#I PHYSICALLY JUST STOPPED WHAT I WAS DOING

[mooningningg]

notes, such a fun request to make

★ Roommate!Sukuna when his friend hits on you.

You don’t even get the front door closed before Sukuna’s voice rings out:

“Why the fuck is Gojo in my kitchen?”

Gojo, standing by the fridge with his sunglasses on indoors (as usual), flashes a grin and waves a juice box.

“She let me in,” he says cheerfully. “You should lock your doors, by the way.”

Sukuna walks into the living room shirtless, towel draped around his neck, looking every bit the pissed-off guard dog someone just kicked out of his nap.

“She let you in?” he repeats, eyes cutting toward you. “The hell you let Gojo in for?”

You raise your brows. “Because he knocked?”

“Fucking let stray animals in next time, too, while you’re at it.”

Gojo slurps from the juice box loudly.

“Don’t be mad, Sukuna,” he purrs. “I was just saying hi to your adorable roommate.”

Sukuna freezes.

You blink.

“...Hi,” you say slowly.

Gojo leans a hip against the counter and slides off his sunglasses — like he’s in a damn K-drama commercial.

“You look cute today,” he says.

You blink again. “I’m wearing socks with sandals.”

“Bold fashion choice. I like it.”

Sukuna’s face goes dead blank.

Gojo smiles wider. “Sukuna didn’t tell me you were this pretty. Thought he was hiding you for a reason.”

“I am,” Sukuna snaps. “I am hiding her for a reason. She’s not a fucking zoo exhibit, Satoru.”

Gojo ignores him completely, gaze still on you. “You know, if you ever get tired of this grumpy ass—”

“Satoru.”

“—you should come hang out at my place. I’ve got wine. A couch. Mood lighting.”

Sukuna storms into the kitchen and physically wedges himself between you and Gojo.

“Try that line again, and I’ll wedge this fucking juice box up your ass,” he growls.

Gojo laughs. “Down, boy.”

You, meanwhile, are trying not to choke on your own saliva. “Sukuna—”

“And you,” Sukuna turns on you, furious. “Stop fucking smiling like this is funny. This dumbass is not flirting with you in my house.”

Gojo leans down toward you with a dramatic sigh. “Is he always this jealous?”

You open your mouth to answer.

Sukuna slaps his hand over it.

“Say one word,” he mutters, “and I swear I’ll call the IRS on you. You forgot to file taxes last year, didn’t you?”

Gojo gasps. “That was ONE TIME—!”

“OUT.”

Gojo tries to protest but Sukuna is already shoving him toward the door, juice box still in hand.

“Text me later,” Gojo calls over his shoulder.

Sukuna slams the door behind him and turns back to you.

He’s breathing hard. His jaw is clenched. He looks ready to commit several minor felonies.

You blink up at him.

“...He thinks I’m pretty.”

“I know you’re pretty. But that’s not the fuckin’ point.”

“Jealous?”

He scoffs. “Over that discount scarecrow? Please.”

Then he grabs your phone off the coffee table and types something in.

“What are you doing?”

“Blocking Gojo.”

You raise a brow. “You know I can unblock him, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tosses the phone to the couch and stalks toward the fridge.

You smirk.

“Oh, Sukuna?”

He pauses, halfway opening the fridge. Doesn’t turn.

You say sweetly, “Next time, maybe invite me to your little ego tantrum. I wanna see Gojo flirt again.”

The door slams.

“Over my dead fuckin’ body.”

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie.

[yan-randomfandom]

I've been reading the fanart. You have a natural talent for creating a more distinctive personality for the Saja Boys from the bits and pieces they gave us in the movie!

Ever since that fanart where the Saja sneaked into the reader's room, I couldn't stop imagining what they would be like sleeping alone with her, as if every day of the week except the weekends they will take turns sleeping with the reader or something like that.

And again, I love your writing. I hope you like the idea. Have a nice day!!!

Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; anon thank you so much heheh!!! this one isn't too accurate to your idea, but i love it and i hope it's still okay!

summary; physical touch with the boys and why they wanna go to your bedroom :))) (touch starved. written separately but they all live in the same housing)

warnings; stalking (watching you sleep), body curious, touching w no permission, nothing sexual tho!

— 🍃 [Monday]

Here's the thing, guys. The boys don't actually need sleep. They're demons. Sleep isn't something their bodies need—instead it's something they want. They are still aware and can feel through touch, which is exactly why they'd prefer to sleep with you.

You're warm, so alive, and they don't know it yet.

Surprisingly enough, Jinu is the first one to knock on your door.

"Jinu?" you drawl, voice laced with sleep. He stands awkwardly by the doorway, patiently waiting for you to process what's happening. Glancing idly at your sleepwear and dimlit room.

You yawn, widening the door. "What's up? Need something?" You pause, raising a lazy accusing finger. "Wait. You're not here to suck my blood, are you—?!"

"What? No!" Jinu gasps, almost offended. You sigh out of relief anyway.

"...We're not interested in physical bodies. Anyway, uh, sorry for waking you up. I just need to see how our socials are going," he explains as he steps into your room. "You can power your computer and go back to sleep."

As soon as you heard the word 'social', you were already turning it on. "'kay, buddy. You sure you don't need help, though? I know I taught you a bit but I understand it can get confusing—"

"No, no," Jinu huffs, denial flooding his form. "I can do it."

"You remember how to turn it off?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

Then you fall asleep next to him, your body slightly pressing against his. His eyes slowly drift away from the glow of the computer screen to your sleeping form. He stares for a moment.

Soft, warm. It reminds him of the past on how he couldn't sleep with his own fam—

Jinu pulls the computer plug off and teleports away.

—💐 [Tuesday]

Baby made you piggyback him. A lot. It was sort of your fault.

You saw the Saja Boys taking turns carrying him—it was a pretty funny ordeal. Then you jokingly offered to piggyback him to see what the hype was about.

He accepted it all too eagerly. As soon as his full weight falls on you, you're genuinely surprised at how light he is. It's probably equivalent to a box full of volleyballs.

"You're lighter than I thought," you say, adjusting your arms behind his legs.

Baby suddenly lets his head rest on yours. "Why are you so..." Warm. He buries himself into your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

"Why am I so what?" you ask, turning your head, only achieving to tickle him more.

He doesn't let you go for the rest of the day.

And by extension, night.

You tried to complain at first. "Didn't we agree to—"

"Just this once, please?"

You folded.

He snuggles all comfortable within your arms, acting as the little spoon, greedily content in your warmth and breathing.

But then you wake up with his mouth on your skin. He wasn't biting, sucking, or anything. It was just.... there.

Still, though, you assumed the worst.

"I thought you said demons don't suck blood, Jinu!?!"

"We don't!!?!"

—🪷 [Wednesday]

Abby wanted you to touch his abs for some mysterious reason. Yapping about how "no one else will have this chance," or "you might not live long enough to feel it!" and "I actually haven't let anyone touch my artificial abs yet" — it was really weird, but you shrugged it off and agreed anyway.

Like hell yeah. Sure, why not?

So he unbuttons his shirt, all giddy, and watches as you reach for his skin.

You make contact with his abs. Caressing it gently, it feels normal in texture — but you suppose it's a little too cold. The fact didn't totally sound weird at the time.

Looking up, you flinch at Abby's expression. You thought he'd be smiling, like he was the whole time, but he looks so serious that it's actually concerning. He's not looking at you; his eyes were down and fixated on your hand.

You notice, pulling your hand away from him, and snapping your fingers. "You okay?"

He blinks. "Uh."

Later that night, Abby welcomes himself into your room.

He stares at you from the corner. From the center. From the edge of your bedframe. On your bed.

Sometimes, he'd gently let his hands roam over your exposed skin. Mostly your warm hands. And your warm face.

You wake up to find his face in front of you.

Screaming, you unintentionally kick him in the abs.

"Ow, my perfectly crafted abs!"

— 🪻 [Thursday]

Mystery almost lost it when you pat his head.

You did it voluntarily. It's a nice, comforting feeling as you pat his shoulder, his arm, and his cheek. He utterly melts under your casual touches without a single word.

He loves it. You leave him demanding for more. So, Mystery decides to linger around you like a guard dog. Who hopes to be spoiled, who wishes to be held.

But, then, night comes.

"You're not exactly allowed in my room," you say, only to pause when he straight up whimpers.

... You folded. With a sigh, you step away from the door and give him space to walk in.

He happily skips into your room, flopping face-first on your bed. You stare at him for a moment, thinking about how despite them not being human — they really love to rest.

You lie down, feeling Mystery move around under your blanket, closing your eyes when he finds himself comfortable against your chest.

Your chest rising and falling with every breath—Mystery simply can't help but feel envious.

— 🌺 [Friday]

Romance is confused.

There's a buzz between his band members — apparently, they visited your bedroom? Didn't they agree to avoid that specific place in this house?

He doesn't realize he's been staring blankly at nowhere. Reality hits him hard when something gentle touches his hair.

"Might wanna style your hair again, Rome," you chuckle, brushing his hair with your fingers. He shivers when your skin grazes his forehead. "You got the bed head. Though I guess you just snap your fingers and it'd be all okay."

You leave right after that, but Romance keeps staring at the last place he saw your figure, his fingers fidgeting with the hair you just touched.

Okay. He gets it now.

Next day, you woke up with him hovering over your head.

You suddenly grab his shoulders, push him back against your bed, breathing heavy from the shock. The bed sinks under both your weight.

Romance stares immensely up at you.

"You guys," you breath, "will be the death of me."

He smirks. "I can only imagine."

— krazy

[anglbunny]

ASLEEP

♡. multi, smut mdni, somno, dubcon

It was your doing.

You told him while you were drunk, that, having sex while being asleep would be so hot. You stared at him and laughed but he didn't. until you passed out on him.

But now your wrists are cuffed to the headboard. Ankles spread. Breathless and trembling in the dark. And his head is between your thighs like he belongs there.

You woke up to his mouth on you — soft, slow licks that turned hungry fast — and you’re soaked, overstimulated, mind already fogged.

“H-Hey—f-ah-fuck—”

He doesn’t even look at you, just kept going eating your pussy like a starved man. Humming as you woke up

“Yes, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your swollen clit, voice wrecked with lust. “You said I could. Remember?” you didn't remember, your memory from being drunk was all hazy and blurry. But you couldn't care right now. All you wanted was that orgasm that was coiling in the pit of your stomach.

"Feels good... don't stop please" your body trembled at his touch, making you whimper

Your back arches as his tongue flattens again, dragging through the mess he’s made of you. His fingers grip your thighs tighter, holding you open as you sob, twitching, close to breaking. Your hands pull against the restraint but it's no use. You don't want to run from him but it's overstimulation. Physically and visually. The sight of him going at you is too hot.

“You taste better when you're all shaking n' crying,” he groans. “Look at you — trembling for me, and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your eyes roll back. You cum again, legs spasming.

He doesn’t let up. Just keeps eating you like a man starved — until your thighs are numb and your vision goes white at the edges.

And the last thing you hear before you slip under again is his voice, low and reverent:

“you should be careful with what you say, doll”

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @shezuannn @greekyoghurtwithberries @laslowchan

A/n: quick drabble before i lock in tmr. i still have to finish my bllk masterlist, the second part

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[vingtetunmars]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn’t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.��

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?” he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[sunsetcupid]

EYES OFF! ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you are catcalled on the street, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or enraged.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Descriptions of cat-calling; Mentions of physical altercations

a message from the author: Once again, I added Daniel Ricciardo to this fic. I think I’ll be doing that for the rest of the stories in this series. If any of you would like to add a driver or request a certain scenario, don’t hesitate to message me in my inbox!

ISACK HADJAR

He can’t believe his ears – he can’t begin to fathom why someone would make such a vile comment, especially to his girlfriend, the sweetest, most loving person he knows. It physically repulses him, and for a moment, you think he might vomit all over the sidewalk.

Likewise, as soon as he hears the leering statement, he freezes in place. Head cocked to one side, fists clenching until the knuckles turn white. You have to practically drag him away, telling him that “It’s not worth it” because the boxer in him is just itching for a fight.

“No one should be saying those things. Not to you, not to anyone. They need to learn a lesson, and I’ll fucking teach them.” He repeats it as if it were his personal mantra, over and over.

For the rest of the day, he’s sulking. An invisible rain cloud is hovering over his head, but it doesn’t stop him from being extremely clingy. If you dare move out of his eyesight for a second (to get a snack or to put your phone on charge), he immediately panics and can’t stop kissing you afterward.

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar is not a confrontational guy at all. His version of arguments are stony silences, unanswered texts, and the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, he rather enjoys keeping a level head and remaining calm. But when a guy walking down the street wolf-whistles at you and cracks some lewd joke about wanting to explore the curves of your body, Oscar wants to tear him apart.

He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to regulate his rapidly pounding heart rate before it explodes out of his chest. He might consider walking away, but when he sees your panic-stricken expression, it’s game over.

Oscar stalks over to them, his voice low and gravelly as he makes the catcaller regret his existence with a few well-chosen words. He’s more forceful, more direct than you’ve ever heard or seen him be, and it turns you on. 

LANCE STROLL

His head whips to look at the culprit, his eyes widening in astonishment. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it, but the leering smirk on the offender’s face dashes his hopes. “What did you just say to my girlfriend?” Lance’s voice is eerily calm, not a hint of his inner rage visible on the surface.

The only way you can identify how he truly feels is the vein pulsing on his neck, and the fact that he’s gone rigid, like a tree trunk. You have to place a hand on his arm to get his body to relax.

As a result of the incident, Lance becomes more vigilant, walking in front of you at all times and blocking your body with his – a very attractive shield. He even offers to get you a personal bodyguard, but you adamantly refuse.

LANDO NORRIS

His face flushes with anger, eyes turning into flinty shards. He’s so pissed off that someone would dare to tease you, especially in such a creepy manner.

You have to whisper-hiss at him to not get into an altercation with the person who catcalled you. He’s like an overgrown puppy, growling at the person and trying to tug himself free of your grip in order to go fight the other person. “I don’t give a fuck about race penalties. He’s a fucking bastard!” 

Once he’s regained some composure, he posts a lengthy paragraph on social media, denouncing misogynistic behaviors and urging everyone to make donations to women’s empowerment groups. “We love to believe that the world today is modern and equal, but it can never truly become inclusive if these events are still commonplace.”

CHARLES LECLERC

He curses in French, letting loose a dictionary’s worth of swear words you didn’t even know existed. That’s his clash with the perpetrator. On track? He’s ready to fight. But in person? He’s less eager to do so.

In lieu of this, he wraps you up in his sweater, taking your hand in his and comforting you with his closeness. “I’m here for you, mon ange. And I’ll always protect you.”

He’s big on physical touch after – kissing your cheeks and cuddling, enveloping you with his body like he can shield you from every harsh remark people make. Perhaps he can. He’s just that magical.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

He’s absolutely incensed. The happy-go-lucky facade disappears in a snap, replaced by cold fury. He slings one arm around your shoulder, laughing menacingly. “Hey, mate! Eyes off my girl, and fuck off.”

Daniel would 100% get into a brawl with someone who insults his girlfriend, not because he is a violent guy, but because he wants to properly defend the love of his life. 

He could be bleeding and bruised for weeks after, yet he will forever be proud of his capability to defend his girlfriend.

Later, he tries to make light of the situation by making jokes. Ultimately, however, all he wants is to take you in his arms and never let you go. You’re everything he could ever want, and he hates that other people have the power to hurt you.

Credits: Dividers — @strangergraphics

[houseofhyde]

Omg maybe a soft moment w manchild Bucky and reader where they are in bed slow touches talking about their feelings and how buckys been after her for so long and how she felt it too and omg.

Maybe not tho bc I might literally die of love resding it

signs in the silence. a manchild drabble.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. synopsis. fighting off sleep to scrape a little more time together, you interrogate bucky and find out all the things sam told him about you. warnings. mentions of smut/prior sexual activity, bickering, unlabeled relationship, reader being a sore loser (uno is hell on earth when you're losing), fluff, a tiny bit of angst. reader inclusivity. like a single mention of bucky brushing away an invisible strand of hair. wordcount. 2.7k (okay so maybe idk how to only write a drabble, sue me!) hyde's input. bestie, i saw your ask enter my inbox this evening and immediately started writing it, i swear i was possessed into finishing this in one sitting. ik it's not exactly what you asked for but i hope you enjoy reading it! (unedited, we die like real men)

Curtains dance in the wind like billowing ballgowns, lifting and dipping in the arms of the night. Past the window pane, rain reigns the streets below, staining everything beneath the stormy sky. Despite the weather and the ungodly hour, the city is still wide awake and, alongside it, so are you.

“You’re cheating!”

“How am I cheating?” There’s something unfair about how jaw-dropping Bucky still looks like this: cross-legged on the bed, wearing nothing but boxers and tired eyes, and clutching a two-card hand of colourful cards. If he hadn’t just condemned you to pick up twelve, you would reach over and steal a kiss. “I don’t even know the rules to this stupid game.”

“If it’s so stupid, why do you keep beating me?” You’re begrudgingly picking up your dues and struggling to hold the stack of cards in one hand.

As he tries to help you pick up a card that slips off the edge, you swat metal fingers away.

“Begginers luck,” the soldier shrugs, placing down his second last card. “Uno.”

Yellow Seven. Fuck.

“I actually hate you,” you groan, collapsing back against feather pillows.

“You’re holding half the deck, doll,” the ill-will you feel towards him in this moment aside, you can’t help the way your heart gives a little leap at that silly name of endearment. If feelings make fools, you’re leading the pack. “There’s no way you don’t have a playable card.”

Fingertips — flesh, warm and tender with their touch — slide up the back of your calf, hooking under your knee before attempting to tug you closer, down the bed, to where he sits by the edge. Like a child throwing a tantrum, you kick your legs, shaking off his touch.

“I don’t wanna play with you any more,” between the yawn you’re fighting off and the pout that’s taken capture of your lips, you truly are a pitiful sight. The knowledge of this doesn’t stop you from throwing down your cards and making a run for it off the mattress.

Unfortunately, your roommate has the reflex skills of a ninja and, no sooner than your feet touch the ground, his arms grab you from behind and drag you into his lap.

“God you’re such a sore loser,” he mouths against the skin of your neck, trailing his lips over the kisses he already tattooed into your skin hours ago, when the sun was barely setting and he had you pressed against the walls of the shower.

“I am not!” Two fingers pinch at his arm. You quietly delight in the way it only makes him squeeze them tighter around you, biceps straining deliciously on either side of you.

“Are too!” His teeth clamp down on your earlobe, and you have to physically hold yourself back from grinding back into his lap, the burning outline of his semi-hard cock straining against navy fabric heavy on your mind. “Sam even warned me about it.”

Glancing at him from over your shoulder, you find his eyes already on you. It’s something you’re coming to learn about him, quietly and unaddressed, just how attentive of a man he is. “You seriously shouldn’t trust a word that man says. He’s an agent of chaos!”

“Hey, that’s Captain America you’re talking about,” this time, he’s pinching you and, when you squirm, he takes the opportunity to scoop an arm beneath your knees and lifts you both off the bed. “And, according to him, you once bit his sister during a game of Twister.”

“One time,” You hold up a single finger and Bucky leans his head forward to bite it. “And it was only after she nearly choked me!”

After guiding both your hands to grab on behind his neck, your soldier takes away the hand supporting your back and uses it to dust off the sheets. Cards go flying and float onto the ground, and not once does the neurotic voice, that lives in your mind and berates any disorganisation, tell you to care about the mess.

In what world could a mess on the floor be more important than the way Bucky slides you both back down atop the mattress, card-free sheets pooling over your skin as the soldier pulls you into him.

He closes his eyes for all of four seconds before you’re whispering across the pillows.

“What else did Sam warn you about me?”

Blue irises reappear, one by one, and you can see how exhaustion has stitched itself across his face. You feel a twinge of guilt, keeping him awake on a night like this, but you’re selfish and you want every extra second with him you can get.

“He said you were the most intelligent yet incapable person he’s ever met,” his legs bump against yours beneath the sheets as he shuffles a little closer. You meet him halfway, intertwining your limbs in a tangle that’s slowly growing familiar. “Nearly didn’t believe him… Then I saw you for the first time.”

“You two are real mean, you know that?” There is not an ounce of grit behind your voice, just pure unadulterated adoration that a more awake version of yourself would be doubled over, gagging at the sight of it. Stand up, girl! You can almost hear her — you — say. He’s literally just a man! “What was so incapable about me opening the door of my home to the needy, huh?”

The soldier takes capture of the hand you poke against his chest, leading it up the path to meet the soft press of his lips. This is another thing you’re learning, how constant he craves contact, a hand always at your back, or a shoulder bumping against your own, or a head buried in your neck, he’s a fiend for the feel of flesh.

“Who said that’s the first time I saw you?” He challenges.

“Oh.”

“It was months before that. Sam and I, we were hiding out at a black-market art gallery in Madripoor because of… well, that’s not important,” as if he feels the tension bubbling beneath your skin, he dances over the dangerous part of his life, the parts you don’t get to see, the parts that turn him into a single phone call for days on end. “You called Sam, one of those face-clock calls-”

“It’s facetime, grandpa,” you tease him with a smile, reward him with a press of your mouth down into his right shoulder.

“Whatever. Point is, there was a mirror behind him and that’s where I saw you,” vibranium cups its palm around your face and you turn into its touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he soothes your cheek. “You were crying, begging for help after smashing your shower door whilst trying to kill a spider.”

“I stand-by the fact that could have happened to anyone.”

“Darling, no it couldn’t,” his laughter shakes his chest and you. It makes you want to dive deeper into his touch, feel his next laugh erupt in your own chest. “No one else would be silly enough to throw a baseball bat at a spider the size of raindrops.”

“It was jumping! And I didn’t have any spray!” You turn away from his touch, only to nestle your face in the crevices of his collarbone. Despite the chill in the air, Bucky’s a furnace against you, sheltering you from the cold. “Tell me something else Sam said.”

“Hmm,” he pauses to think, his flesh arm curling around your back and rolling you into him. He smells like Bucky but, also, you, traces of your citrus bodywash staining him hours after you lathered him in it beneath the flowing waters of the shower. Something curls in your loins, possessive and satisfied with the claim you’ve made on his skin. “That you have an insatiable sweet tooth. Backed it up with a story where he had to pry you out a bakery after failing to get some promotion at work.”

“I still can’t believe they gave it to fucking Frank,” you huff, the bitterness still present on your tongue after all these years. “They ended up firing him within a year after realising that, beneath all that manly testosterone, he was incompetent.”

“Just your type, then?” The bastard muses, effortlessly blocking the hand that’s reaching for his nipple and pressing it flat against his chest instead. You feel his heart, beating a little stronger with each pulse, there's a magnet in your palm commanding it to break free from its ribcage and fly right into your hand. “Sam said you always wanted to learn to bake, but were too lazy.”

“Too busy,” you roll your eyes, though deep down there’s a truth in Sam’s claims. “Luckily, you’re a whizz in the kitchen. And I’m not just talking about when you bend me over the counter and threaten to use the spatula to spank-”

“Why do you think I wanted to learn to bake?”

Reminiscing on your salacious adventures together quickly stops, the moment you take a second to actually think about what he’s saying, what he’s not saying. You’re both good at this game, tip-toeing around a subject you both keep bringing to light yet never fully revealing. There’s excitement in the unsaid, in the quiet touches and unmentioned actions that hint at something you’re both too stubborn to address.

Tonight will not be the night either of you give in and fold.

“Tell me something else,” oh god, there’s a yawn caught in your throat. With difficulty, you swallow it down before the soldier can point it out.

“He never warned me you were so demanding,” you whine in protest into his skin and feel the dance of his hand running up and down your back, an apology that seeps through skin and into your spine. “But he did mention you have awful taste in men.”

The hand on your back slips lower, pressing dimples into the skin at the base of your spine as you push yourself off his chest and come face to face with him. The moonlight is forgiving tonight, granting you the pretty view of his illuminated features. The fondness in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the wrinkles beginning to threaten stains upon his skin, the scars you’ve yet to ask about.

For every imperfection and every inch of adoration, he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Something tugs at your heart.

“The worst taste,” you murmur, bringing your lips down to meet Bucky’s in a kiss that has him exhaling with relief and gripping at your skin tighter.

“Yeah?” He mumbles, stealing the air you exhale. “Tell me, what kind of man merits your attention?”

“The kind who works out every muscle but his brain,” you drag your lips over his jaw, relishing in the scrape of his stubble.

“Hey, I read!” Finally, it’s his turn to feel the sting of offense.

“Typical man, making everything about himself,” you settle back down against his chest, ear pressing close enough to where you can hear the thunder of his heart. “This is about my dream man, Buck, not you.”

“Didn’t you call me your dream man last time I ate your-”

“Anyway, I like the kind of man who listens to both my problems and my complaints, and then does whatever he can to fix things without pressuring me.” Flashback to last week, when you complained about the strap of your bag snapping half-way home only to awaken the next morning to it all stitched perfectly back together.

“You like the considerate kind then,” he whispers, and you swear you hear a twinge of nervousness on his tongue.

“And the kind who makes me feel beautiful with just a single glance at me,” exhibit A stares down at you right now, a shine in his eyes that makes you want to swoon.

“That must be any man,” he brushes a nonexistent hair off your forehead, “I mean, look at you.”

“I also like the kind of man that chases me, even when I’m too focused on what’s ahead to glance back and notice him,” there’s a strange squeeze in your throat as you swallow down a breath, thinking back on all the hints of longing he may have dropped that you’ll never know about.

“That man would still chase you, even if you never looked back,” the way he’s speaking to you and touching you, like you’re a rose petal threatening to fall off its stem, is not helping the lump in your throat. “In case you stumbled and needed someone to break your fall.”

That does you in, sends the first tear falling off your eyelash and landing on his naked chest, while you muster a quiet, “I like the kind of man who calls.”

His hands don’t freeze, and no part of him jumps with shock. Instead, his chest deflates with resignation.

“You know about the mission,” it’s not a question.

It doesn’t need to be, he already knows the answer.

“How?” This, however, is a question he needs to ask.

You shrug into him, refusing to give in to his search for your face as you focus on hiding it in the warmth of his skin, hidden from the look on his face you’re too afraid to confront. “Something just felt… different when I woke up.”

“Like what?” It’s not an accusatory thing, just a simple search for answers from a man who’s trying his best to keep you from falling apart against him.

“Well, you woke me up with your head between my legs-”

“What’s different about that? I did the same on Tuesday, too.

“And then brought me breakfast in bed.”

“You feed me, I feed you, that’s how a-” he doesn’t quite say the R word, but you feel it, in the way he seers a kiss onto the crown of your head, “Is supposed to work.”

“Then there was the three course meal waiting for me when I came home from work,” you still remember the way your heart was stuck between soaring at the sight of him setting the table as you walked into the apartment, and sinking with realisation that your suspicions were definitely true. “If all that wasn’t enough, I could tell from your touch.”

“My touch?”

“It was like… you were trying to memorise me. Not just when we were in the shower, but each time you took my hand across the table and brushed over my shoulder before clearing our plates,” you feel him sinking his fingers over your flesh, a soft squeeze at your hip. “Even now, it’s like you’re trying to hold onto me because you know you have to let go.”

“I just…” He sighs with defeat, not helping his case when he lays another kiss against your head. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“That’s okay,” you lie, for both of your sakes. “It’s not like you’ve not left to go help Sam before.”

“This isn’t before,” you both hate and adore him for the firmness he puts into the statement. “Before was different, we weren’t us.”

As much as this aches, ripping your chest apart to carve out your heart with the bitter truth of Bucky’s life as a hero catching up to whatever safe haven you two have locked yourselves away in, you’ll happily take the pain, the lump in your throat, all of it. There’s no price too high to pay to have this moment, laying in Bucky’s arms and pretending there’s no one in the city but you two, fighting off sleep for a moment more of each other’s presence and leaving fingerprint evidence of one another on your skins.

“You’ll be gone by the time I wake up,” you could get mad at him for not telling you, for the chance he almost took at leaving you another measly note on the fridge. But all you feel is the mutual ache of wanting to put off the inevitable, just a little longer. “Won’t you?”

You feel him nod, feel him squeeze his arms around you tighter, feel your heartbeats start to sync as sleep slowly guides you away from his loving gaze.

“I promise I won’t miss a single call, doll.”

[prof-ramses]

I think this is actually massively overthought.

Caine isn't influencing Jax's mind, he's just making it so his body can't disobey the character being forced onto it. Caine does have total control of all physicality in the circus.

In my eyes the point of this is to show that Caine not being able to influence the player's minds in nowhere near the comfort it originally seems to be. Remember, AM couldn't directly control his prisoners either, didn't stop him from doing what he did.

Hey yall!

To my surprise, I haven’t seen many people talk about this scene.

Moment when Jax suddenly becomes a vegan during the adventure.

Which is strange, considering that - ever since the pilot we’ve known from Kane that:

“One of the few things I don't have control over are your minds.”

After digging into it a bit (since Kane is an AI, and I’m definitely not an expert in that field), I think I’ve found a way to explain it.

So, Zooble says:

Does this mean that participants (not just Zooble, but anyone) can alter each other’s mental states?

Yes, BUT - only within the adventure structure.

Here’s how it works

An “adventure” is a controlled simulation that includes:

• Structure,

• Narrative frame,

• Reset resolution,

• And the ability to install temporary “perception rules”.

When a character (like Zooble) says:

“Let’s make Jax a vegan for the rest of the day.”

they’re basically assigning a variable:

Jax.isVegan = true (while adventure_active)

That variable doesn’t just change behavior

It overwrites part of Jax’s mental structure. So deeply, in fact, that he doesn’t even realize it’s happening.

(Which explains why he freaks out a bit when he notices it.)

When the adventure ends, all temporary mental modifications are rolled back.

Honestly… this creeps me out a little. If this logic holds, you could (probably) write in any mental override for a character - as a joke, or not.

What do ya think?

[nicromancytarot]

WHAT WILL YOU LOOK LIKE IN 5 YEARS?

This is a general reading based on a collective of people. Take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. If you don’t feel the pile resonates with you, don’t be scared to try another, if it still doesn’t feel right, that’s ok! Maybe our energies aren’t as connected and my readings are not for you.

I do these strictly for fun and educational purposes. I do not charge for these readings, and I do not fake readings. I would tell you the cards I get for the readings, but I pull like 15-20 cards each reading and that is just slightly a strenuous task to write them all down lmao.

PICK A CARD READING

I asked my spirit guides what you will look like in 5 years time, pick a picture to find out what they had to say!

PILE 1

Golly gosh, my sweet pile number 1’s, I must tell you the cards I got for this.

2 of pentacles, 8 of cups, 4 of cups, Moon, Page of cups, Tower, 10 of swords, High priestess, 2 of wands, Queen of swords, 5 of pentacles, Lovers.

We’re a little bit hectic over here if you can’t already tell. I wouldn’t say this is anything to worry about however.

Starting off! I feel that your physical appearance is going to change a lot during this era of your life, whether that be you go through a bunch of phases, try new things, receive procedures etc. I feel that a lot of you may feel stagnant in how you look during this time, you may find that you’re right on the cusp of looking how you want, but are struggling to get there. Some of you may begin to notice features of your own mother poking through, others may start to look more mature and possibly take on a more maternal appearance — this could be seen in having a little more maturity to your body perhaps after childbirth, or even just beginning to put your appearance on the back burner if you have kids that must take the forefront of your mind.

I have a feeling that a lot of you will go through a major glow up around this time, which is great, however! The motivation will arise around some sort of betrayal or major shake up like heartbreak, whatever it is will instantly get you feeling like you need to take more care of yourself, and becoming much brighter and just looking happier because of it.

The change in your appearance during this time will certainly mark a new beginning and major change in your life, it will really be that first step to a fresh start.

You may begin taking more care of your body, and specially your skin, perhaps spending more money on the highest review products, or just even investing in some long term serums that you know work wonders for your skin. (Please be careful with how much you spend on this stuff lol, you can definitely find cheaper stuff with amazing properties if you look hard enough) This could also imply that many of you will begin working out and eating healthier around this time as well, ensuring that your self care is the top of your priorities.

And finally, our lovers. Now I would say this will bring a new love opportunity to you, but when I first thought this card was present, it was actually the king of wands that caught my eye in the middle of the deck. You’re going to love yourself a lot more, love looking at yourself in the mirror, and just overall feeling more like yourself. You will love who you have become. Good luck my lovelies, get that beauty on!

Physical features: Intense eyes/eye makeup, wearing lots of black and mysterious colours, becoming skinnier or leaner, muscle building could be applicable, stubborn features you can’t quite get rid of (perhaps a bit of flab on your thighs, something that just makes you look more mature, still hot as hell by the way), some of you may stop shaving for a period of time, black hair, spiky jewellery, silver jewellery, cold toned makeup, clothes, gems etc.

PILE 2

Hello my pile number 2’s, how’s it going? Starting off strong we already have the two of cups, so I’m sure this appearance will be highly negated by the status of your relationships, specially those that we deem romantic. I’m seeing that during this time you are trying different things and may even be getting advice from family and friends about what to wear or what things to CONSCIOUSLY consume — I cannot stress it enough that money is big talk here, I need you to be very aware on what you’re spending your coins for, I wouldn’t recommend any expensive surgeries that could end up going wrong, specially lip injections/filler.

Anywho! You could be being very intentional about the way you appear, perhaps with ensuring you do enough research into new products before purchasing them, or even investing in a personal dermatologist, colour coordinator, personal trainer etc — it’s all very well thought out.

Your glow up, if there is one, may be motivated by some sort of competition, so perhaps just ensure you don’t get too deep into all of that. Knight of pentacles appears twice here, so I’m definitely getting the message that you will be investing a lot of time and effort into your appearance, liking the way you look could be a long time coming.

You’ll have a lot of tips to share with people around this time for sure.

God damn it, I flipped the deck for more info and we got the tower. Ok! Dramatic changes. PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH PROCEDURES!!! I really feel like this is something I need to say with all seriousness. You go for lip filler, you’re coming out with sausages glued to the absence of your lips, also heavy chance you can get scammed when trying to get something done. I would absolutely not recommend any plastic surgery of that kind — however you can get away with waxing (I’m specially getting your bikini line lmao), eyebrows threaded, hair done professionally, professional makeup, nails etc — that’s all fine, but I’m getting a really big feeling to tell you to avoid any plastic surgery, specially if you’re from the UK.

I’m being told you need to embrace your natural features, things that you’ve hidden before can be very alluring when you learn how to harness them. A lot of you may look young for you age, honestly embrace it, you’re going to look twenty at fifty, and the rest of the world will sag, so good on you!

Physical features: doe eyes/very loving expressions, unconventional features that make people look twice (perhaps drawing on moles, or not covering up already existing ones), you could thrift most of your clothes (and get really good at it), may lean into more blues for colours, spending a fair bit money on accessories or hair/makeup etc, whimsical clothes, wearing reds/red lipstick, leaning more into the traditional looks from your culture.

PILE 3

Hello my wonderful pile number 3’s! Ok firstly, this is YOUR time for real, if you grew up without being conventionally attractive, this is your justice coming straight in and giving you that unthinkable glow up. Now this won’t be entirely easy, you will have to put in a fair amount of effort to receive this effortless look, which is fairly ironic given the name. Anyways, I’m seeing the need to take control and allow yourself to focus on your own appearance, people may tell you “looks aren’t everything” or “personality matters the most,” and while they are not far off, it’s not hard to assume they grew up with the privilege you yourself may have not been lucky enough to hold badge of. As it always goes, money is of the essence here, and you may need to spend a fair amount to get that look you desire — obviously do it with a conscious consumer mindset, and don’t go overboard.

I’m seeing that you may join a community of sorts, like a subreddit with the best tips, or perhaps confide in a super cool witch that makes bank off people requesting beauty spells — something of the sort anyways. The people you meet through this community, whatever it is, will help guide you to harnessing your best potential. Now I will say that you may meet some that are a little misguided or too deep into it all, so be aware of what you consume and who you listen to, ensure it’s all ethical and worth your while.

Some of you may actually have to have a glow up for work, like it could be something so minute like having to do something nice with your hair, or having to wear a specific uniform that will just make it all pop and you will receive an abundance of compliments and attention. I’m also getting the message that you could have a new job with/or new uniform that like lowkey makes your eyes pop and you have that moment of realisation to what colours work the best for you.

My main message however is to make sure you don’t lose yourself in echo chambers that end up spewing shit about lookmaxxing or some weird ass phrenology. Like please be aware lol, I’m sure you’ll be fine.

Physical features: Looking intimidating or unapproachable, looking more expensive, glow up that will 100% make people wonder how the hell you did it, appearance change through work (new uniform, hair, makeup), wise appearance, type of person someone sees once and never again but always thinks of, wearing warm palettes (yellow, orange, red, brown), tired/experienced eyes, thrifting clothes/making something old look new

[littlegochu]

"just friends" part 7 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

“another one, another!”

mira’s uncle slams his shot glass down, some auntie shoves a lime wedge into my palm— i’m already halfway drunk with the burn of the last shot still sitting hot in my chest.

its been a few hours since we had dinner, but the night just started. the air smells like charred meat and the folding tables covered in red solo cups and torn napkins.

mira’s cheeks are pink, her lip gloss smudged, eyes shiny. she’s laughing so hard she has to hold onto the back of a chair, her whole body shaking as she yells something at leon across the lawn.

jimin’s lounging in a deck chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, he’s watching the chaos unfold with a lazy smirk on his lips, eyes flicking between me and the tequila bottle in my hand. he lifts a shot glass toward me, eyebrows raised, taunting.

“y/n’s up again!” someone calls.

mira's family is fun to be around, they love playing with out alcohol tolerances and testing our limits, finding entertainment in our sanity.

i down the tequila, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth and laughing through the burn, my cheeks aching.

i turn to see him.

jungkook.

leaning in the porch doorway, just watching.

black hoodie pulled halfway over his hair, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. his hands are tucked under his arms, his tattoos piercing in the porch light.

there’s a line between his brows, his lips definitely not relaxed.

the only calm thing in a room full of chaos.

and suddenly, i feel stupid and loud.

his eyes meet mine for a second, he looks away before i can figure out what’s in them.

i look down.

he just leans there, quiet, looking out over the yard. i step up onto the wooden stair, and it creaks under my weight. he doesn’t speak.

“you’re not drinking?” i ask, voice too soft.

he doesn’t look at me. “no.”

“why not?”

“don’t want to.”

“…lame,” i mumble, hugging the hoodie sleeves over my palms.

his voice is low, barely audible over the music in the distance. “you look like you’re having enough fun for the both of us.”

i narrow my eyes. “was that sarcasm?”

he shrugs, then walks inside.

i scoff, "dickhead."

-

i don’t even remember how i get here.

the night is calm and everyone's outside sleeping, they've insisted on taking a quick nap before going back to drinking. meanwhile me, i'm too tired from this, mentally and physically.

my head feels full of static, my feet are bare and cold on the hardwood floor.

i stop outside his door.

the light underneath is still on.

i don’t knock.

i just… stare, long enough to hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

but then the door creaks open, he's in a loose white shirt that clings slightly at the collarbones, hangs soft over the waistband of his sweats. his expression’s hard to read—but it’s not angry, not confused, unreadable.

i blink up at him.

“hey,” i whisper.

he doesn’t say anything at first.

then, quietly—“you’re drunk.”

“a little.”

“y/n,” he says, firmer this time, low and steady, like he’s warning me.

“i just…” i trail off. suddenly too aware of how close we are. i notice how his room smells faintly like that same woodsy scent that was wrapped around me those past nights. “i didn’t wanna be in there.”

his brow furrows. “why?”

i shrug. “everyone’s passed out. mira’s snoring. leon’s face-planted into a bag of chips. i didn’t feel like being alone.”

he doesn’t answer.

so i do something stupid.

i reach for him.

arms going up, trying to curl around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. (used to be.)

but i don’t get far.

his hands are suddenly on my upper arms—firm, steady, stopping me in place. his grip isn’t rough, but it’s not soft either.

his voice drops. “don’t.”

my heart kicks hard in my chest. “what?”

“you’re drunk,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, thicker.

“so?”

he swallows, his eyes flick to my mouth for a second.

“so... don’t do that.”

we stay like that—me half-reaching, him half-holding me away—until i drop my arms slowly and step back.

i nod. try not to let my face fall.

“okay,” i mumble. “sorry. that was—stupid.”

i turn like i’m gonna walk away, but his hand doesn’t drop, it stays curled lightly around my arm, and i stop again.

his thumb brushes the inside of my elbow.

“you can stay,” he says, finally.

i blink.

“but behave.”

i almost laugh. “you think i’m gonna jump you or something?”

his eyes meet mine—dark, unreadable.

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he steps aside and holds the door open.

i step past him into the room, it’s dim, only one warm lamp on by the dresser. his bed’s half made, his cologne’s in the air, subtle but strong—spice, wood, something low and smoky.

he shuts the door behind us.

i crawl under the blanket, hoodie sleeves still swallowing my hands.

i curl into my side facing the wall, pretending i’m not holding my breath.

the bed dips.

he lies down beside me, i can feel the heat from his body.

and then—

i think i dream it.

his hand. slow. hesitant. finding my hip through the blanket.

but then he moves, gliding up over my waist, careful and light, like he’s afraid of breaking me.

i blink at the wall.

my breath hitches.

his palm presses warm between my shoulder blades, fingers flexing.

his thumb brushes the back of my hoodie.

i let out a slow, shaky breath and sink further into the mattress. maybe into him. maybe into nothing at all. i'm too drunk to notice.

his hand keeps moving up, then down. slow, careful strokes like he’s trying to soothe me.

my eyes flutter.

his chest is behind me now. close. almost. maybe. i can’t tell.

everything’s foggy. soft.

his nose brushes the back of my hair.

i press back instinctively — into the heat, the scent of him.

he doesn’t pull away.

his arm tightens around my waist. not possessive.

his thumb moves against my side again. slow circles.

my lashes flutter. my mind stutters.

i think i hear him whisper something.

my fingers curl around the hem of the hoodie, tucking it tighter into my chest.

the room tilts again, gently this time.

and then i let go.

of the ache, the weight, the questions.

of everything but the warmth wrapped around me.

because whether it’s real or not? whether he means it or not?

tonight, he’s holding me.

and right now, that’s enough.

-

until it isn’t.

i blink once. twice.

everything feels warm. too warm.

my mouth’s dry. my face is half-buried in the pillow. and something — someone — is wrapped around me.

but somewhere in the middle of the night, i stir.

my stomach twists. like it’s pressing down on my ribs. the kind of pressure that makes your mouth water in the worst way.

i hold my breath as i peel the blanket back and untangle myself. my head spins a little when i sit up, vision soft around the edges.

my knees hit the floor in front of the toilet.

i barely manage to tie my hair up before it hits.

everything comes up in one miserable rush.

alcohol. bad decisions. shame.

i squeeze my eyes shut, until—

“hey.”

his voice is soft. barely audible.

he crouches beside me, i feel his hand brush against the back of my neck, gentle as he gathers my hair and holds it out of the way.

i’m still catching my breath when he speaks again.

“you okay?”

i nod. lying.

i rest my cheek on my arm, still folded across the toilet seat. i feel disgusting, and yet he’s still here.

still holding my hair.

“you didn’t have to do this,” i whisper, eyes half-lidded.

he doesn’t answer right away, he just runs his hand down my back once, slow and soothing.

“someone had to,” he says.

i turn my head slightly, enough to glance at him over my shoulder.

he looks tired, his lips parted like he was about to say something else, hair messy from sleep.

he’s too pretty for a night like this.

“why are you doing this?” i ask.

his eyes flick to mine, his voice is low when he answers.

“you’re done. come here.”

he stands up with a slight smirk, he looks toward the bed in his room.

i blink slowly at him.

“get in bed before i carry you.”

...

“last chance.”

i roll my eyes but take his hand.

he hauls me up like i weigh nothing, his palm finding my lower back to keep me steady.

he walks me to the bed — slow, patient, fingers brushing my wrist in the most annoyingly gentle way.

i crawl in like a kid and he pulls the blanket over me and clicks the bathroom light off.

the air feels warmer now, heavier. or maybe that’s just me—heart still thudding from being so close to him, from letting him see me like that.

jungkook walks back around the bed, wordless, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows again. his forearm veins flex a little when he runs a hand through his hair. he sits on the edge of the mattress, sighs, then leans over to grab something from the nightstand.

he holds it out a bottle of water wordlessly.

i sip without sitting up, lips brushing the rim. his fingers graze mine when i hand it back.

“you’re not as mean as you pretend to be,” i mumble.

he glances over his shoulder and raises a brow. “don’t start.”

“you offered to carry me, sweet."

he gives me a long, unreadable look, then leans back on one hand beside me, eyes dragging over my face.

“you’re chatty when you’re tipsy.”

i blink at him. “you’re warm when you’re not pretending.”

his mouth curves, barely. “don’t do that,” he murmurs.

“what?”

“say things like that.”

i pause. the air stills.

my mouth opens. then closes.

he exhales. starts to pull back—

but i reach for his sleeve.

“jungkook.”

he pauses.

i tug gently. “can you just… shut up for a second?”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak.

so i sit up, hoodie swallowing my hands, and I lean in a little closer.

he watches me carefully—still unreadable. his scent makes my head spin more than the tequila.

i reach up slowly, careful, fingers brushing the side of his neck.

he stares at me.

he leans in.

his hand finds my jaw, thumb gentle under my cheek. his lips brush mine once, slow, like he's testing if he can keep going.

i breathe him in.

and then he kisses me again.

slower this time. deeper.

his fingers slide behind my neck, his other hand curling around my hip, pulling me toward him like it’s instinct. like he’s been waiting to.

i shift into his lap, knees tucked beside his thighs. our foreheads press together for a moment between kisses—breathing heavy, breaths mingling.

he exhales shakily against my mouth. “you’re gonna regret this.”

“don't we always do this?”

do we? i'm not really sure anymore.

for something that happened so often during the school year suddenly disappeared the same time we walked out of our last exam.

but was that the whole plan?

i kiss him again before he can answer.

he doesn’t stop me.

authors note: hey im back! just lost some motivation since the engagement of my posts have gone down, id really love to hear some requests from you guys! also I've been busy with work and everything but trust me i wont disappear without finishing this ff!

[sabrina-senpai]

Saja boys w/ fem manager reader who explains periods to them;

Character/s: Jinu, Romance, Abby, Baby & Mystery

Character pairings: Jinu/you, Romance/you, Abby/you, Baby/you & Mystery/you

A/N: Characters may be ooc, writing style might be messy and just me rambling really

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Jinu:

• “So the uterus just... peels??”

• simply short circuits, he's kinda loser coded from how flustered he gets tbh-

• has to sit down and process what you just said

• will try to act nonchalant and tease you but when you glare at him he's sat there like- 🫥

• he's not sure how to react, bc on one hand he's absolutely baffled by how the female human body works but pretty impressed at how you're not dying on the spot

• (spoiler alert- you are)

• does not know what to do or how to help

• will try to lower your work load just a little by keeping the boys in check and not disturbing you

• for the sake of your sanity and their safety and world domination he will try to help you the best he can

• when you snap at him he just rolls his eyes at you, but hands you a heat compress when he passes by you again.

• you eventually snap at someone else and threaten to throw their stuff out the window

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• he walks on eggshells around you from then on

Romance:

• “Wait… you bleed every month and don’t die?”

• "that's kinda hot"

• the man who looks like he's Wattpad cringey men incarnate find out what happens during your period? ('m kidding he's one of my faves)

• cue the disbelief.

• he thought bleeding meant fatal injury — now you’re telling him it happens on purpose?

• "you are one strong woman manager-nim.."

• wait till he finds out about your hormonal spikes..😟

• a little sht through and through tho, will not stop teasing and flirting with you either way

• he's genuinely confused and lowk worried at how you endure cramps based on your description of them

• "Would you like me to kiss it better-" *smack* "-worth it"

• you snap at him? He's quiet for a second but smirks and says

• "that's kinky.. scream at me more-"

• but when you physically have to lean on something bc your cramps are that bad, he will show a lil bit of empathy and rub your back for comfort

• and holds back on teasing until you feel better (almost fails like separate 3 times)

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Abby:

• “You okay? Need me to fight your uterus?”

• no bc he would if he could

• actually tries- until you smack him upside the head

• does zero damage to him but stops trying for now

• curious as to how painful cramps actually are

• honestly..lemme get a nibble of those shoulders and then we'll talk-

• still thinks you're over exaggerating abt the pain but won't push you (you threaten him with smth. what you ask? no clue either.. but he stops so a win is a win ig)

• respects u a little more bc of it

• for real tho- with enough pain induced persuasion (from you obv) he will reluctantly happily let you bite him if the cramps get too bad

• again no damage done to him whatsoever;-;

• "Is this an excuse to get a taste of my beautiful muscles? If so.. manager-nim there's no need for one"

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• offers you his abs to use as a pillow

Baby:

• “I’m just gonna... not think about that.”

• does not wanna think about it

• fails

• will plug his ears and just la-la-la his way out

• definitely judges you and your cravings

• side eyes you when they're particularly weird

• he's not necessarily cruel abt it but is either immature or embarrassed.. or both

• does slowly evolve into sympathy with the right education (manager-nim? More like seonsaengnim teacher)

• eventually gets curious at how you function normally

• “manager-nim can't you just plug it? Like a cork? Using those tampoon thingies?"

• "how bout I put a cork in your mouth instead-"

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• cue you mid-breakdown trying to explain how tampons work and how they can't just be shoved inside forever

Mystery:

• “How do you not get mad at your own uterus..?”

• will stare at you with the most bewildered frown you can imagine from just seeing his mouth bro is almost impossible to read..💔

• immediately goes into a spiral of mental questions and stands there like 🧍

• frown deepens as he thinks about how much energy you have to use to do day to day activities while in constant pain..

• most likely imagining how painful it feels and his hair physically deflates at the thought..

• pokes at your lower abdomen like he's trying to decipher ancient text

• will growl at you if you try to sass him bro literally barked at a fan wdym he doesn't have undiscovered anger issues??

• he apologizes by massaging your hand later on

• will lay on your lap if you ask beg and become your personal heating pad

• the listener to your yapper frfr

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• probably falls asleep mid yap but you wouldn't know, his eyes are literally nonexistent to you..

Sorry if it's not that good it's my first time writing headcannons for these gremlins so m sorry if they're pretty ooc, specially since we (I) don't know much in general abt them at all.

But I'm tryna improve with every fic:^

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

And asks/requests are open:)

Thanks for reading!!!

(credits for the original divider post bc idk if it's F2U)

[hexagon-club]

I don't want to attack all bisexuals here, because I know they have their own shit to deal with, because people (well, mostly men, but unfortunately some women too) view bisexuality as an inherent lack of boundaries in the same way that they view homosexuality as a challenge to be conquered. But there is a particular type of liberal bisexual that is, I think, unironically the most homophobic sort of person alive. To be fair, I'm not sure I'm even arguing with a bisexual here, a lot of tumblr's userbase is made of heterosexual virgins whose concept of sex is purely theoretical. So they end up with extremely bizarre takes about how they think sex and sexual attraction works.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this sort of progressive homophobia is the dishonest doublespeak of it all. It's so much harder to deal with than the more traditional homophobia you get from conservatives. Because you have to gradually unpack what they are saying and gradually define your terms in this incredibly tedious game where you have to gradually peel off the progressive veneer so you can expose the homophobia underneath.

There's also this thing where they love antagonising homosexuals and feminists completely unprovoked. And then acting like the victims when the groups they provoked fight back. It's all a game to them, they know that they can take their stupid pronoun badges off and stop "identifying as" whenever they want. But those of us whose oppression isn't caused by being part of an opt in identity can't do that. And they like to mock people who actually take things seriously because they think we're being stupid for not doing this just for the fun of it.

The whole thing reminds me of this Sartre quote:

He was specifically talking about Nazis here, though people of gender do the same thing. Which is ironic since they like calling people Nazis over the slightest thing. It's a sign of people who adopt relativistic/subjectivist philosophies. They can't defend their beliefs through logic, the way you would a more traditional belief system. Because their beliefs aren't based on actual physical reality. But they don't really care. It's about power, if you can win through disconcerting your enemy and burying them under more nonsense than they have the capacity to rebut, that's as much of a victory in their eyes as beating them through sound reason.

The concept that trans men are trying to “turn gay men straight” is so funny to me because I’ve made about four “straight” guys realize they’re into men

[mooningningg]

notes, this was so fun to make especially adding more characters ty anon!

★ Roommate!Sukuna hosts a party in the house.

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had,” you said flatly, eyeing the crowd gathering in your once-peaceful living room.

Sukuna cracked open a beer and leaned against the kitchen counter like a menace with arms. “Shut up. My house. My rules.”

“Our house,” you corrected.

“My name’s on the lease.”

You opened your mouth — and then Gojo physically kicked open the front door.

“THE PARTY GOD HAS ARRIVED!”

You groaned. “I’m locking myself in my room.”

“No, you’re not.” Sukuna grabbed the back of your hoodie before you could escape. “You’re gonna stand here and make sure no one breaks shit. Especially not that one—”

“Choso?” you guessed.

“No. That thing behind him.”

You looked over and saw Yuuji sprinting through the hallway with a Nerf gun, followed by Megumi, who had the calm murderous energy of a cat ready to swipe at a toddler.

Toji appeared behind them holding a case of beer. “Your kids are feral.”

Sukuna threw up a middle finger. “They’re not my fucking kids.”

“They’re kinda your responsibility,” Geto said smoothly from the couch. “Since you’re the one who invited all of us and insisted on not hiring a DJ.”

“I am the DJ,” Sukuna said, walking to the speaker and violently pressing buttons until something bass-heavy and borderline unlistenable filled the room.

“Christ,” Nanami muttered from a corner. “This is not music. This is a hate crime.”

You leaned on the fridge and whispered, “I told him to make a playlist.”

“He made one,” Nanami said. “It’s all angry gym edits and songs titled ‘murder breakfast.’”

Meanwhile, Choso had discovered your cabinet of snacks and was handing out bags of chips like a stoned camp counselor. “You want spicy or sweet?” he asked you sweetly. “I sorted them by vibe.”

Sukuna walked by, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, “Stop touching my shit.”

“It’s her shit,” Choso replied without fear.

“Yeah, Sukuna,” you echoed smugly. “My kitchen.”

He turned to you with a scowl. “Don’t push me, brat.”

Just then, Nobara stomped into the kitchen holding an empty Solo cup.

“Why is there no alcohol left?” she demanded.

“Because Gojo made a jungle juice bucket in the fucking bathtub,” Toji said, cracking open a beer.

“...He what?”

“It’s got blue Gatorade, Everclear, Sprite, and six Warheads.”

Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”

Gojo popped his head in like a cartoon ghost. “No murder before midnight! That’s the rule!”

“You’re the reason I have rules, you white-haired freak.”

Geto sauntered by with your Bluetooth speaker in hand. “Can I use this for my playlist? I promise it’s all R&B.”

“You touch it and I’ll cut your fingers off,” Sukuna replied calmly, sipping his beer.

“Jesus,” you said. “Why did you even invite them?”

“Because I was drunk,” Sukuna growled, glancing around the chaotic room. “And it was funny at the time.”

Someone suddenly crashed into a chair.

“I’M OKAY,” Yuuji shouted from the floor.

“I’M GONNA KILL HIM,” Sukuna shouted louder.

“You can’t kill him,” Megumi muttered from beside you, arms crossed. “He’s literally built like a golden retriever. You’d feel bad.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Bet.”

You grinned at the sight: your angry, cursed-energy-free roommate about three seconds away from strangling half the room while you just… stood there sipping punch out of a vase.

Then, as if summoned by chaos, Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders.

“So. On a scale of 1 to ‘my next therapy session,’ how’s living with Sukuna?”

You glanced at the walking red flag beside you — now trying to chase Yuuji with a spatula for sitting on his dumbbells.

“Somewhere between insanity and a sitcom,” you replied.

Sukuna stopped mid-step. “Why the fuck are you smiling?”

“Because this is the best decision you never made.”

His eye twitched. “I’m never doing this again.”

“Sure,” Geto called from the couch. “You say that now — until she asks you to host her birthday and you agree like a whipped little bitch.”

Sukuna whirled around. “Say that again, Suguru. I dare you.”

Geto smirked. “You heard me. Whipped. Soft. Domesticated.”

Sukuna lunged. Gojo dove into the hallway with a bottle of tequila. Megumi muttered something about going feral. Nobara lit a candle just because.

You stood in the middle of it all, grinning to yourself.

Yep.

Best party ever.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie.

[saoney]

Ocean's Fire

𖠋 Incubus! Rafayel ♡ Fem! Reader 𖠋

After two weeks apart, you return home to find your boyfriend missing and unresponsive. When you track him down, you discover he's been transformed by an experimental aphrodisiac—complete with horns, glowing red eyes, and an insatiable supernatural hunger that only you can satisfy.

⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of dubious consent and penetrative sex, m → f that may be triggering for some readers.

🐚 Author’s Note: My smut debut!!! I’m so happy that I finally get to experience writing a proper smut with my beloved Sea God 🥹🎉 props to all of the smut writers because I almost went bald writing this fic (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹

The past two weeks had been torture disguised as duty.

Your field training assignment had you stationed in the wilderness, grinding through Wanderer combat simulations from dawn to dusk. Every muscle ached, every nerve was frayed, but the moment you collapsed into your cot each night, there was Rafayel—bathed in the warm glow from the studio lights, violet eyes heavy with longing as he asked about your day in that honeyed voice that made your chest tight with missing him.

"Did my sweet darling miss me today?" he'd purr into the camera, artistic fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Tell me what you're wearing. Better yet, show me."

Those late-night video calls were your lifeline. Even with his own hectic schedule—flying across the country with Thomas for his upcoming exhibition, managing interviews and gallery visits—Rafayel always made time for you. He'd prop his phone against his easel during breaks, painting with one hand while the other traced suggestive patterns in the air, describing in exquisite detail what he planned to do to you when you returned.

"I've been sketching you from memory," he'd whisper during one particularly heated call, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made your thighs clench. "Want to see how I imagine you spread out on my silk sheets? How I remember the way you arch when I—"

"Rafayel," you'd breathe, already reaching for yourself.

"That's my good girl. Let me watch you come undone for me."

But on day ten, the calls stopped.

Your phone sat silent. Messages went unread. The absence of his teasing voice, his ridiculous pet names, his constant digital affection—it carved a hollow ache in your chest that grew deeper with each passing hour.

By day twelve, worry had transformed into hurt. By day fourteen, hurt had crystallized into anger.

Your transport touched down in Linkon City under gray skies, and finally—finally—your phone buzzed.

[Rafayel 📱: Welcome home, cutie.]

[Rafayel 📱: Still away for work. Don't wait up.]

The message was ice-cold. Clinical. Nothing like the man who usually greeted your returns with paragraphs of purple prose about how the city had been colorless without you.

Your fingers moved to Find My before you could stop them.

His location pulsed steadily: Mo Art Studio.

Home.

The betrayal hit like a physical blow. He was lying to you. After two weeks of radio silence, he was lying to your face.

Twenty minutes later, you stood before his door, keycard trembling in your grip. The evening air should have been cool, but heat seemed to radiate from behind the entrance like a furnace.

You knocked. Waited. Knocked harder.

Nothing.

Your keycard beeped softly as the lock disengaged.

The moment you stepped inside, the heat hit you like a wall. Suffocating, humid, wrong. Rafayel's home was always perfectly climate-controlled—he claimed his Lemurian blood made him sensitive to temperature fluctuations, though you suspected he just liked giving you excuses to warm him up.

"Rafayel!" Your voice echoed in the dim space. Curtains drawn, lights off, the air thick enough to taste. "I know you're here!"

Silence.

You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, following the oppressive heat to its source. His bedroom door stood ajar, and through the gap, you could see a figure curled on the bed.

The room was an oven. Dark as a cave. And there he was—shirtless, trembling, breath coming in sharp gasps like he was drowning on dry land.

"Rafayel." All your anger dissolved into concern. "Why haven't you answered me? Why did you lie about being away?"

He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge your presence.

You reached for his shoulder, and the moment your fingers made contact, you jerked back with a gasp. His skin was burning—not fever-hot, but scalding, like touching a heated stone.

"Jesus, you're sick—we need to get you to a hospital—"

"Don't." His voice was barely a rasp. "Please, cutie. Don't touch me. You need to leave."

He tried to roll away from you, but the movement was weak, uncoordinated. When he finally turned to face you, your heart stopped.

His eyes—those beautiful amethyst eyes that sparkled with mischief and adoration—were nearly crimson. Glowing like embers in the darkness.

"What happened to you?" You knelt beside the bed, hands hovering over him, afraid to cause more pain. "Rafayel, talk to me. Please."

He squeezed his eyes shut, whole body shuddering. "Thomas's colleague. New bar opening in the arts district. They served us some experimental cocktail—said it was a prototype aphrodisiac for Valentine's Day. I thought it was just marketing nonsense."

Understanding crashed over you like cold water. "How long?"

"Three days." His laugh was bitter, broken. "Three days of hell. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything but you. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and the only thing that helps is—" He cut himself off with a groan.

You reached for his hand instinctively, and his fingers latched onto yours with desperate strength.

The contact seemed to send electricity through him. His breathing hitched, back arching off the bed.

"You have to go," he gasped, but his grip on your hand tightened. "I'm barely holding on. If you stay, I don't know if I can control myself. I don't want to hurt you, don't want to scare you—"

His words dissolved into a tortured moan, his whole body convulsing as if he were fighting a war within himself—and losing. "No, no, no," he gasped, clawing at his own chest as the transformation began to consume him. Dark markings erupted across his skin like living shadows, spreading from his heart outward in intricate, pulsing patterns that seemed to writhe and breathe with malevolent life. The black ink-like designs carved themselves deeper into his flesh, glowing faintly with each ragged breath he took.

His canines stretched into razor-sharp fangs with an audible crack, and you watched in horrified fascination as two elegant horns tore through the skin of his temples, curving back through his disheveled hair like a dark crown. Blood trickled down his face from where they emerged.

Then he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that was nothing like his usual warm chuckle. It was predatory, unhinged, utterly inhuman. When his eyes snapped open, they blazed with primal hunger, all traces of your gentle artist boyfriend buried beneath the creature that now possessed him.

His grip on your hand, which had been weak and trembling moments before, suddenly tightened like a vice, fingers digging into your skin with supernatural strength.

"Too late to run now, cutie," he whispered, voice layered with dark promise.

Then he yanked you down onto the bed with him, his strength making it effortless as he dragged you against his burning body. His lips crashed against yours with desperate hunger, hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you like a man drowning. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, scalding even through your clothes, his body trembling with barely restrained need. Despite the transformation, his touch was still reverent, still unmistakably him beneath the hunger that consumed him.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, vision blurred, completely at his mercy on the rumpled sheets beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he purred against your lips, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I'm not gonna stop until this fire burns itself out, and you're gonna take everything I give you right, cutie? Don't worry—I'll be gentle… mostly. Now why don't you be a good little hunter for me, yeah?"

His mouth found your throat, pressing hot kisses to your pulse point while his hands worked at your clothes with precision. Each piece of fabric that fell away earned you praise whispered against your skin.

"Perfect," he murmured, mouth trailing down to worship your exposed chest. "I've been dreaming of this. Sketching these curves from memory until my fingers cramped."

He took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him—lavishing attention on every inch of skin, building you up with touches and kisses until you were arching beneath him, completely pliant.

His hands smoothly unclasped your bra, fingers reverent as they traced your curves. Without wasting a moment, his mouth was on your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipples before he sucked them into his mouth, drawing desperate whimpers from your lips.

"Rafayel," you gasped, back arching as he lavished attention on your chest. "Please—"

"Shh, cutie," he murmured against your skin, mouth trailing hot kisses down your belly. "Let me worship you properly."

His hands urgently undid your pants, sliding them down your legs with agonizing slowness. When he finally settled between your thighs, he inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back in bliss.

"I can smell your arousal," he growled, voice rough with need. "So sweet, so perfect. I've been through hell trying to control myself. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many sketches I've ruined thinking about eating you?"

"Rafayel, please," you whimpered, hips bucking toward his face. "I need—"

"I know exactly what you need," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous octave as those burning red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His expression was beautifully terrifying—tender love warring with predatory hunger. "Now I'm going to worship this beautiful cunt until you forget everything but my name."

He dove in with feral hunger, tongue dragging broad, possessive strokes up your slit before attacking your clit with relentless precision. His mouth devoured you—lapping, sucking, biting gently at your most sensitive flesh with desperate, animalistic need. Every sound he made was pure worship, muffled moans of satisfaction vibrating against you.

"Oh god, oh god," you cried, hands fisting in his hair as he pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with wet, sinful strokes. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

He moaned against your core like a starving man at a feast, the vibrations resonating through your bones and setting every nerve ending ablaze. Each desperate movement of his tongue was calculated to feed the supernatural hunger clawing at his insides while simultaneously destroying every defense you had left.

"Christ, you taste like heaven," he groaned between ravenous licks, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort with pleasure. "You're so addicting. I could spend eternity right here, drinking every drop you give me."

Your first orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spine bowing impossibly as you screamed his name with raw, broken desperation. But he was merciless—couldn't be anything else—his mouth never leaving you as he lapped up every tremor, every aftershock, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing from the intensity.

"Too much," you gasped, trying to push his head away, but he caught your wrists.

"No such thing," he purred, and dove back in, making you cum again on his tongue until you were sobbing with oversensitivity.

When he finally pulled away, face glistening with your arousal, he cupped your tear-stained cheeks lovingly. "Look at you, already crying for me. We're far from finished, Y/N."

Rafayel rose to his knees, hands moving to unzip his pants with desperate urgency. When he finally freed his cock, it was flushed and angry, precum beading at the tip from hours of torment and anticipation. His burning red eyes locked onto you—taking in the sight of you panting and sprawled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and completely wrecked from his mouth. The vision alone made his cock twitch violently, demanding immediate relief.

"So beautiful," he breathed, voice thick with reverence and lust. "So ready for me."

He wrapped his hand around his lenght, stroking slowly edging himself while his gaze devoured every inch of your trembling form. The sight of you, so perfectly wrecked and waiting, had him practically salivating with anticipation.

With deliberate, torturous slowness, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up to your clit, collecting your arousal along the way. The teasing made you mewl desperately beneath him, hips bucking for more contact.

"Please," you whimpered, but he just smirked, slapping his cock against your sensitive cunt with wet, obscene sounds.

The heat radiating from your core, the slick wetness coating him, the way you clenched around nothing—it all made him hiss in pure pleasure.

"So wet for me," he groaned, continuing his torturous teasing.

"Think you can take me, cutie?" His voice was low and teasing as you felt him playing at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. The stretch was burning and delicious—until he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and desperate.

"I don't think so," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

You almost felt like crying from his relentless teasing. Without a second thought, you abandoned all pride and begged for his mercy. "Please, Rafayel... I want it. I want you so badly."

"Yeah?" He was still teasing, pressing soft kisses to your tear-dampened eyes with surprising tenderness.

"Yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

For a moment he held your gaze, studying your face as you gave him the most pleading look you could muster, hoping your puppy eyes would finally make him cave. Something shifted in his expression—desire winning over his need to torment you.

Finally, he positioned himself at your entrance again, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. Both of you moaned in unison as he began to slide into you slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming after your orgasms, making you whimper and claw at his shoulders.

"That's it, take all of me," he breathed, bottoming out with a groan. "You're gripping me so tight. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."

"I don't," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Never want you to leave me again."

He began to move, thrusts deep and reverent, hands mapping every curve of your body like he was committing you to memory for his next masterpiece. His own moans and whimpers filled the air, the desperate sounds making you even wetter.

"You're taking me so perfectly," he praised, voice breaking with emotion. "Like you were made for this cock. Gods, I missed how warm you are inside, how you flutter around me when you're close."

"Rafayel," you moaned, already feeling another orgasm building. "You feel so good, so deep—"

"That's my girl," he groaned, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you see stars. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You were cock-drunk fast, lost in the rhythm of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his lips. When you came again, clenching around him, he nearly lost control.

"More," you gasped against his lips. "Need more of you."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your hands and knees, the sudden change making you cry out.

"You want more?" he growled, hands gripping your hips as he drove into you from behind. "I-ah-can't refuse you."

This angle was devastating—each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands roamed your body possessively. You could feel yourself getting wetter soaking the bed sheet underneath you, the obscene sounds of your coupling filling the room.

"Listen to how wet you are," he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. "So fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock so well. You're mine, aren't you? Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed, face pressed into the pillows. "Always yours, Raf— Rafayel!"

"That's right," he groaned, thrusts becoming more demanding. "My petite artiste, so messy and desperate for me."

But he needed more. Needed to see you fall apart in every way possible.

"On your back," he commanded, and when you complied on shaking legs, he pulled your legs up into a mating press, folding you nearly in half. The new angle made you scream, overwhelmed by how deep he could go.

"Look at me," he demanded, his glowing eyes boring into yours. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you cum for me again. Want to watch you fall apart."

The intensity was too much—the way he watched every expression cross your face, the desperate love and lust warring in his gaze. Your eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot over and over, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure.

"There you are," he whispered, voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so beautiful when you're completely gone for me."

When your orgasm crashed over you, it was earth-shattering. You came with a broken scream, body convulsing around him as he moaned your name like a prayer. The intensity of watching you fall apart, of feeling you clench around him so perfectly, made blood drip from his nose onto your chest, the incubus potion overwhelming even his supernatural constitution.

"I can't cum anymore," you sobbed, thighs shaking from overstimulation, mascara running down your cheeks. "Please, Rafayel, I can't—"

But your pleas only seemed to spur him on. The sadistic part of the incubus potion loved seeing you so wrecked, so desperate, so perfectly ruined.

"Of course you can, cutie," he purred, pulling out only to maneuver you into his lap. "Look at this tear-stained face—so pitiful, so drunk on my cock. Makes me wanna fuck you even more."

"Please," you whimpered, but whether you were begging him to stop or continue, neither of you knew.

"One more," he coaxed, guiding you down onto his cock. "You have no idea what you do to me"

Face to face now, you could see every expression cross his beautiful, dangerous features. His hands roamed your body possessively while you rocked against him, completely lost in sensation.

"That's my good girl," he whispered against your ear, then bit down gently on your earlobe. "Taking everything I give you, even when you're crying from how good it feels. You're so perfect, so intoxicating when you're falling apart for me."

"Rafayel," you gasped, eyes rolling back again as he hit that spot that made you see white. "I'm going to—"

"I know, baby. Let go for me one last time."

Your final orgasm was devastating, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You came with a silent scream, completely overwhelmed by sensation, and watching you reach that peak of pleasure pushed him over the edge.

He came with a broken moan, holding you tight against him as he spilled inside you, nose bleeding more heavily now from the sheer intensity of the moment.

The last thing you remembered was his face above you, handsome and ethereal with his horns and glowing eyes, completely drunk on pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, whispering your name like a benediction and the satisfaction of finally being able to touch you after days of torment. Your own face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup, eyes glassy and unfocused from being thoroughly claimed by your temporarily-incubus lover.

When consciousness returned, golden morning light was streaming through the curtains, and the softest lips were pressing tender kisses along your cheek like butterfly touches.

"Morning, my sweet darling," Rafayel murmured, his voice back to its familiar warm velvet. The horns had vanished, his eyes returned to that beloved amethyst shade, though delicate traces of the dark markings still lingered like watercolor stains across his skin. "Sleep well?"

You groaned softly, every muscle in your body singing a chorus of pleasant aches as you tried to stretch. "You're absolutely impossible."

He grinned with zero remorse, looking devastatingly handsome in the morning light. "And you love me anyway. Want to take a warm bath? I'll wash your hair and tell you about all the masterpieces I'm going to paint inspired by last night."

Despite your mock indignation, you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "You're buying me breakfast first. The fancy kind. And coffee—really good coffee."

"Anything for you," he agreed easily, then leaned down to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, his voice dropping to that achingly familiar teasing whisper. "But first... want to hear about this incredible dream I had about you in my bathtub?"

You were glad Rafayel was back to normal, but if you were being honest with yourself, Incubus Rafayel was kind of hot… You wondered if he'd be willing to be one for Halloween this year.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

I love your short fics, love when they come across my dash, they live in my head rent free 🤭

Thinking about one (or all, your pick) of the 141 boys getting called in because their kid is in trouble at school, but when they arrive they learn that their kid was only standing up for someone else who was being bullied. Bonus points if it's their little girl standing up to a big mean boy.

They learn this by walking in on their non-confrontational, normally pacifist partner (the other parent) absolutely ripping the headmaster a new one for putting their child in this situation.

The boys thought they were going to be the bad cop in this scenario, but instead they are the ones having to rely on their hostage negotiation training to get their little loves back home.

(It's hard not to feel something at the sight of the mama bear energy... It might be pride but it's probably something else 🤭)

Xoxoxo

Daddy’s Little Defender

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Mild language, parental rage, school bullying mention, protective reader, found family parenting, soft domestic tension, lots of heart

Author's Note: Domestic chaos meets protective firestorm. This one’s for the softies who would go feral for their kid. Based on a beautiful request about mama bear energy, nervous dads, and a little girl who refuses to let injustice slide.

Summary: A call from school sends the 141 into panic mode—your daughter’s in trouble. But when they arrive, they find you already handling it in a way none of them expected. What was supposed to be a parent-teacher meeting turns into a standoff... and maybe something a little more emotional.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It started like a perfectly normal Wednesday.

Toast crumbs scattered across the kitchen counter, Kyle and Johnny bickering over whose turn it was to pack the lunchbox, Simon groaning at the sound of Peppa Pig playing in the background, and John sipping his coffee with the paper tucked under his arm like he was already ten years into retirement.

You kissed foreheads, wiped faces, and reminded Bonnie for the third time to wear socks that matched. Your little girl—seven years old, gap-toothed, and bright as a firecracker—grinned up at her dads like she was the queen of the castle.

Everything felt routine. Cozy. Soft.

Then Simon’s phone rang.

He frowned at the screen, answered calmly, then froze halfway through “This is her father.”

John looked up. Kyle stopped stirring the oatmeal. Johnny leaned off the counter slowly.

Simon’s face didn’t change—but something in the room did.

He ended the call, voice tight. “School. Something happened with Bonnie.”

No one wasted a second.

They loaded into the SUV with terrifying efficiency, each man scanning the situation like a mission. John drove. Johnny had his arm slung around the passenger seat, tapping his fingers. Kyle checked the school address twice even though he knew the way. And Simon just stared straight ahead like he could will the truth into existence.

“She’s a good kid,” Johnny murmured for the third time. “Wouldn’t start nothin’. She’s just like her mum.”

That much was true.

Your girl had your heart—sunshine-bright and gentle-handed, always the first to share her juice box and stand up when someone cried. But when they arrived at the school office, the secretary’s expression was pinched.

The principal was waiting in his office, awkward and pale, fidgeting with a folder.

“I’m afraid this is a behavioral issue. Bonnie kicked another student. In the shin.”

The room went still.

“She what?” Kyle blinked.

“Apparently, he was pushing another boy. And she intervened. Verbally at first. Then physically.”

The principal adjusted his tie. “She told him—verbatim—‘Do it again, and I’ll break your nose like my Papa Simon did to that man in Berlin.’”

Johnny wheezed. “She what?”

Kyle covered his mouth, eyes wide with barely contained laughter. Simon looked like he was deciding whether to be proud or terrified. John’s jaw clenched.

“She’s suspended for the remainder of the week,” the principal added, as if it was the only logical outcome.

Then—

Boom.

The office door burst open.

And you were there.

Not the quiet, honey-voiced version of you who made bedtime tea and hummed lullabies.

No.

This was war.

“Who the hell do you think you are suspending my daughter for protecting another child?” you snapped, voice low and crackling with fury.

The principal flinched. “Ma’am—”

“She didn’t start a fight. She ended one. Where were your staff when a third-grade boy was getting pushed around hard enough to bleed? You want to discipline someone? Try disciplining yourself.”

“Mrs.—”

“Not MacTavish. Not Garrick. Not Riley. Not Price. Just Mama. And Mama is pissed.”

The room crackled with tension.

Outside the door, Bonnie sat cross-legged on a bench, head bowed, chewing her sleeve.

You didn’t even wait for a response. You stormed out, dropped to your knees, and pulled her into your arms.

“You okay, baby?”

She sniffled. “I didn’t mean to get in trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble,” you whispered fiercely. “You did exactly what I taught you. You stood up for someone who couldn’t. That’s bravery, Bonnie. That’s being a good person.”

Behind you, the boys emerged one by one.

Johnny knelt first, ruffling her curls. “Shin’s a solid target. You alright, little one?”

She nodded into your shoulder.

Kyle crouched next, eyes full of admiration. “Didn’t think you’d use Berlin as an example.”

“She listens,” Simon muttered.

John crouched in front of her, calm as ever. “You scared us, sweetheart. But we’re proud of you.”

“Even though I kicked him?” she whispered.

“Especially because,” he said.

You stood slowly, heart still hammering in your chest. All four men turned toward you with something unreadable in their eyes.

Admiration. Awe. Maybe something else.

John reached out first, brushing your wrist with his fingertips. “Didn’t think I’d walk in and see you going full recon mode.”

“I was livid,” you muttered. “They were blaming her for doing the right thing.”

Kyle slipped an arm around your waist. “You were amazing.”

Johnny leaned in with a low whistle. “Honestly, might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Simon, of course, deadpanned, “You did use my Berlin story. I feel oddly honored.”

Back in the car, Bonnie happily sipped her juice box from her lunchbox, swinging her legs like nothing had happened.

You sat sandwiched between Johnny and Kyle, your hand in John’s, Simon driving up front.

And in that moment, everything settled again. The storm passed.

Your girl was safe.

Your boys were here.

And they’d all learned something important today.

No one—no one—messed with your kid.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[rooster-the-love-of-my-life]

Idiots At a Wedding pt.5

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family has to be easy right? Right..?

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, allusions to smut but no real smut, cliffhanger

A/N: I woke up horny and in the mood for some angst ok, don't blame me. Not proof read, we die like men💪💪 Anyways enjoy reading, and don't be a stranger. Also, this taglist is kinda getting out of hand, I don't want to close it but I really need advice on what to do.

series masterlist || part 4

Bob floyd made you silly in all the right ways.

The moments after your confessions was a whirlwind. You and him went back down for dinner thst night, pretending everything was just as it was before, but the entire time he was holding your hand from under the table. You were blushing and giggling like teenagers, stealing secret glances, making prolonged eye contact, making everyone around you sick with how in love you looked, how in love you really were.

When you went back up, you couldn't keep your hands or your lips off of each other. As soon as the door closed, Bob pushed you onto it and kissed you with such vigor and passion the you completely returned, by racking your hands through his carefully brushed blonde locks, messing them up with every dig of your fingers. It was only when someone knocked loudly on your door that you pulled away from each other, very reluctantly of course.

"Unfortunately you need you to go and pick up the bridesmades dress with Bob tomorrow. Jeff and I've got to run home and get some work done." It was Annie, yet again being the block to Bob's cock.

"What's so unfortunate about that?" Bob asked from behind the door where he was supposed to hide is messy, freshly snogged face.

"Why are you so red?" Annie questioned, eyebrows coming together, trying to figure out what was happing in her brothers childhood bedroom prior to her coming there.

"It's fine Anne, I'll go with him." You diverted the conversation, shielding him further.

"Alright, goodnight kids." She sized you up, smirking. "Use protection."

You gasped while Bob went red, if that was even possible, freezing at what he heard. Turinging around, you just laughed at his face, placing a kiss on his cheek and walking into the bathroom.

The rest of the night went by quick, you stayed up till one, talking, kissing, touching. You had to physically push Bob off of you and to the other side of the bed, so you could finally get some sleep. But even in sleep he found you, arms wrapped around you waist, legs tangled with yours, radiating immense amounts of heat.

In all the days you'd stayed with him, this was the first time you had woken up with him next to you and it had to be your favourite sight. For the first time since you had met Bob he had always shy and reserved and his posture showed that. Tense shoulders, always sat up straight, body always stiff. But now, as he snored softly he was at peace, not an iota of tension was in his body, and upon seeing this, you had made it your life's mission to let him stay this tension free forever and always.

You could have stayed in bed for the rest of your life, but your bladder had other plans. You tried to control it, but after a certain point you just couldn't take it anymore and stared shimming out of Bob's firm grasp. Even though you thought you were being very stealthy, your moving had woken up the man behind you.

"Stop it." He mumbled, pulling you in closer, if that was even physically possible, making you lose all the progress you had made. "Stay here."

"I've got to pee." You whispered, dragging out the last word, grabbing his hand and prying it off of your waist.

"Hold it." His hand wouldn't budge making you seriously judge your strength.

"Bobby, I have to go really badly. I've been holding it in for the past twenty minutes." You whined.

"Fine." He lifted his hand up and you ran to the bathroom. "But come back in two minutes. That's an order." Even in sleep army lingo didn't leave the lieutenant making you giggle softly.

"Sis yes sir." You saluted as you came out of the bathroom and moved your eyes to the sight that awaited you. His side of the bed was empty and untouched whereas yours was completely undone and the way he was lying on the bed left little to ho space for you. You leaned against the wall of the bathroom and admired Bob, eyes traveling up from his legs tangled in blankets to his back and then to his messy blond hair. You wanted to take a picture, keep this locked in your phone forever, but before you could, the rough, sleepy voice of the cutest man you had ever seen interrupted.

"You gonna stand there staring or are you going to join me?" The question was normal, but the country accent that it was spoken with made it much more alluring.

"Careful Bobby, your country is showing." You smirked, not moving an inch, wanting to make then man wait for you longer.

"Fuck, I love it when you call me that." He mumbled, pushing his head and hips further into the mattress. "Drives me nuts."

If you would have know such a simple nickname was having this effect on the man, you would have driven him to madness or confession by saying it every chance you got over the last year. The smirk never left your face, and you didn't leave your place.

"Sunny, please come back to bed." He begged, sitting up now, giving you a full view of his chest. "It's so cold without you."

"Says the human furnace." You snorted, pushing yourself off the wall and taking slow, calculated steps towards the bed. "You want me back in bed baby?" You coaxed, as he nodded his head and pouted his lips.

"Yes please."

"Always so polite and respectful." You neared the bed, knees touching the frame.

"Only for you." His eyes were fixed on you, watching all the moves you made, every breath you take. You planted one of your knees on the bed, hands moving in front, crawling over him.

"God, I love it when you neg for me Bobby." You whispered, a hands distance away from him.

You were expecting a reply or atleast a groan, but what you got was even better. He reached out and ulled you on top of his by your waist, holding you delicately as he leaned back. His mouth caught yours, pulling you into a deep kiss, lips moving slow, not trying to assert dominance or show off, just portraying all the love he had for you.

The way he drove you wild with just his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder what the rest of him could do. Feeling as daring as ever, you slowly moved your hips, dragging them painfully over his, making him groan into your mouth. You repeated the same movement a few times, getting bolder and hornier with each one, pulling soft moans from the man under you.

He pulled away from your mouth to try and regain his breath and control himself from fucking you right then and there, but you were having none of that. Your lips made there way down to his neck, pressing feather light kisses on his collarbone and all over the right side of his neck.

"You're a little minx you, you know." Bob managed to say in between his moans.

"And you love it." You replied, lifting your head to look into his eyes for just a second before continuing your attack.

"Oh, fuck it." He let go of any ounce self control he had left in him and grabbed your waist tighter, flipping you two over.

What was supposed to happen, was that he would now take control and show you around pound town. But poor Bobby forgot he was already on the edge of the bed, and all that the flip accomplished was sending you two out of bed and onto the hard ground.

"Shit, sorry. Are you okay?" Bob asked, landing on top of you, pulling the blanket down as well.

"We should take this as a sign to not have sex in your childhood bedroom." You giggled, as he dropped his head in the crook of your neck, sighing out loudly.

"We should probably get up before someone come to investigate." He pushed up from the ground, biceps flexing in the process, offering you his hand once he was standing. "M'lady."

You took it gladly, pulling yourself up in the least sexy way possible, with the goofiest smile ever adorning your face. If this was life with Bob, you'd want it in this universe and the next, till you lived out an eternity kissing and falling.

"Why thank you very much kind sir."

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

Even after much convincing and persuasive kisses, Bob couldn't get you to ditch the days plans and just stay in bed with you. Through giggles and soft kisses, you finally made your way down to the living room, to find Mary sitting there alone, watching tv.

"Morning Ma." Bob greeted her, with a with a peck on the cheek, much chipper than usual.

"Morning? It's ten already." She taunted, pausing her show, turning back to look at the two of you. "I'm not sure how they do things in the navy, but in my house morning arrives much earlier."

"You'll have to forgive us." You spoke. "Someone here didn't want to get up."

"Can you really blame a man for wanting to get a few more hours of beauty sleep in?" Bob flicked back his hair in the most dramatic way possible, making you and Mary burst out laughing. If someone would have told you that quiet Bob Floyd was this chatty and funny when he got comfortable with someone, you wouldn't have believed them, but here you were, standing in his mother's kitchen, laughing your ass of at something stupid.

"What time are yall going to go pick up the dress?" Mary asked, as you two were stuffing your face with waffles.

"After breakfast." Bob mumbled the reply with puffed up cheeks full of food.

"Don't talk with food in your mouth." His mother reprimanded and then turned to you. "I can wait for you to see the dress, it is so beautiful."

"I don't doubt it for a second. Lucy has implacable taste." You nodded, getting up to put your empty plate into the sink.

"Ma, I wanted to ask you something." Bob started. "Would you mind of we ate out today for dinner?"

"Oh, not at all. Where are we going?"

"Um... we as in Sunny and I." He scratched the back of his neck while correcting his mother.

"Oh I see." She smile slyly at the two of you, who were going red under her hard gaze. "Don't be out too late." She permitted, making you snap your head up and grin at Bob, who was already doing the same.

"Pick you up at seven." He winked at you.

"It's a date." You winked back, getting giddy at the prospect of going on a date with the man you had been crushing on for forever.

"Just one thing," Mary stopped on her way back to the couch. "There will be no hanky panky in my house at night."

"Ma!" Bob gasped, as you chocked on plain air. If only Mary Floyd knew what was happening just moments ago in her house.

"What?" She shrugged, still smirking.

Soon enough, you were in thr passenger seat, headed to the tailor's shop as Bob showed you around his hometown. The more of it you saw, the more you felt closer to him. You just wished you could do the same, but that was all you could do, whish, because there was no way you were taking him home, at least not in the near future. You arrived at the quaint shop, the door opening with a little ding.

"Hello, how may I help you?" An older woman popped out of the back of the shop and greeted the two of you.

"We're here to pick up a bridesmade dress in Lucy Floyd's name." Bob answered, closing the door he had opened once you were inside as well.

"Ah, yes. Mary said you'd be here today." She nodded enthusiastically. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but you are Robert right? Her son kn the navy?"

"Yes ma'am." He replied with a blush, he knew his mother was proud of him, he just never thought she would tell the entire town about him.

"I thought so. My how you have grown." She gushed. "And who's the lady may I ask?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Bob beat you to it. "My girlfriend." He said proudly, grabbing your hand tighter. Hearing him introduce you as his girlfriend so proudly made your brain malfunction, because this time around, it wasn't a lie, and how you had managed to make it so in just a few days was beyond you.

"Aren't you a lucky girl." The woman teased and went to the back to get your dress out.

"Don't I know it." You whispered, grinning like a bashful school girl.

"Would you like to try it on once? See of we need to alter anything?" She asked.

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh not at all, come on back dear." She ushered you to the back of the and helped you out of your clothes and into the delicate floor length dress. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing you had ever seen, and upon wearing it once, you never wanted to take it off again. It hugged you in all the right places, and the back was just gorgeous. Few people could pull of the colour yellow, but you were sure anyone would look beautiful in this dress.

"Boy is he going to faint when he sees you." The woman gushed.

"Can we not show it to him right now? I want to surprise him." You asked.

"For sure. Why don't you get changed while I pack it up for you?" She smiled.

You thanked her and changed out of the dress very reluctantly. When you stepped outside, Bob who was leaning against the counter, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, snapped up his head.

"Where's the dress?" He asked, confused. "I thought you were trying it on."

"I did try it on and it fits like a glove." You replied.

"Show me then." He said, eager to see the dress.

"Nope, you've just got to wait till the wedding." You declared, as he whined.

"Come on Sunny, please." He pouted, pulling the same expression he did when he begged his mother for ice cream as a kid. The only difference was, his mother was more weak than you are and always gave in.

"No no. Put that pout away." You shook your head at his ridiculousness. "The wedding isn't that far away."

"Fine." He grumbled, but his frown quickly turned into a smile as your lips collided with his left cheek.

"There you go. You'll go crazy when you see her in the dreas." The woman came back out with a bag in her hand and a smile on your face. "Enjoy the wedding."

You thanked her profusely, complementing her skills and walked out the shop and towards your car. Bob tried peeking into the bag to get a look at the dress, but when you shoved him off a few times, he knew you weren't kidding.

After driving around the town for sometime, you went back home and lazed around the whole afternoon. If this was a dream, you never wanted to wake up.

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

The night came quicker than you realized. While getting ready for your first date with him, you couldn't help but pinch yourself to see if this was actually happening or if you were hallucinating in the psych ward. Only yesterday, you were pacing around the room, ranting to your friend about how badly you wanted Bob and here you were twenty gour hours later, actually going on a date with him.

He had picked a fancy restaurant for the two of you to go to, somewhere close to home, yet for enough to give you the privacy you needed. Ever the gentleman, he had brought you flowers, pulled the seat for you and opened all the doors, making you swoon. You were waiting for your food to come, sipping on wine, when he spoke up.

"I can't believe this is happening. I'm going out with the girl of my dreams."

"The girl of you dream huh?" You were amused, and also giddy.

"Obviously." He replied. "I can't stress this enough Sunny, you're the most wonderful person I have ever met. The best person on this planet."

"Stop it, all these praises are going to go to my head and I'll be unbearable." Your eyes went wide to add some dramatic flare.

"Never." He scrunched his nose, smile never leaving him.

"I-I didn't get a chance to say this to you last night, but I really like you Bob. So much that the moment I met you, I knew there would be no one else in the world for me." You voiced. "I really, really, really like you honey, in fact I think I might just love you."

"I love you." Bob let out before he could stop himself. You froze at his confession as he stuttered, trying to cover up. "No I don't. I do. But I don't, not on the first date. But I do, but right now I-"

"I love you." You stopped his rant, gently placing your hand on top of his from across the table. "I love you too Bobby, on the first date and on every date."

Hearing this made him so happy he could burst. If it wasn't for the waiter bringing over your food, he would have leaped over the table and kissed you hard till you were thrown out of the restaurant. The night went by like a breeze, you said sweet nothings to each other with sprinkles of 'I love you' thrown into the conversation.

You should have known that life couldn't be this good to you, not with your luck. But in the haze of happiness, you seemed to forget all about it, and the universe reminded you in the most horrible way possible. You were sharing desert, almost about to leave, when someone called out your name, and the moment you heard the voice, all colour drained out of your face.

"What're you doing here?" The voice continued. Bob's eyebrows pulled together, trying to figure out how you knew the man standing behind you. You turned around slowly, hoping that it wouldn't be him standing there, but alas, it was.

"Michael." You closed your eyes, your worst nightmare coming to life. "What're you doing?"

"I asked you a question first." He replied sternly with a cold expression.

"I'm attending a wedding." The voice that left you sounded so foreign, so week, so scared.

"Who's?"

"Bob's sister's."

"Who's Bob?"

"I am." Bob spoke up, as you whipped your head to him, looking at him with an expression he could understand. "Sunny, who's this?"

You didn't want this to happen, not now, not ever. Michael had cut you out of his life years ago, and you had done the same. But as fate would have it, you two ended up under the same roof once again and it had to happen on what was suppose to be the nest night of your life.

You gather up whatever strength was left in you and spoke up. The words that left you were a total thunderclap to Bob's ears.

"He's my brother."

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[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Don’t Blame Me

Evan Buckley x fem!reader

The coffee pot hisses lowly in the background, but you don’t move to pour a cup.

Buck’s standing near the kitchen counter in his uniform pants and undershirt, tugging on his boots like he’s trying to outrun the tension hanging in the air. He hasn’t looked at you once since he walked out of the bedroom. Not while brushing his teeth. Not while grabbing his keys. Not even when you greeted him with a hesitant, quiet, “Morning.”

You’re still in your pajamas, arms crossed tight over your chest, holding your breath like it’ll stop you from saying something you’ll regret.

But he’s the one who speaks first.

“I’m gonna be late,” he mutters.

That’s it. That’s all you get.

Not good morning. Not I’m sorry for last night. Just that distant, flat tone you hate. The one he uses when he’s already halfway out the door, emotionally and physically.

“Then be late,” you bite out before you can stop yourself. “Be late and talk to me.”

Buck freezes with his boot half-laced, finally—finally—lifting his eyes to you.

You expect softness. Regret. Anything.

But his gaze is cold. Exhausted.

“I don’t want to fight with you again.”

“Then stop running away from me every time I try to fix this!” you snap.

The words crack like a whip across the quiet morning, and for a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

“You said I make everything harder,” he says finally, his voice quieter, but sharper. “Do you remember that? Last night? When you were mad—you said loving me is exhausting.”

Your mouth opens—closes—opens again. The memory rushes back, half-blurred by tears and frustration. You did say that. Not because you meant it, but because you were hurt. Because you were trying to get him to hurt too.

“Buck…” your voice falters. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

“You didn’t even try to take it back.”

“I—I was upset. You kept shutting me out—”

“I shut down when I’m overwhelmed!” he explodes, and now the room isn’t quiet anymore.

“I know that!” you yell back. “But you shut me out even when I’m just trying to love you! What do you want from me? You want me to give you space? I do. You want me to show up and be patient? I do that too. But you’re never really here, Buck. You’re never fully with me.”

He turns away like he can’t stand to look at you. And somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s said.

“I have a job,” he mutters.

“And I have a heart!” you fire back. “And you’ve been breaking it piece by piece, every time you act like I’m the enemy just because I want more from you than silence!”

He exhales hard, grabs his shirt, and starts pulling it on. “I can’t do this right now. I’m going to work.”

“So that’s it?” you ask, voice cracking. “You’re gonna walk out like everything’s fine?”

“I didn’t say it was fine,” he says over his shoulder. “I just said I have a shift to cover.”

“Right,” you whisper. “Because running into burning buildings is easier than facing me.”

That one makes him stop.

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He turns just enough to look at you—but not close enough to bridge the canyon between you.

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And before you can say anything—before you can tell him you’re sorry, or that you didn’t mean it like that, or please don’t leave like this—the door shuts behind him.

Hard.

And just like that, the morning falls silent again.

But now, it’s worse.

Because that’s the last thing you said to him.

And by tonight… you won’t even know if he’s coming home.

———

The first thing you reach for is the cast iron skillet.

Not because it’s convenient—but because it’s his favorite. You haven’t used it in weeks, and the weight of it in your hands feels heavier than it should. Like it knows this meal has more to carry than just calories.

It’s a little after 7:00 when you start the prep, soft music playing low in the background—some jazz playlist Buck said once reminded him of his mom’s kitchen when he was little. You’re not trying to win him over. You’re trying to reach him. To say with this meal what your mouth failed to this morning.

You’re making chicken marsala, his comfort food. The real kind—not the 20-minute kind with shortcuts and cornstarch and cheap wine. You’re talking browned mushrooms and shallots in butter, reduced marsala with stock, pan-seared chicken cutlets finished in the oven. It takes time. Effort. Intention.

Everything you wish you’d put into the conversation you had with him before he left this morning.

⸻

The chicken is sliced and floured by 7:18.

You take your time with the mushrooms, caramelizing them until they’re deep golden and nutty. You remember the first time you made this for him—he said it tasted better than any restaurant. You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. Then he kissed your cheek and asked for seconds.

Your eyes sting now as you stir.

You glance at the clock. 7:47.

He has two more hours on shift. He said he’d come home after. You want to believe him.

So you keep cooking like he will.

⸻

By 8:10, the sauce is reducing and the house smells rich and warm. You even took the time to roast baby potatoes with garlic and rosemary and steam green beans the way he likes—still slightly crisp. You set the table for two. His side has the glass of cabernet you know he won’t drink more than two sips of.

You’re wearing one of his old firehouse tees. The one that got too small in the shoulders but he refused to throw out.

And while the chicken rests on a warm plate in the oven, you finally sit down at the counter and let yourself think.

How do I bring it up?

You know he hates conflict. You know he gets overwhelmed fast. You’re not perfect either—you push, you poke, you say things to test if he’ll stay. You don’t want to do that this time.

Maybe I’ll start with: I miss you.

Simple. Honest. Less threatening.

Or maybe: I didn’t mean what I said yesterday.

Because you didn’t. You never meant it. He exhausts you sometimes, yes—but you never meant him. You meant the space between you. The way he shuts down. You just… don’t know how to reach through the wall when it goes up.

The smell of dinner still fills the apartment. Everything’s still warm.

8:57.

You fluff the potatoes with a fork and smile. Almost time.

⸻

9:23.

You open your texts. Nothing. You refresh. Nothing.

You click on his location and see the familiar dot at the station. Still there. Maybe paperwork ran late. Maybe someone needed a minute to talk. You know how it goes.

You pour a glass of wine. Just half.

⸻

9:51.

You go ahead and put his plate in the microwave to keep it warm. Not reheat—just enough so it’s not cold when he walks in. You picture his tired face lighting up when he smells the marsala sauce. You imagine him slipping his arms around your waist from behind, whispering “You made this for me?”

You’ll say yes, and then you’ll apologize first. You’ll say it was a bad morning, and you love him, and you don’t want to keep hurting each other every time things get hard. You’ll say “We’re better than this, right?”

He’ll nod. Kiss your forehead.

It’ll be okay.

⸻

10:37.

You’re pacing now. Your stomach’s tight with something halfway between worry and dread. You check your phone again. Still nothing. You almost call, thumb hovering over his contact—but you stop yourself. You don’t want to seem clingy. He said he was coming home.

He promised.

⸻

11:02.

You call.

Voicemail.

You wait five minutes. Then call again.

Still voicemail.

You open Eddie’s contact. Then Chim’s. You don’t press call, but your thumb hovers. Maybe they’d know. Maybe something’s wrong. Maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not him.

It’s a  text from one of his coworkers:

“Hey Y/N, thank you for being ok with Buck canceling your dinner date tonight, my baby is sick and we’re taking her to the hospital. I really appreciate both of you.”

Your breath leaves your body like a punch to the ribs.

Third shift.

Third.

That means 9pm to 7am.

And he didn’t tell you.

Not a single word.

⸻

The anger doesn’t hit all at once. It builds—slow and hot, like the marsala sauce did earlier, except now you’re burning from the inside out.

He looked you in the eye and told you he’d come home tonight.

He let you wait. Let you hope. Let you believe that maybe he wanted to fix this too. And the whole time, he knew. He knew he wasn’t coming.

You grab the to-go container from the top shelf of the cabinet—the one he uses when he packs leftovers for shift. You fill it with the marsala. The potatoes. Everything.

You don’t care that it’s after 11.

You don’t care that you’re not wearing shoes yet.

You’re going to the firehouse.

You’re going to look him in the eye and ask him why.

——

The firehouse is alive with the usual noise — radios buzzing, boots clacking, men focused on their shift.

You burst through the door, the cold container of chicken marsala digging into your palm. The food’s cold, just like your patience.

Buck’s sitting at the table with Eddie and Chim, playing cards like it’s some damn party and not a damn job.

You don’t hesitate. You throw the container on the table with a slap loud enough to stop the whole room.

“Are you serious right now?” Your voice is sharp, venom dripping from every word.

They all look up, startled. Buck’s face goes tight — but you don’t care.

“You said you were coming home,” you spit, stepping closer, rage burning in your chest. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’ll be home after shift.’ And then you pick up another goddamn shift and don’t even have the decency to tell me?”

His mouth opens, but you cut him off.

“I waited. Two fucking hours—waiting for you to walk through that door. Waiting for you to show up so I could finally fix this damn fight. And all I get is silence.”

You’re shaking now. The fire’s burning so hot it’s almost painful.

“Do you know what it feels like to cook your favorite meal for an hour and a half, spend every second thinking about how to not start another fight—and then find out you didn’t even come home?”

Buck’s jaw clenches. You see the guilt trying to crawl out, but you don’t give a damn.

Before things can get worse, Bobby steps in between you two.

“Y/N, enough,” he says, calm but firm.

You laugh, bitter and loud. “No, Bobby. I’m done. Done pretending I’m not fucking furious. Done waiting on someone who can’t even text me.”

You turn sharply and walk out, leaving the cold food and the broken silence behind.

The street is nearly empty—just you, the hum of the engine, and the boiling silence inside your chest.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. Your pulse is still racing from the firehouse. From him. From the way he sat there laughing, like you hadn’t been home, pacing in the kitchen for hours with a full plate of his favorite food going cold on the counter.

A sob claws its way up your throat but dies before it reaches your mouth.

You’re so caught in your spiraling thoughts, you almost miss the headlights screaming toward you from the side.

Almost.

Too fast.

Your head whips to the left—brakes screeching—but it’s too late.

The other car slams into your passenger side at full speed, a T-bone hit with the force of a missile.

Metal screams. Your body jolts violently as the impact rips through you like lightning. The car spins uncontrollably, tires screeching, glass exploding like gunfire.

Time slows down.

Your head whips forward, then back, as the car spins once—

Twice—

Then slams sideways into a tree with bone-crushing force. The passenger side caves inward, the entire right half of the car crushed like paper.

Your head hits the driver-side window with a crack, blood immediately pooling from your temple. The airbag deploys a second too late to save your ribs from the force. Pain sears through your abdomen—blunt trauma, maybe internal bleeding. You can’t tell.

The door won’t open. Your hands won’t move.

You taste copper.

You can’t scream.

The cold rushes in through shattered glass. Somewhere outside, someone’s shouting.

A pair of headlights flicker in the distance. A car screeches to a halt. Someone runs toward you.

“Oh my God! Call 911! Call 911 now!”

Another voice: “She’s still breathing—barely!”

You’re fading fast.

“Miss? Stay with me! Stay awake—hey, look at me. Look at me!”

A stranger presses on your side. It hurts so badly you nearly black out. The pain is unbearable. But you’re too weak to fight it.

Blood coats your seat. Drips down your wrist. Puddles on the floorboard.

Your car is unrecognizable.

And you? You might be dying.

Somewhere close—only three blocks away—sirens are screaming louder and louder.

The 118 is coming.

So is he.

But you don’t know if you’ll still be awake when he gets there.

——

(Station 118)

“Motor vehicle accident—two vehicles involved. One critical. Location—”

Buck hears the dispatcher say the street name and his body freezes.

He knows that road.

He knows who drives that road home from the firehouse.

“Buck,” Bobby says quickly, already picking up on it, “Don’t jump to—”

But Buck is already running. Helmet in hand. Vest half on. Sprinting to the rig like his life depends on it. Because it does.

The rig tears through the streets. It’s barely been three blocks. That’s how close she was. That’s how stupidly close—

Chim is driving. Eddie’s beside him. Hen’s checking gear.

And Buck is staring out the windshield, praying, pleading, bargaining.

Please don’t let it be her car.

Please don’t let it be her.

Please. Please. Please.

They turn the corner—

And he sees it.

Her car. Or what’s left of it.

A mangled, twisted wreck of metal, glass, and blood. The entire passenger side crushed like a soda can against a tree. Her car is barely recognizable—but Buck knows it. He knows the shape, the color, the dent on the rear left bumper from that time she backed into a post.

He jumps out of the rig before it’s even in park.

“Buck!” Bobby yells. “Wait!”

But he’s already running.

And then—he sees her.

Slumped sideways. Blood all over her. Her face pale. Her eyes half-lidded.

“No—NO—”

He drops to his knees by the driver’s side as Chim and Hen rush in.

“I’ve got no access here!” Hen shouts. “We need to cut her out!”

“Vitals are crashing!” Chim yells.

Buck’s voice shreds open as he pounds on the glass.

“Y/N—HEY—HEY, STAY AWAKE, BABY, STAY AWAKE—”

She flinches faintly. A moan. Barely.

He’s never felt fear like this. Not during the ladder collapse. Not during the tsunami. Not during lightning strikes or bomb threats.

This is worse.

This is her.

Bobby grabs him, yanking him back as they start cutting open the door.

“Let them work, Buck!”

“She’s bleeding out—she’s bleeding—”

“She’s alive,” Eddie says hoarsely, eyes locked on her. “But she won’t be for long if you don’t let them do their job.”

The door peels open.

It takes every ounce of strength Buck has not to fall apart when he sees the blood soaked into her seat, the way she gasps when they touch her abdomen, the deep gash on her temple.

She looks at him—just for a second. Eyes glassy. Barely there.

He reaches for her hand.

“Hey… hey, baby, I’m here. I’m right here, okay?”

Her lips move. He leans in. She’s trying to say his name.

Then her eyes roll back.

The monitors scream.

“She’s coding!” Hen yells.

“Go, go, go!” Chim shouts.

They hoist her out on the board, blood dripping to the pavement, and Buck runs after them—bloody hands shaking, lungs heaving, heart breaking wide open.

As the ambulance doors slam shut, Buck is left on the street, on his knees, shaking and sobbing—

Whispering over and over into the dark,

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The hospital lights are too bright. Too white. Too sterile.

Too clean for how bloody his hands still are.

Buck hasn’t sat down.

Not once.

He’s pacing—back and forth, back and forth—the soles of his boots leaving faint red smudges on the white floor, reminders of how he held her, how her blood soaked into his skin, his sleeves, his soul.

It’s been twenty-two minutes.

Twenty-two minutes since the double doors swung shut behind the gurney.

Twenty-two minutes since she coded in the back of the rig and Hen fought like hell to bring her back.

“She’s got a pulse!” Hen had shouted.

“Go, go, go!” Chim had banged on the ambulance wall.

They’d barely made it.

Now, she’s in the OR.

“Any update?” he asks the nurse at the desk—again.

She looks up. Same look of sympathy. Same rehearsed, practiced tone.

“She’s still in surgery, Mr. Buckley. The doctor will come out as soon as they can.”

He nods, but it’s barely a movement. His jaw clenches. His hands ball into fists at his sides.

He can still see her face.

How pale she was.

The blood in her hair.

The way she looked at him like she was already slipping away.

And all he can think is: I was supposed to come home. I was supposed to eat dinner with her. I was supposed to say sorry.

Not scream at her.

Not make her feel unwanted.

Not send her home in tears.

His stomach twists as the weight of it crashes down on him. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the to-go container.

Her handwriting on top.

“Your favorite. Still warm. I love you.”

He breaks.

Eddie finds him in a chair, head in his hands, the note clutched to his chest. His shoulders shake with every quiet sob.

“She was trying to make things right,” Buck chokes out. “And I—God, I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“Buck,” Eddie says, crouching beside him, voice steady but wrecked, “She’s strong. She’s in there fighting. But you’ve gotta hold it together until she wakes up.”

“If she wakes up.”

Silence.

Then:

“She will.”

Buck sits there, numb and bloodied and broken, staring at the doors like he can will them open.

“Ten more minutes,” he whispers. “I’ll ask again in ten.”

And he will.

Every ten minutes.

Until someone tells him the only thing he wants to hear:

That she made it.

Buck sits hunched over, forearms resting on his knees, fingers twitching against one another like if he stops moving, he’ll come undone.

Eddie sits in the chair next to him, silent, steady, like he always is. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t prod. He just waits.

And eventually, Buck cracks.

“It started over something stupid,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t even remember what. Something about the way I didn’t respond when she asked if I was okay.”

Eddie glances at him, quiet.

“She asked, and I brushed her off. Said I was tired. Said I had a long shift ahead.” Buck lets out a bitter laugh. “She tried to get me to talk about it, and I shut down. Again.”

Eddie’s silence isn’t empty. It’s full of understanding. Full of memories.

“She said it felt like I only let her in halfway. That sometimes I didn’t even try.”

Buck swallows hard. His voice softens.

“And she wasn’t wrong. She never is when it comes to me.”

He wipes his palm across his mouth, shaking his head.

“I snapped at her, man. She was just trying to talk, to understand, and I told her I didn’t want to do this before work. I told her, ‘we’ll talk tonight.’ Like that was enough.”

“She believed you.” Eddie’s voice is low, even.

Buck nods. His eyes are glassy again.

“She asked me if I was still in this with her. If I was still trying. And I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t answer her, Eddie.”

Eddie looks over, eyes dark.

“And then I walked out. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like she didn’t mean anything.”

The words sting coming out. Buck flinches at the truth in his own mouth.

“I was already halfway to the firehouse when I felt it. That regret. That voice in my head screaming at me to turn around. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, gently.

Buck’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Because it was easier to go to work than it was to tell her I was scared.”

He swallows hard.

“Scared that I don’t know how to be loved like that. That I don’t know how to hold something so good without breaking it.”

Eddie leans back, sighs through his nose.

“You think picking up another shift was gonna keep her from seeing that?”

“I think it made it worse,” Buck whispers. “I think she cooked my favorite meal as an apology. I think she wanted to make it right and I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“You didn’t know she’d show up.”

Buck finally looks over.

“I shouldn’t have had to. She always shows up.”

His jaw tightens, grief crawling up his throat.

“And I didn’t.”

Eddie looks away. Doesn’t speak. Because he was there—when she walked into the station, shaking, eyes red-rimmed, voice raised with fury and heartbreak. He saw the way Buck froze, silent and stunned.

He watched her drop the container on the table, the note taped to the lid.

He heard her voice crack when she said, “I waited for you.”

Buck squeezes his eyes shut now.

“She left like I’d torn her in half. And I let her go. I just let her walk away.”

The waiting room door buzzes open in the distance, but no one comes out. Just a nurse crossing through.

Buck leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands laced together.

“If she dies…” His voice catches. He swallows thickly. “If she doesn’t wake up, that’s the last thing I ever said to her. That silence. That nothing.”

Eddie’s voice is quiet but certain.

“She’s fighting. You have to believe that.”

“I do.” Buck wipes at his face. “But I also know… if she doesn’t make it, it’s not gonna be the accident that kills me.”

Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder, firm. Steady.

“You’ll get to tell her all of this, Buck. You’ll get to say everything you didn’t. Just hold on.”

Buck nods, jaw clenched.

Another ten minutes pass.

He stands again. Walks to the nurse’s desk.

“Any update?” he asks, voice breaking.

This time, the nurse looks back at him, expression softening—

“The doctor’s coming out now.”

The waiting room had never been quieter. Not even when Bobby had been under the knife. Not even when Chim had coded. Not even when Buck had nearly died himself.

Because this time, it wasn’t him on the table.

It was her.

And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

His palms were still sticky with dried blood.

Her blood.

He’d been pacing when the door opened. The air shifted. He felt it before he heard it.

The soft click of shoes on tile. The rustle of a white coat.

Buck turned.

A doctor. Older. Stern, unreadable face. The kind of look that didn’t tell you anything until it told you everything.

“Evan Buckley?”

Buck took one step forward so fast Eddie reached out, as if ready to catch him.

“Yes,” Buck said, voice hoarse. “That’s me. I’m—She’s my—”

He swallowed.

“I’m with her.”

The doctor nodded. “Let’s sit.”

Buck didn’t want to sit.

He wanted answers.

He stood stiff and cold and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

The doctor didn’t force it. Just exhaled slowly.

“She was brought in with severe abdominal trauma, a major concussion, and internal bleeding. Her spleen was ruptured. There were signs of blunt force trauma to the ribs, a laceration on the liver, and she had lost significant blood volume on the scene.”

Buck could hear himself breathing. Could feel Eddie standing behind him, but he couldn’t look away.

“The impact was… catastrophic. The passenger side of the vehicle wrapped around the tree. She was partially crushed between the door and the seat.”

Buck closed his eyes. His fault. She shouldn’t have been in that car.

“But,” the doctor said, voice softening just a hair, “she’s alive.”

Buck’s eyes snapped open.

“She’s in critical condition. We were able to stabilize her for now. She’s intubated and on a ventilator. Her vitals are holding, but it’s going to be touch and go for the next 24 hours.”

“Is she awake?” Buck rasped.

“No. We placed her in a medically induced coma to let the brain swelling reduce and give her body time to fight.”

Buck swayed where he stood. Eddie’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

“You said she’s stable?” Buck asked, and his voice cracked like a boy’s.

“For now,” the doctor repeated carefully. “There’s no guarantee. Her body is in shock. But she’s young. And she’s strong.”

Buck nodded like his neck was made of splintered glass. “Can I see her?”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Only for a few minutes. Let the nurses get her settled in ICU. Then we’ll bring you back.”

Buck breathed out like he hadn’t in hours.

The doctor started to turn away. Buck stopped him.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “For saving her.”

The doctor paused, gave him a look he’d remember for the rest of his life.

“She’s the one who saved herself,” he said. “She held on longer than most could have. Might be something worth holding on for.”

Then he walked away.

Buck stood there. Frozen.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would stay true.

“She’s alive,” he said again, and this time he turned to Eddie, who had tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, gripping Buck’s arm. “She’s alive.”

But Buck didn’t feel relief. Not yet.

Because she hadn’t opened her eyes.

Because she hadn’t heard him say sorry.

Because she’d still left thinking he didn’t love her.

And that might be the part that killed him first.

The ICU was too quiet.

No sirens. No radios. No alarms.

Just the slow, soft beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor keeping her alive.

Buck stepped into the room and felt the rest of the world drop away.

She looked so small in the bed. Tubes and wires tangled in her arms, tape at her mouth, bruises blooming purple and red across her temple and shoulder. Her skin was pale, almost waxy. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to someone like her—someone who laughed with her whole chest, someone who kissed him with all her soul.

The nurse gave him a nod, quietly closed the door behind him.

He took one step, then another. His boots felt too loud against the floor.

“I—” Buck started, then stopped.

His throat was too tight.

“I didn’t think it was real,” he said softly, sinking into the chair by her bedside. “I saw the car, and I—I thought you were gone. I thought I lost you.”

His hand hovered near hers for a second before he finally took it. It was cool, limp, fingers slack.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “God, I’m so sorry.”

His other hand came up, dragging across his face like he could rub the shame out of his skin.

“You were trying to talk to me, and I shut you down. You made dinner—you made my favorite, and I just… I stayed at the station because I didn’t want to face you. Because I was afraid I’d say something that made you walk away.”

He let out a weak, bitter laugh. “And I said nothing. And you still walked out the door.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“I never wanted you to think I didn’t love you. That you weren’t enough.” His voice trembled. “You’re everything.”

The machines kept beeping. She didn’t stir.

He leaned closer.

“Please wake up. Just… please. I’ll do anything. I’ll say everything I never said. I’ll tell you every day for the rest of your life how sorry I am, how much I love you, how—how I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

His forehead dropped to the edge of the bed, hand still wrapped around hers.

“I didn’t come home, and now you might never come back to me.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

The ventilator hissed. A monitor blipped.

And then—a twitch.

Her fingers.

They moved.

Buck’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Hey. Hey—are you—?”

But before he could call for the nurse, the heart monitor spiked.

And then,

flatlined.