumption/intoxication, mentions of a physical and verbal altercation, police activity, mentions of being injured because of said fight, somewhat of a slow start for now hehe 🤭

Love.

That's how Seonghwa looks at you— like you hold all of the love in your arms, in your eyes; like every inch of your body was designed with most rarest form of love, to be loved, to give love. He looks at you like you are love, and he hasn't come to know any other form of it. Even if takes days, months, years, Seonghwa is willing to be patient and willing to wait because you are the most rarest form of love.

Though, you're not sure what made you so deserving of Seonghwa and his love. His care. His support. His patience. He treats you so gently, like you're his entire universe. He's everything you had ever wanted, had ever asked for.

Even now, as you lazily and groggily step out of your room to him sitting in your living room/dining area. Hair a mess, body all exhausted. Definitely not club ready.

"Sorry, were you still napping?" Seonghwa asks sweetly as he keeps his eyes on you.

"Time to wake the fuck up, sweetie!" You yawn and run your hand through your hair before rubbing at your nose. Seonghwa scrunches his own nose, pure adoration in his eyes as he watches you try and wake yourself up from the sleep you were so rudely waken up from— courtesy of your childhood bestfriend and other half, Kang Yeosang.

"Why are you guys here so early?"

"Early?" Yeosang cocks a brow up. "It's 9. We said we'd be at the club by 10 and you.. just woke up."

"Oh shit." You rub at your arms. "How about I just stay in bed and you two—" Yeosang has his hands on your shoulders and forces you to turn back into your room.

"Mingi will not have it so go get your little skirt and top on or whatever you planned to wear." Yeosang slides your closet door open, making you shove him away.

"He's gonna say that we don't always go out like this, you know?" Seonghwa adds as he leans against your door frame.

"Right, yes! He's right for once." Seonghwa glares at him as you pick out your outfit, forcing yourself to get ready even though your body is yearning for at least 5 more minutes of sleep.

You did agree as a group to head out for once to celebrate Mingi's big promotion, so it's not like you could back out and disappoint your friend. 

With that being said, even though you aren't entirely in the mood to dress up, you put on the cutest mini skirt and mesh top on in the bathroom— singing along to the songs Yeosang has playing on your TV's Spotify account in between taking shots and getting your makeup and hair together. You dance around and sing into your mic [makeup brush] while finishing the last touches, Seonghwa still having that same adoration in his eyes. 

It's cute, really. 

You two met during freshman year in college and ultimately got close through working in the Student Life Center as student ambassadors and tutors. That's also how you met Yunho, Mingi and Juniper. That's also how everybody gained this image of you two being the perfect couple over the past years. You would have thought that going into the real world, the adulting phase of your lives, things would have majorly died down—

It sure didn't.

In fact, it got worst. People pressing the idea of you two finally getting together and even getting married. Becoming one of those college sweetheart success stories that people love to hear about so badly. What's worst is the fact that you can find your own mother under this category. She was the biggest Seonghwa enthusiast, always pushing the fact that you should 'give the poor boy a chance because he cares so much.' You love Seonghwa, but you love Seonghwa as one of your dearest friends, first and foremost. He had always been kind, patient, supportive and caring but that was his nature. He never pressured you into anything despite all the talk, which you highly appreciate. But, you can't help but feel bad because you know he holds onto some kind of hope. Especially when he treats you so sweetly, like you're fragile and something he always has to keep safe. He doesn't always shy away from affection and showing you how he truly feels sometimes. And you're not gonna lie, Seonghwa was one of the most attractive people you have ever laid eyes on.

Maybe it's partially your fault that you let it happen and continue to let it happen. Letting small [especially drunk] makeout sessions happen, cuddling up against him, letting him hold your hand here and there; small, chaste kisses against the head, cheek, forehead. Never slept with the guy, but we'll leave it at that.

Maybe you should have done more to stop it. The whole friends with benefits kinda vibe you've got going on, but like, not really? Seonghwa knew it was the one way he could have you, a way to keep you close, so he deals.

Welp.

Who knows what the future holds, right? You say this now, but you could be headed into a future that does have Seonghwa in it as your partner. Or, it could be completely different and the complete opposite.

Who knows.

All you know is to live in the present and take things for what it is. Mainly focusing on your own happiness and growth. Focusing on the now;

Like where the fuck is your favorite lipgloss?

"Where's my lipgloss?" You toss your couch pillows aside, hands digging deep into the cracks of the couch to make sure it wasn't wedged in between [spoiler: it's not]. 

"Dude, why do we always run into something when we're in a rush? And it's always you!" Yeosang scolds you, peeking in between jars and containers on your kitchen counter.

"Is this it?" Seonghwa asks, coming out of your room with your favorite lip gloss in his hand. You gasp, running over to him with a smile on your face.

"Where'd you find it!"

"Underneath your nightstand."

"My lifesaver." You chuckle, Hwa's hand coming up to gently caress your chin.

"What to do with you?" He teases with a small smirk on his face.

"Seriously." Yeosang swings his keys around his finger. "So, can we go? Like, are you good or ..?"

"Yes." You playfully roll your eyes, shutting off your lights and grabbing your small black purse before heading out with the boys. The three of you step out of your in-law, one of your dads coming out to the porch to greet you while you continue to fiddle with your keypad and lock your door. Long story short— your biological father and your mom had divorced years ago. You had decided to stay with your dad being that your relationship with your mom wasn't the greatest [even until this very day]. Occasional visits would do, but even then, it served as a reminder as to why you made the decision to remain alongside your father. You feel as though it worked out because your mom got to travel, date around, and do all the things she had been dying to do post-divorce [maybe even during her marriage era]. During this time, dad found his boyfriend. Got married, moved into a new house across town and renovated your in-law so you would have your own space while still having a piece of home with you. Your mom had trouble with this for a long time, and quite frankly, you were upset that she was being selfish about it. You didn't talk to her for a good month or so until she started making the effort to reach out and slowly visit again. Make 'peace.' Stop causing unnecessary issues.

"Mhm." Your papa says as he slides the kitchen window open. "Hey to my handsome boys!" The two wave happily in response. "And what's the special occasion that's got miss thing looking like that?"

"Papa." You say, making him laugh while he holds a glass of water in his hand. "It's Mingi's celebration for his promotion and I'm being forced to go." You called your biological 'dad,' while your stepfather went by 'papa' to keep things simple, but meaningful and close to your heart. Over the years, Papa has been loving and supportive, and always so open, so sweet, so happy to share his culture with you. He loves to teach you new things, and he's the reason why you're able to change and shift your perspective especially when times get rough. He is patient, kind and absolutely perfect for you and your father.

"Forced?! He's your friend, if anything, you're going because you want to celebrate with him!" Yeosang bites back, making you squint and glare at him.

"If you squint, you'll see how they've got a knife held to my back."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Y/N." Papa says, making you laugh.

"Yeah, jesus." Yeosang adds.

"Is dad showering?" Papa nods.

"He sure is. Running the hell out of that hot water." The three of you laugh. "I'll tell him you were heading out." 

"I won't be out super late."

"Enjoy yourself, sweetheart." Papa leans forward a bit. "And boys, you know I love and trust you both to death, and I say this all the time but I mean it with every bone in my body. Please stay safe out there and take care of my babygirl." He says with a look on his face that make both Yeosang and Seonghwa nod in agreement.

"Yes sir!" Yeosang salutes before the three of you are waving one last goodbye before walking through the side gate and out to his car. On your way out, you catch your neighbors also heading out— unusual for them at this time of night.

"Hi Mr. and Mrs. Kim!" You call out, with Yeosang and Seonghwa waving. Your neighbors were familiar with your friends since they were over often. They wave, Mrs. Kim looking exhausted next to her husband.

"Is everything okay?" Seonghwa asks.

"I've just got a migraine and chills, so we were going to go to the urgent care." Mrs. Kim says. "I was going to try to hold out until tomorrow, but it's killing me."

"I'm so sorry." You look at the time. "Where's Suhyun?"

"He's in his room. We told him we'd be right back and that he didn't need to tag along."

"Well, please be safe on your drive over. My dads are home if you need anything."

"Of course. Thank you." Mr. Kim nods. "You three be safe too, and enjoy your night." You all wave as they drive off.

"I didn't clean my car yet so—" Yeosang cheekily smiles when he pops open one of the back doors for you. "Ta-da! Enjoy sitting next to my gym clothes!"

"Kang Yeosang." You get comfortable sitting in the back seat even though you whine about it. "Can you at least pick up your empty water bottles?" You pick them up from the floor and gather them neatly onto the empty seat next to you— ontop of his pile of laundry.

"She's just like you." Yeosang mutters to Seonghwa.

"I mean she's right, you could at least do that."

"You both can walk to the club!" Yeosang makes a hard brake at the stop, causing you to brace yourself before you could crash into Seonghwa's seat.

"You have got to be joking!" You smack him upside the head. He laughs as he continues to drive off normally, the club located in central downtown about 30 minutes away. The ride is fairly calm, Seonghwa making sure to keep Yeo in check until he gets into the main area. He circles the streets for a bit until he's able to find street parking about two blocks away. 

It isn't too cold, or else you'd honestly be dreading the walk to and from. 

When Seonghwa hops out of the passenger seat, he swings your door open. He gives you a small smile and a tap on the nose, chewing his gum to keep him distracted from the breeze.

"You should wear this until we get inside." He sheds off his jacket and throws it over your shoulders.

"It's not too bad—"

"Still, don't want you getting sick."

"She'll survive." You pump-fake a punch when Yeosang responds, making him flinch and giggle. "Kidding!" You roll your eyes and shake your head.

"Are Mingi and them inside already?" Hwa nods.

"Yeah, they said to just tell the bouncer we're with him and they should let us in." You cling onto Seonghwa's arm as the three of you continue the journey down the blocks— the enormous line to get into the club coming in view. You walk past the groups waiting to pay their fees and get through the bouncers, happy you don't have to wait in that line since the wind is picking up. Seonghwa tells the bouncer that you're here with Mingi and he responds with a nod before stepping aside to let you inside the busy, chaotic club. It's almost instant when you spot Mingi's head at a table— holding a champagne bottle in his hand while he dances around with the bottle girls and the rest of your friends, familiar faces.

"Finally!" Juniper flashes her phone. "It's 10:30!"

"We're just a smidge late!" You hug her.

"You were napping, weren't you?"

"No?!"

"You didn't answer my texts."

"Okay, maybe? But, we're here now!"

"And you need to catch up! Let's go!" Mingi butts in, taking your hand to show you to the table where all the alcohol is laid out. You greet the rest of the group, Mingi leading another round of shots with everyone. You take another with Yeosang and Seonghwa alone, then Yunho and Juniper; the list goes on, the shots continue.

The world is spinning.

But, at a good level. Just enough. 

The DJ is really good tonight, and he's playing all the right hits. You dance around and enjoy yourself with your friends, mainly dancing along with the boys and Juniper. Giving Seonghwa some alone time in between getting pulled left and right. He doesn't drink much, but he's here to have a good time to celebrate Mingi with the group. So, he will take shot after shot. He'll let loose, he'll be a tad bit more flirtier with you.

The group doesn't always go out like this, you know?

You dance with Seonghwa for a bit before you grab some of the bottled water lying in a bucket of ice on the table. You hang out near the railing that separates your group from the main dance floor, eyeing the crowd. Seonghwa comes from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head before holding onto the rail on either side of you.

"Damn, it got really packed."

"Yeah, they're like sardines on the dance floor." You sigh. "Fuck. That's great timing."

"What's up?" He tilts his head to the side and looks at you.

"I need to head to the bathroom."

"Bathroom?" Seonghwa clarifies. "I'll walk you over."

"You sure? You don't have to." He nods.

"All good. Don't want you getting caught in the waves of people alone. Let's go." He holds your hand as he leads the way to the women's restroom. There's a line, but Hwa quickly reassures you with a nod that he'll wait nearby until you're able to break the seal and use the restroom properly.

Which, thank god for his patience, because it took damn near 10 minutes just for you to finally make it inside and be the next person to grab the next available stall as soon as it opens. Besides the girl and her friends occupying the large stall because one of them is sick, everything else is relatively clean for a club bathroom. You feel more comfortable having been able to relieve yourself, washing your hands and checking yourself out in the mirror before finding your way back to Seonghwa.

He's against the wall, cautiously watching the crowd with his hands in his pockets. His eyes meet yours and he gives you small smile. You reciprocate, looking up as you approach him.

"Feel better?" He brushes your hair back and you nod.

"Yeah." 

"Good." Seonghwa leads the way back to your friends at the VIP table. There's so many people that it's impossible to keep your hand laced with Seonghwa's; too many people trying to push through, move around. Hwa keeps turning to keep his eyes on you, your hands gripping the end of his shirt as much as possible while you navigate the sea of people. Suddenly, you feel a little suffocated, especially when you hear voices raising.

"The fuck did you say to me?" Is all you hear in the middle of the dance floor before the crowd is yelling for the two individuals to stop getting in each other's faces. "Get the fuck out of my face!" You continue to try to slip through the crowd unharmed, a little worried as you pass people with drinks in hand. Every time someone dances or moves too much, your anxiety just skyrockets believing you'd land right in the middle of an accident. Seonghwa continues to lead, and you're barely keeping up.

Passing through without damage does not last.

The crowd gets rowdier, waves of abrupt pushes and movements causes you to shift and bump into people, one individual damn near spill all of their drink on you.

"Oh my fucking god— excuse me!" You yell, arm and top slightly wet from their [now] close to half-full cocktail. Seonghwa's head whips back, his arm immediately coming around to block you after he pushes back. Another person's back bumps into Hwa's, causing him to push them away as well. He's lowkey getting irritated, ready to defend you with everything he's got.

"Back up." He groans, looking at the stranger next to him. The stranger glares at him, but is quick to forget when dude in front is calling for his attention with another push. Hwa steps to your side, guiding you out of the chaos before it can get worse. "You okay?" He tuts, grabbing a napkin from the table to help wipe you down.

"Yeah. What the hell is going on there?" You look at the crowd, a fight starting in the middle of it all— hence, the abrupt movements and rowdy yelling. There's two individuals going at it with each other; shoving, getting in each other's faces, punches thrown left and right.

It's messy.

And it doesn't die down, only gets worse, really. The bouncers are finally able to break them up, yelling that they need to leave the club immediately.

"Jesus, what was all of that for?"

"Drunk men being drunk men, I guess." Juniper shrugs, helping you wipe down the rest of your shirt. "Sorry you got mixed into that, bae." After Juniper and Hwa help you out, your friends trying to get back to the good vibes and good times.

But, the chaos definitely put a dent in that. 

You and your friends aren't dancing around as much, and towards the end, you all find yourselves standing around and talking to each other. The group doesn't stay for much longer after the fight breaks out— the fight lowkey killing the vibe and making you all realize it's almost too late to be surrounding yourselves with this mess. Mingi invites the group to eat at a nearby late-night diner, but you, Seonghwa and Yeosang agree to head home out of exhaustion. You bid your farewells, hugging your friends and giving them cheek-to-cheek kisses before gripping onto Yeosang's shirt as him and Hwa lead the way out of the club.

"Fuck, now it's cold." You shiver, causing Seonghwa to throw his jacket over your shoulders again.

"Better?" You nod.

"Thanks, Hwa." He smiles, but it quickly fades when you notice the police cars up ahead— officers hovering around while talking to two of the bouncers from the club. On the curb is one of the individuals— corner of his lip bleeding, brow bleeding. Small cut on his cheek. He's got his hands cuffed behind his back and he isn't doing anything but glaring at the police. He's doing good avoiding contact with anyone passing by, except, he manages to look at his surroundings the moment you three are making your way towards their direction.

"That's one of the guys who started the fight."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Bumped into him." 

"The hell are you looking at?" The stranger spits when he sees Seonghwa looking his way. He's got black hair framing his face, piercing eyes. Obviously got bite to him.

"Hey, be quiet!" The police officer says, making him scoff before remaining quiet. Head down, eyes glued back to the floor now.

"Can we get this over with? It's freezing."

"I said be quiet." Is the last thing you hear from the cop before you, Yeosang and Seonghwa have created enough distance. 

"What a way to end the night." Yeosang mutters, hands deep in his pockets. "You sure you two don't wanna eat?"

"I'm good. I just wanna get home." Yeosang nods. You finally make it back to the car, plopping into the back seat with Seonghwa's jacket still strung over your shoulders while Yeo kicks up the heat. You continue to look out the window, minding your own until Yeosang exits the highway and into your neighborhood. You see more cops down the street near the urgent care center that Mr. and Mrs. Kim went to, finding it odd that there's so much police presence tonight when it's relatively quiet.

"They're out and about tonight." Seonghwa says softly.

"Well, thank god we were still able to have our fun before it got crazy. And good thing you didn't get hurt in the crowd." Yeosang says, driving back to your place.

"Mmyeah." Is all you respond with, exhaustion hitting your bones quick. "Do you guys wanna just crash?" Seonghwa yawns.

"Sure, if you don't mind."

"And that means on the couch, buddy. Not in her bed."

"Kang Yeosang, really?" You say in a somewhat scolding manner. Seonghwa shakes his head and rolls his eyes, keeping his gaze out the window. Sooner or later, you arrive back home safely. Seonghwa already has a bag packed since he had initially planned on staying at Yeosang's. And, luckily for Yeo, he's left bits and pieces of his own clothes and toiletries in your space so he's got zero worries in the world.

When you step out of the car, you notice that Mr. and Mrs. Kim aren't back yet. You don't see their car out front, but you assume they might have just parked it inside the garage. You've learned they don't typically do that, but a one-off situation wasn't unusual. The lights are all off, so Suhyun must be asleep. 

They must all be asleep.

"Good?" Yeosang asks, looking at you.

"Just wondering if they got home okay."

"I'm sure they did." He gently pushes you on the back, making you swat him in return. "Please walk, I'm freezing." He whines, doing as you're told despite the weird feeling that's settling in your tummy.

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[nerdygirlramblings]

This story, like all things, must come to an end. Thank you for joining me and for the love and support you’ve shown this little idea that would not let me go. (It's a long one.)

Through the afternoon, Jon and the others keep you company, following in your wake as you continue your daily routine. But it is hard to focus with Jon's words ringing in your ears. They are here to claim you. To somehow take you to Fjall Gothar. To be Queen of the gods.

The day passes in a blur. When you have unguarded moments, one of your gods whispers how they will take you from your people, how they will worship you in more than just your dreams.

You do not fully understand their plan and are distracted throughout the feast. The Elders, even those who don't fully believe, speak of the work of the gods and the blessings your people have received. It is clear from the conversations around you other villages have started worshiping the ancient gods and are experiencing similar blessings. You cannot keep your eyes from your gods as you hear a woman talk about the dream one of the farmers in her village had that helped end a strange crop blight. Or how in another, members of a scouting party deemed dead finally made their weary way home several moons later, hurt and hungry but all alive.

Once the meal is over and the hall is cleared and set with beds for the visitors, you return to your home to find Jon, Tav, Gaz and Si already there. They are smiling at you tenderly, a look of pure devotion on each man's face. Si comes to you as you close your door, wrapping his arms around you in an embrace that lasts for long moments. When he steps back it is only to position himself better to kiss you. It is the first time any of them have been so intimate outside of your dreams. You moan a little and melt into the kiss. Tav tugs your arm, pulling you to his side before crashing his lips down on yours. He tastes like sunshine as he slips his tongue into your mouth. When he lifts his head and lets you gulp a lungful of air, Gaz slips in behind you and whirls you around. You don't register it happening before all you smell and taste is him. Lush and filling, like the abundance he can rain down if he chooses, kissing Gaz feels like it's everything you'll ever need. Until a firm set of hands land on your hips and removes you from Gaz's hold. "My queen," Jon whispers, lust and love weaving themselves through his voice before he pulls you flush against him and claims you with a kiss so scorching it burns away the thought of anyone but them.

"There is no moon tonight, my queen. We will leave when the village is sleeping, and we shall leave no trace. Tomorrow, your home will look as it does now, but you will be gone," Jon states.

You rear back. "But what about my people?" you ask, afraid. "How will they know how to worship you without me?"

"Even now, when we are about to reward you with everything you deserve, you think of others," Gaz sighs, placing light kisses across your shoulder and up your neck. "You are truly a queen, love."

"You have shared what you learned," Si says quietly. "Each morning you work, you invite others to join you. Thone, Unnr, Astridr, Vigi, Bui," he lists several of those who have been touched by their blessings, "you've taught them all what to do. And they will teach others."

"Your people will miss you," Tav admits, "but you have given them what they need to continue the work without you."

You look around at your gods, these men whom you saved and who thus saved your people. Yes, you are afraid, but not moreso than the night you made your sacrifice. And now, like your people, you are being rewarded for all you've done. "I am ready," you say with more conviction than you feel.

Jon kisses you one more time before sweeping you out the door.

The trip to Fjall Gothar happens in a blink. One moment you're viewing the night sky from the front of your house, and the next you are above the stars, looking out into the vast darkness. Jon leads you through the palace, Gaz, Tav, and Si trailing quietly behind you. Though you'd seen it in your dreams, hearing your steps echo in the halls is altogether different. When you reach the throne room, you're surprised when Jon steers you onto the large, ornate throne you had seen all those weeks ago. "My queen," he says reverently. "Your heart saved us all, and it is a privilege to have you here, in this place of honor."

It is strange, adapting to life in the palace. As a goddess, an idea which sits uneasily on your shoulders, you no longer have need of food or rest, though both can exist if you wish them. You are often in consultation with the gods about life in not only your village but in more places than you knew existed. Unlike the others, you have no defined sphere of influence, instead leading with the heart that first sought out these ancient gods for help. Your days are filled with the same care and consideration for others you've always had, applied to humanity far and wide. At night, you're entangled with one or more of your lovers.

And lovers they truly are now. Your bed never lacks for company.

No one is surprised when you bear a set of twins - one boy and one girl - who look like Gaz. Next is a daughter whose eyes could rival Jon or Tav, followed by a son whose build is purely Si. And you are not the only one to fill the palace with the sound of children. Las and Wel build themselves a girl child of clay and a boy child of cloud, breathing life into each in turn. Fra and Lex have several children too. As they grow, the children become gods and goddesses, claiming various facets of life to protect.

Generations pass and still you sit in your place of honor, ever focused on protecting others. With your children and their children and their children's children, you urge them to find ways to watch over things in a way that will allow them to continue living and not be forgotten as so many of the original ancient gods had been.

One morning you are gripped by a desire so strong, you cannot ignore it. You dress in clothes you've seen others wear before leaving the palace for the mortal realm. Though Jon, Gaz, Tav, and Si all offered to accompany you, they did not attempt to force their company on you. It warms you after all this time to know they care deeply for you and trust your judgement.

You find yourself on the road to your old village, walking a path you used to know by heart but which has changed in the years since you left. There are more people now, more homes, more spaces to gather. Many people look up and wave as you enter the village, and you are greeted by a pleasant-looking man who introduces himself as Lars. "I am one of the leaders of this village, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to it," he says, nodding his head. "Have you come to see the shrine?"

"Shrine?" you ask, remembering the small altars you'd built on the border between the village and the fields all those years ago.

"Yes," Lars replies. "It is our pride and joy, and many come to see it and pray to the gods."

You remember the pilgrims who were with your gods the night you left the village. You aren't sure how to respond, so you simply nod your head and say, "Yes."

Lars leads you past buildings whose inhabitants and purposes you knew a lifetime ago to what had been the main meeting hall. You remembered seeing your gods there over dinner, the first time they'd come to your village in human form. Little about the outside of the building has changed, but as Lars opens wide the doors and ushers you inside, everything is different.

The altars you'd built were tiny and modest in comparison to what you see before you. Ranging along three walls of the meeting hall are large, ornate altars. The largest ones are along the wall directly across from the door. There are nine in total, but the five in the middle are nearly as tall as you. Lars names your children, their children, and children of the other gods as he points to various altars along the long walls. The pride in his voice at how well the people tend the altars and worship the gods is unmistakable.

Finally, he stops at the far wall, pointing at the five largest altars, and you gasp. Before he says anything, you point to each and say, "There is the altar to the god of death, and that must be to Gaz, here is the one for Tav, and this is clearly Jon's. But what of the altar in the center? I do not recognize it."

It is beautifully carved with images of soft rains and fertile fields, of fish and game and wild berries, of babies and the elderly. It is obviously well taken care of. Lars quickly glances at you before focusing on the altar. There's a hitch in his voice when he finally speaks. "Legend has it our people were dying. Wars and famine gripped us. But then we were saved. One woman somehow brought a miracle to us. The gods began blessing us. Our crops grew strong and plentiful. Fighting stopped and trade with our neighbors began instead. Less than two years later, the woman disappeared." Lars turns to look at you. "We know it is but a legend, but we believe she left us to bring miracles to others, as word soon spread of how our neighbors began to flourish too. She is the reason we are still here, and so we worship her as the queen of the gods, the heart that saved us all."

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taglist: @hidden-treasures21 @lostintransist @sirbonesly @lilynotdilly

[h66nki]

just the tip ⋆. 𐙚 ̊ step!bro park sunghoon.

your stepbrother comes back from his tour after months and you let him fuck you, just with the tip. warnings; stepcest, unprotected sex, kinda angst?

sunghoon can't deny it... he knows he hasn't been present in your life at all these past few months, and even if he really wants to deny it, it wouldn't be right.

the brief, dry messages he sent you while he was away weren't enough, not even a little. he wasn't a good brother, he wasn't a good man to you, and he's so, so sorry that he doesn't know how to make it up to you.

"princess, look at me," he asks, his voice breaking.

sunghoon is nestled between your legs, caressing your face and collarbones, awaiting your reactions.

since he came home, you haven't even bothered to greet him with more than a chaste kiss on the cheek. you haven't chatted with him, you haven't run into his arms like you used to... you haven't even taken the time to look at the gifts he brought you.

material things weren't and never would be a consolation for you. you wanted him, his affection, his attention. you wanted him to love you like before, when he'd sneak into your room and fuck you until you were dumb and whining; when he would finally hold you and shower you with kisses and caresses.

you didn't want a damn gift. none of the expensive material things he brought would serve as consolation to erase how alone and abandoned you felt.

"baby, look at me..." he asks again, curling his lip in a small pout. he didn't like you being so distant. not when he missed you so much, not when he needed you so much.

you look at him, defeated.

"im really sorry, i mean it." you nod, not entirely convinced.

it's just work, you console yourself in your head. it's not that your stepbrother didn't love you anymore, he was just busy.

his eyes look at you with love, with longing. you can't hold your shell, your shield any longer. you collapse, and sunghoon puts you back together, as usual.

"we're okay," you sigh, finally hugging him. it's been so long since you last saw him that you can tell the muscles in his back have changed, grown.

"you can't imagine how much i missed you," he murmurs sincerely, pressing himself against you. "i was going crazy."

"it was the same for me," you confess.

your stepbrother pouts again, and your heart clenches. you don't like that he's sad, especially not for you. you tilt your head and kiss him softly, letting him know everything you can't express out loud.

the man kisses you, just as tenderly. his hands go to your waist, caressing you until you tremble on his lips.

"you look so beautiful," he emphasizes, sincere. your hair is longer, your features look more delicate.

he kisses you again, deeper this time. your legs open out of inertia, pressing your crotch against his. you rub against him because god, you've missed him so much.

he's no slouch either. his cock is hard and uncomfortable inside his pants and he uses the friction to ease some of his discomfort.

"god, baby. you're going to kill me." he murmurs against your lips. you make him feel dizzy, weak.

you need him, but still a small part of you is aching, hurting.

"let me fuck you," he begs, kissing your neck. his tongue runs down the length and his lips leave wet kisses there. he can't mark you, he can't leave you hickeys. if he did, your parents would know. they can't find out; he can't allow them to take his princess away from him. the bruises on your skin always have to be where no one but the two of you can see them. never on your neck.

you ignore his request, rubbing yourself even harder against him. your underwear feels uncomfortable, too wet and sticking to you.

"you don't deserve that."

your words hit him hard, waking him from his reverie. he pulls away from your neck, his lips swollen and red.

"i know... i know i don't deserve anything, but i really need it."

you moisten your lips and look up at him. he's going to have to work hard to reward you, you both know that.

"just the tip," he proposes, looking at you desperately. if he has to beg for it, he'll do it, without a doubt. "come on, baby, just the tip... nothing more. i promise i won't try anything. just my tip in your pussy."

you nod, giving him permission to remove your pants and panties. the fabric of your underwear is so sticky that sunghoon has to force himself not to kneel and eat your pussy out for fear of going too far and making you regret this.

he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down a bit, as well as his boxers. he's so hard that you feel sorry for him; you've rarely seen him as needy as he is now.

"open up for me..." he asks, his voice breaking. your legs part a little further, allowing him to enter.

his hands take his cock and he uses it to rub it against your folds, moistening it until it's full of your juices. sunghoon knows what drives you crazy; his dripping head hits your clit a few times, playing with you.

"don't tease," you say breathlessly.

your stepbrother laughs and finally aligns his head with your hole, barely penetrating you. "heavenly," he praises. "i missed being in this cunt. always so wet for me..."

sunghoon finds your lips and steals a messy kiss. his hips barely move, fucking you with just the tip, like he promised. "you're so tight," he murmurs. "you haven't let anyone fuck you, do you?"

"no..." you moan, feeling one of his fingers slip out to rub your clit. "since you left..." you try to put together a coherent sentence.

he understands, smiling at you.

"good princess," he praises you, placing a kiss on your nose, his hips still moving. "only i can fuck this hole... im the only allowed to, even if it's just with the tip."

m sorry if there are grammatical errors, i have to sleep NOW. tomorrow they will be corrected. xoxo :*

[sparkriddledfever]

Oughhh, imagine good sex relief with tfp optimus

He's deserved be relaxed,,,,,,

Could i request that (with f!reader but optimus's partner is sweetheart and wants him to relaxed <3)

That mech honestly needs it so bad. Hope you enjoy!

Warning: 18+🌶 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“I-I have to-”

His voice box hitched at the feeling of your teeth nibbling lightly at the cables lining his neck. Groaning lowly, his hips bucked up, sighing softly with a huff at the gasp leaving your lips. He grits his denta together to keep himself in control yet the feeling of your pussy clenching down on his spike had him rolling his optics back into his helm. The pleasure burned deep in his mechanisms, daring him to turn you over on the bed and rut into you fast like a turbofox till you are dumb and limp.

“Nuh-uh,” you pushed him back down onto the sheets before he could even turn you over, “You need to relax, Opti. You've worked so hard lately for me, for us to keep everybody safe.”

Trembling servos carefully clutched your hips, squeezing here and there the pliant flesh. He stared up at you in quiet awe as the setting sunlight from the window painted your skin, framing you in its gentle glow. Optimus wondered if he was worthy to be under this breathtaking being that stares at him with such care. 

“Let me take good care of my sweet mech, yeah? He deserves his award.”

He choked back a whimper at the loss of your warmth yet the praise echoed in his processor, turning it slowly into mush. The question on his glossa dies at the sight of your back turned to him and bent over. A small giggled at the dumbfounded look on his face as you grabbed his spike, giving it a good squeeze before pressing the head in. His servo clutched the sheet tightly, threatening to tear a hole in it while the other carefully guided your hips back down onto him.

“Careful handsome,” you rolled your hips, “don't want to have to explain to Fowler why I need a new bed sheet.”

“Ah, m-my apologies,” Optimus sighed sweetly, “it's just-”

He gasped with a throw of his helm back, almost snarling at the cheeky squeeze of your cunt. The giggles made him melt, it was too much, he feels so sensitive to everything around him. The hot air, the feelings of the sheets. His frame jolts at your gentle touches, gasping in time with your moans and honey-coated sighs each time your hips thrusts downward.

“Bet you like it even more if I just-”

His engine revved hard at your touch against his node, hips bucking up far to where he failed to hear a squeal over the sound of his vents and spark whirring heavily in his audials. He couldn't control himself. He couldn't stop his hips from thrusting up, pedes shuffling into a better position. Optimus couldn't stop his servos from clutching your hips, letting him fuck you deeper.

“Op-Optimus! Ngh!” Your hands cupped his servos, “you- unf, were supposed to relax!”

“Forgive me,” a shot of fire pooled from your veins down to your clit at his breathy, almost borderlining growling tone that sounded in tune with his revving engine.

Cheeky mech! You can hear that smirk in his voice. He wouldn't let you retort as his servo moved from the spot on your hip to carefully yet firmly rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts. You feel that the coil in your stomach began to tighten, threatening to send you over. Your hand slips down to his valve, rubbing his node that caused him to falter in his thrusts.

“C'mon, overload with me? Needed this so bad, yeah? C'm-!”

Optimus helm flies back, his intake dropping in a silent scream. Transfluid flooded your cunt deep and covered your hand. With a soft roll of your hips and tiny smack against his valve. You pant,

“Such a good mech, so good for me.”

[ediblechainsaw]

Stalker!König, who thinks that the word 'stalker' is a gross word. He prefers 'adorer' or 'devoted', he believes that those words suit him better. He worships you. He believes that you deserve everything, and that he is just the man to give it to you.

If he could work up the courage to talk to you, he would tell you that. But every time he thinks he's going to talk to you, his mind blanks and he ends up losing the courage.

So when he overhears you telling your coworker about your pets expensive vet bill, he decides to help you out.

It's closing time and you're wiping off tables when you see something left on a table. The guy who usually sits there is a little.. intimidating. He gets a coffee, then sits there and taps away on his computer. That part isn't the worst thing, but you swear you can feel his eyes on you when you aren't looking at him.

Normally, he leaves a small tip on his table for you to pick up. Emphasis on 'small tip.'

This, you think, looking at the folded Benjamins on his table, is not a small tip. His coffee costed ten dollars.

The next day, König sits at his usual table.

You see him and walk up with a smile, "hey, welcome in. Um, sorry but I think you left more money yesterday than you meant to?" You hold the cash out to him.

"Nein, no mistake," his voice is deep and slightly nervous, his accent almost hypnotic. This is the first time you've heard him talk, and God, you wish he would talk more.

You keep your hand out, his money between you fingers, "I.. I can't take this. It's too much."

'It's too much', your voice repeats that one line in Königs mind. He wants to hear you say that when he has you bent over, ''it's too much', as he dicks you down and makes you scream.

"For your pet," he states, "for the vet. I overheard you yesterday. Ja, take it."

You stare at him for another moment, then reluctantly lower your hand. "I.. thank you. But why?"

König just shrugs, "why not?"

You return to work, but later you see another tip at his table, this one with a note beside it. The tip is twenty dollars, still way too much for how simple and cheap his coffee is.

The note is small, a ripped piece of paper with neat, blocky handwriting on it. Why, you ask, my goddess? Because I would do anything to help you, to prove that I am a man that will worship you and make sure you have everything you have ever wanted, that is why.

At the bottom, he signed, your devoted.

[sangunary]

BatBoy x Hero Reader.

SYPNOSIS: Being the subject of admiration of kids is a real privilege.

IMP: Reader is only 5 year's older.. Reader do not reciprocate the feelings.

Dick Grayson:

He liked you before he was Robin, before the light were on him just because you complimented his mother. Most Heroes don't really have the time to take personal note of citizens but you did, and he wasn't ashamed about liking you hell everybody knows that the you g boy liked you. The way his eyes would sparkle whenever he saw you or how he was trying his best to impress you like how kods would.

He broke his leg because he was trying to impress you, forgetting about the fact that he jumping through roofs too occupied with making sure you were watching he totally forgot everything he have learnt. It was embarassing for him pretending that his broken leg was just some boo-boo but you saw through him. Gave him a piggy back home which made him promise to you that he would be stronger and he'll carry you like that one day.

Bruce wouldn't stop lecturing him, scolding him for broking his leg for 'validation'. The moment Bruce somewhat insult you the young boy definitely defended you with his whole heart. He did not care who he had to face no one talk about you like that to him. Alfred wouldn't stop passing remarks about you from that day.

Jason Todd.

He started to like you when you gave him food when he was still living in the street. To you it was just giving a poor kid some food but to him... You were an angel sent by God personally for him and luckily he got to meet you again by fate.

He was more reckless than any of your mentee and definitely more ruthless, Bruce already told you about his bad tendency but you treat him like a normal person. With him around you could go through a whole mission while closing your eyes he would take care of everything for you before you can ask. If any thug get a hit on you, boom! A dislocated arm. After each patrol with yoy Bruce would lecture him again and again, and as a result he was permitted from patrolling with you alone.

He took it like a champ and run straight to your house with his belongings, a credit card he stole from Bruce on his hand. Begging you take him and run away somewhere without Bruce. He ended up staying with you for two months before the unthinkable happened.

Tim Drake.

Being liked by him have to be the worst dream for heros. Not only did he show up at your apartment with a whole binder full of why you were the exact hero he demanded for him to be your sidekick. He even brought a list of chores. He talked about how easy it was and even bringing a presentation on how to hide your identity better cause not every kid deserves to know your identity he needs your validation real bad.

Not only did he not get to live with you he instead got to live with the dark knight. Even during Patrol he wouldn't stop asking you questions which you answered, everything but the 'Can you love a sidekick?'.

Bruce is very sick of your name now, everytime he did something wrong Tim was ready to bring his luggage to your apartment. For Bruce he was learning every random fact about you through his bored kid "Their bathroom is atleast 5 feet by 8 feet", "They're neglecting their school work, especially on friday", "They eat ramen everyday... We should give them money".

Bruce made Tim your contingency plan.

Damian Wayne.

Damian started to 'care' about your presence after you flicker his forehead when he was stating facts. He was amazed by your audacity so much that he ended up at your apartment analyzing everything and memorizing them. It was because if he has to fight you it'll be inside your own home and he'll laugh at you when he ended you in your own comfort.

That never happened he ended up cleaning your apartment out of pity. Gradually he would 'soften' letting you do his hair or let you touch his personal weapon he treasure dearly. To him you weren't just a person you were the embodiment of warmth and he wasn't going to let any one took that warmth from him, they should thank him if they managed to left with only a broken rib.

Bruce saw you as a huge disaster and tried to send you to blüdhaven for your own and his son sake. Damian would always visit you every single night, he couldn't be at ease knowing his trust was so far away so he made sure that you were taking care of yourself not because he love you and only because you were the missing part of him. Being lectured by a kid on how to live isn't fun.

[ldydeath]

Feels Like I'll Die Without You 5 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: As you and Jiyong meet up for a doctor's appointment and try to navigate your new life new feelings rise to the surface.  Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: Angst, language, pregnancy Author’s Note: I plan to wrap this up in a couple more parts so hav faith (or don’t) that everything will work itself out in the end. You can read the rest of the chapters here.

Life had gone back to normal once you’d headed back home. Well, as normal as it could be considering you were having Jiyong’s baby. Jiyong’s tour was in full swing and you were set to hit the road in a few days. You also knew you’d begin to show soon and didn’t know how to announce it to your fans. Maybe you wouldn’t? Maybe you’d just wear baggy clothes all tour and hope for the best. 

When’s the next doctor's appointment? 

Jiyong hardly spoke to you unless it was baby related anymore, which you deserved. He’d confessed his love for you and you’d said no, again. Jiyong deserved better.  You could argue you did too, but in reality you didn’t deserve Jiyong at all. He’d changed from the boy you’d dated all those years ago and you knew if you’d just let him back in you could be happy with him. You just couldn’t. 

Next week, LA. 

It wasn’t ideal having him fly out while he was on tour like this but he’d insisted and at least it aligned with a festival he was doing. You were the one who was going to have to fly across the country to make it back in time. 

Jiyong responded back with a thumbs up and you sighed as you threw your phone back in your bag. You missed the sweet, attentive Jiyong who would FaceTime you and check in with you. You tried not to take it personally, you knew how he got on tour and you did kind of deserve the cold shoulder, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. 

You threw yourself back into your work, at least if you were busy you couldn’t analyze a stupid thumbs up emoji. Maybe you’d confront him when you saw him. You knew you wouldn’t but it was still nice to dream about it. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

LA greeted Jiyong like an old friend, the hot summer air swirling around him as he stepped out of the airport. Thankfully he had his friends with him for this weekend. A random stop on his tour, a doctor's visit with you, and then he’d been gone until you needed him again. 

He didn’t even know how he was supposed to act around you, not since he’d confessed how he really felt the night of his concert. He wanted to get over you, but he knew as soon as he saw your face all the hurt would fade and he’d have to fight the urge to put his arms around you. 

This was not how he’d imagined his life would go. He always thought he’d be married when he found out he was having a kid. Instead something you considered a mistake was what had changed everything. It wasn’t a mistake to him, though. Jiyong has always been pretty good at making the best out of any situation. So he wasn’t married, so you didn’t love him, at least he was still going to be a dad. That was something, right? 

“Hi” You greeted when you spotted him getting out of his car. 

“Hi.” He nodded. There was no signature smirk. No warm embrace. “Let’s go.” 

He held out his arm allowing you to lead the way and you swallowed back all the words you wanted to say. He stood in the hall as you changed, coming in a few minutes after you’d given him the all clear. You’d barely had a second together before the doctor was in the room with you both. 

He was silent as the exam started, keeping his distance. You didn’t realize you could feel so alone in such a crowded room. And then you heard it. A heartbeat. 

“Is that?” His voice cutting through the silence almost made you jump. 

“Your baby’s heartbeat. Yes.” The doctor was warm, friendly. 

Jiyong’s eyes welled with tears, his hand moving to rest on your shoulder as he listened. The sound of his child’s heartbeat was the best sound he’d ever heard. Your hand moved, resting on top of his and he glanced down. The mask he’d been wearing stripped away as his watery eyes met yours. 

“Do you want to know what you’re having?” 

You both nodded, your hand gripping Jiyong’s like your life depended on it. 

“Congratulations you’re having a girl!” The doctor exclaimed, circling some photos on the ultrasound. 

“A girl?” Jiyong’s voice broke and you squeezed his hand. 

He smiled down at you before leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. One you’d almost been anticipating and had leaned into. Your eyes slipping closed as the feel of him being so close to you again. It was ridiculous to miss someone that wasn’t even yours. He felt it then, a tiny piece of hope that maybe things could be different. Maybe you felt something more for him too. 

A few minutes later you met Jiyong in the hallway, his earlier demeanor completely gone and the nice Jiyong you’d seen the last few months stood in his place. 

“How long are you in town?” 

“I have to fly out tomorrow. I have a show in Jersey.” 

He nodded and checked his watch. 

“I have to be at the venue soon, but maybe we can talk, after?” 

“Maybe I could watch your set?” You knew it was a bad idea as soon as the words came out of your mouth. 

“Yeah. That would be nice.” He moved, his arm wrapping it loosely around your shoulder as he led you out of the building. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

It was weird showing up to an event together. Jiyong threw his arm around you like you were something to protect as he led you inside the building. You used to go to everything together when you were kids, his hand covering your face as he guided you inside just like this. It was almost too much, and you felt silly as you felt tears pricking your eyes. Your relationship may not have been perfect back then but you’d had him and he would’ve done anything for you. Now you weren’t even sure you could call him a friend. 

“Are you ok?” His eyes frantically searched your face as he noticed the tears in your eyes. His hand moving to cup your face and you swatted him away gently. 

“Yeah, pregnancy hormones.” You lied as you wiped at the tears. “Go, don’t worry about me. You have a show to get ready for.” 

Jiyong’s lips formed into a tight line but he nodded his head and moved to the other side of the room. There were so many things he wanted to say to you, he just didn’t even know where to start. You watched as he got ready, fighting back the urge to tell him that you got it now, how he felt that night. Why it was so hard to hold someone who didn’t want to be with him. Because maybe you did want to be with him. Maybe it just took you a little longer to catch up. But now you knew you’d messed it up and he didn’t want to be with you. 

“I’ll see you after?” You nodded, taking in his appearance and giving him a small smile. He leaned in and kissed your cheek before walking out the room. 

You watched the show hidden backstage, Chaerin stood with you in silence. She watched as you watched him, recognizing the look on your face. She’d been there when you’d first got together, when everything had fallen apart too. She’d stayed a loyal friend to the both of you all these years. 

“If you love him you should tell him. But if you don’t, you need to let him go.” You turned to face her. “It’s killing him, he won’t tell you that but it is. So either be with him or set him free.” You nodded and she was gone. 

Once the show was over and everyone had gone you two sat down in his changing room. It was probably the most neutral ground you had with each other, you couldn’t be trusted as your place and you sure as hell couldn’t be trusted in a hotel room. 

“You leave in the morning?”  You nodded. “Is this how it’s always going to be? I see you for a couple hours and that’s it?” 

“It won’t always be this way, Ji. We’re just busy. That’s all.” You turned to face him and he let out a sigh. “You wanted to talk?” 

“I started seeing someone.” Your face fell. Of all the things you expected him to say this wasn’t it. “It was right after you left.” 

“Oh, that’s great.” You tried to keep your voice neutral, a small smile on your face. 

“It’s not serious, but I just thought I owed it to you to let you know.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Ji. We aren’t anything.” You moved to stand up, you had to get out of here. 

“No?” You looked up at him, your eyes watery again. Fuck these hormones. 

“No.” 

“So you don’t love me?” He stood up slowly, crossing the room to stand in front of you.

“I-” you paused, your eyes searching his. “I don’t know.” You whispered, your eyes falling from his face. 

His finger hooked under your chin and he gently pulled your face up to look at his. His face was soft, his eyes bright and full of understanding. As if he'd been expecting this answer from the start. 

“I know how I feel about you. But if you don’t feel the same then I owe it to myself to try and move on.  I love you, I’m always going to love you. I’ll be here for you every step of this pregnancy but I can’t sit around and wait for you anymore.” 

“I know.” You nodded, moving back from his touch. “I just want you to be happy, Ji. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

You collected your things and made your way to the door. Turning to look at him once more. Why couldn’t you just let yourself say how you felt? You wanted so badly to just start fresh with him, have the family you’d both dreamt about but you couldn’t stop sabotaging yourself.

“I’ll see you in a month?” He nodded and you turned, leaving him behind. 

Maybe it would always be this way, a few hours every couple of months where one of you would have to watch the other walk away. Jiyong stood staring at the closed door for longer than he’d like to admit.  You hadn’t said you didn’t love him, you just said you didn’t know. And he felt it again, that little bit of hope he’d had earlier in the day. He’d hold onto that.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy

[capseycartwright]

a tiny post 8x16 ficlet i couldn’t get out of my head

“I’ve never carried a coffin before.”

The admission was quiet, barely audible despite the fact that the only people in the house were Buck, and Eddie. Eddie wasn’t used to being in such a quiet version of the house on South Bedford with Buck - even when it was Eddies house, it had always been filled with noise, the radio playing in the kitchen, filling the rooms with chatter. Buck had preferred his record player - a COVID era purchase that had become central to his life - careful in his selection of which record to play, the crackle of the tonearm hitting the vinyl usually the signal of Buck settling in to cook something delicious, and elaborate.

The silence was poignant. Eddie didn’t need to be a poet to know that for sure. Buck had been quiet and methodological when he’d picked Eddie up from the airport, greeting him with a brief hug and an explanation that they needed to get on the road quickly.

The funeral.

Eddie wasn’t sure if it had even really hit him, yet, that Bobby was gone - that the man who had become so much more than just his fire captain was no longer with them. He still felt shocked, by it all - and a part of him didn’t want to be the one who broke down, because Eddie had always been able to see through Buck, and this was no different - Bucks shoulders were squared, jaw set in a tight line as he tried to be everything for everyone, his own grief secondary to the purpose he seemed to have given himself in the weeks after Bobby’s death.

The admission was the first moment of vulnerability that Eddie had seen from his best friend since he’d landed in LA that morning.

Buck frowned. “I just don’t know what to expect,” he mused. “From - from carrying his coffin.”

Eddie had carried his fair share of coffins. He wasn’t sure if everyone felt the same way, but it had always been seen as an honour, in his family - he’d been sixteen when he’d shouldered his grandfathers coffin, the man he’d been named for, and eighteen when he’d done it again for his moms mom. He’d done it a dozen times over, in the army, but he wasn’t sure it was something you just got used to - there was a physical weight, yes, but a symbolic weight too, carrying someone to their final resting place.

It would be wrong to say he liked it, but Eddie wasn’t opposed to being asked to do it. It was often the final thing you got to do for someone you loved, he supposed.

“I think some people find it scary,” Eddie began, pausing for a second. “But I never have.”

Buck took a sip of coffee, though the liquid had long since gone cold. “What if I’m scared?”

“You’re allowed to be,” Eddie nudged his boot against Buck’s trainer, letting their feet rest together under the table. It was strange, in some ways, how the house on South Bedford still felt like home, even though all his things had been replaced with Buck’s furniture, Buck’s decor, Buck’s favourite mug in his hands. Eddie would unpack that one on his flight back to El Paso. “It’s an important moment.”

Buck offered Eddie an unsteady smile. “I’m just glad you’re doing it with me.”

Eddie wasn’t sure how it worked, at a firefighter funeral. Bobby had died in the line of duty, and so he was getting full (and deserved) honours. He knew Chimney, and Ravi were carrying Bobby, but he wasn’t sure who else from the 118 was doing it - wasn’t sure how the brass would decide to match them up. He remembered, after his grandfather died, a tense discussion in his childhood kitchen between his father, and his sisters, Ramon scratching out names on a sheet of paper torn from one of Adrianna’s colouring books, matching the Diaz cousins by height, the mathematical precision required to ensure a smooth journey between the hearse, and Edmundo Senior’s grave.

Eddie was glad someone else had to do those maths for Bobby.

“You’re not alone,” Eddie reassured, itching to reach across the table and take Buck’s hand in his own. “I’m here. Every step of the way, Buck.”

Eddie just hoped that was enough.