#These are so precious and perfect for her!!

[seleneprince]

The villainesses want the divorce!

After meeting a tragic end together, Mrs Wayne and her daughters find themselves reincarnating into the bodies of their younger selves...from another universe.

In this world, their counterparts suffered from their own abrupt deaths, leaving their souls to merge in the wake of the loss, and coming back with the memories of both of their lives now bound in one person respectively.

As if that wasn't hard enough to deal with, turns out that in this alternative universe, the three of them are well-known "villains", petty and infamously evil, whose bad deeds are the reason they eventually wind up dead. And all because...they just wanted the dynsfunctional family of bats' love? And were so jealous of the "main characters" for getting it that they committed to idiotic plots to harass them and get rid of them?!

Sorry but no. Not this time, babes.

Their lives are too precious to waste on chasing after men. Seriously, what were their stupid counterparts thinking?

So, in order to enjoy this second chance they've miraculously gotten and avoid such pathetic deaths, they come up with a simple solution:

"Bruce, dear, I want the divorce."

"Oh, and the girls are coming with me."

It's perfect. Easy, because Bruce Wayne will no doubt jump at the opportunity to erase them from his life. As soon as they're no longer tied to the Waynes, they won't have to worry about suffering the consequences of this gothic telenovela anymore. They will finally make the best out of this new life and enjoy without dealing with those stupid vigilantes.

Nothing can go wrong. There's no way.

What's he going to do? Refuse?

"We'll make them beg for us to leave this house."

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2?

Taglist: @la-patrona-magdalena @therealme13posts, @coldilikeit, @like-thechocolate, @yuyuzi-ling, @luludeluluramblings (can't believe i'm tagging one of my favourite batfam writers ahshdhf), @errorunfound1, @cxcilla

a/n: If you want to be added, ask me or dm me 💖

[slattlicker]

can u do one where maybe schlatt or reader dont see eachother for a while (maybe like a month or so, one is on a bussines trip maybe schlatt recording something in japan again or whatever u get the point) and in the meanwhile reader gets her nips pierced and donesz tell him and when they reunite again they do the woohoo and schlatt goes feral over them

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * return of the rack ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your long-distance boyfriend finally comes home. he’s jetlagged, lovesick, and touch-starved—and you’ve been hiding something from him. but when he finds out? it’s over for both of you. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the anon who sent me that amazing piercing reveal request—this one’s for you ♡ thank you for such a juicy prompt!! i’m just a little english major with no self-control. hope this hits everything you wanted.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · long-distance reunion · emotional sex · tit worship · oral fixation · titfucking · praise-heavy filth · funny, filthy, tender

✧✧✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react...we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react…we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

the door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

his mouth is on yours, greedy and hot and so fucking needy it makes your knees buckle. you giggle into it—already breathless—as he walks you backward, one hand still gripping his duffel and the other sliding down your back like he’s checking if you’re still real.

“didn’t think i’d be gone long enough to forget how you taste,” he murmurs between kisses, voice all low heat and gravel.

“you’re ridiculous,” you breathe, clutching at his hoodie. “you’re the one who ran off to japan.”

“and you’re the one who picked me up looking like that. you knew what you were doing.”

you didn’t, not really, but you’re not exactly complaining.

he drops the bag somewhere behind you. kicks the door the rest of the way shut with his heel. you barely have time to register the living room before your back is pressed to the wall, his thigh sliding between yours, his mouth dragging down your jaw.

“whole car ride, babe,” he mutters against your skin, “i was sittin’ there just tryna breathe...relax after my long ass flight, and you’re over there yelling at the guy in front of us like your tits aren't beeping the horn for you. what was i supposed to do?”

your laugh turns into a gasp when his hands find your hips, yanking you closer.

you should stop. you meant to stop. meant to say something. to ease him into it gently. but he’s kissing you again, hard, one hand already sliding under your shirt—and you forget. you completely forget.

because it’s just him. home. warm. wanting. and it feels so good to be wanted.

he breaks the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt off.

“c’mere. let me get this armor off you.”

his fingers fumble at your back—expertly, annoyingly fast—and with one practiced flick, the bra gives way.

he peels it off.

and then he freezes.

you blink up at him, chest rising and falling, lips kiss-swollen and barely able to catch your breath.

“schlatt?”

he’s just staring.

then slowly—like he’s afraid to jinx it—he cups one breast in his hand. runs his thumb over the metal.

“…no. fucking. way.”

oh.

oh fuck.

“i forgot,” you blurt, eyes wide. “i meant to—schlatt, i meant to tell you—”

but he doesn’t even hear you.

his pupils blow wide. his hand tightens on your waist. he’s grinning, borderline maniacal, voice suddenly raspier than it has any right to be.

“you got your nipples pierced,” he says, half-laughing. “you went and did this while i was gone? and didn’t tell me?”

“i was nervous!” you squeak.

“you were nervous?? baby, i’m—i’m losing my fucking mind right now.”

and then he’s on you.

mouth on your chest, fingers everywhere, muttering curses and praise and wild, unhinged things like “how the fuck do you expect me to be normal ever again,” and “you want me to die, don’t you.”

he doesn’t even wait.

his mouth is on your chest like he’s starving—tongue hot and wet, dragging slow between the piercings before closing around one with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

you gasp—sharp and shaky—because they’re still sensitive. still a little too new. but god, it feels good. it feels like everything in you tightens at once, toes curling against the floor, thighs squeezing around his hips like muscle memory.

you can’t help it. your body knows him. remembers him.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. really look. his thumb brushes over the barbell, slow, reverent, like he’s not sure it’s real. “you are so fucking hot. i can’t—i literally can’t believe you did this. how the fuck did i land you.”

you can’t think of a single coherent word, let alone say one.

your chest feels like it’s glowing under his hand. every nerve from collarbone to navel lights up like electricity, sharp and dizzying and hungry. and then—your back hits the couch.

you barely realize he’s walked you there. you just know you’re sitting now, breath punched out of you, and he’s already dragging your leggings off—voice low and shaky and nothing like the cocky tone he usually has when he teases you.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, like he’s scolding himself. like he’s pacing in his own head. “so fuckin’ perfect. brand new tits for me and you didn’t even tell me? shit, baby—i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, rough palms sliding over skin like he needs to memorize every inch before it slips away again. like he doesn’t trust that you’re really here.

you open your mouth to say something. anything. but then his hand cups between your legs and your whole body jumps.

you’re soaked.

you feel embarrassingly exposed—slick and warm and pulsing, thighs trembling with how much you’ve missed this. him. the way he touches you like he can’t help it. like you’re the only thing that exists.

“fuckin’ missed this,” he says, and it’s not a line. it’s not dirty talk. it’s just true.

you nod, because you’re the same. you missed this so much it ached. you slept in his old t-shirts and reread your text threads and counted days until he was back. and now he’s here. and he’s hard. and he’s pushing his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock and you swear your lungs stop working.

you reach for him.

he catches your wrist. not to stop you—but to kiss it.

soft. stupidly soft.

and then he’s pushing into you.

you moan—loud, desperate, your head falling back with a dull thud against the cushions as he sinks in deep, all at once. there’s no teasing. no slow adjustment. it’s just full-body contact, heat against heat, everything you’ve been starving for crashing into place in one sharp, overwhelming moment.

you forgot how good he feels. thick and hot and perfect, pressed flush against your hips with a groan that curls through your ribs and lives there.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. “you—baby, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

“you’ve been gone,” you breathe, voice cracking like you’ve been holding it in for weeks. “i missed you.”

and he loses it.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, thrusting hard enough to make the couch creak beneath you both. your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, trying to hold him closer, tighter, deeper. you can feel yourself squeezing around him with every thrust, and you know he feels it too by the way his jaw locks and his breathing falls apart.

and then—god,—his hand finds your chest again.

thumb brushing over the piercing, palm warm against your skin.

you gasp. again. high and helpless.

“still sensitive, huh?” he whispers, voice just rough enough to send a shiver down your spine. “bet you touched yourself thinkin’ about me sucking on ’em.”

“i didn’t,” you gasp. “i—I wanted it to be you.”

his hips stutter, eyes snapping open to look at you—something sharp and stunned swimming behind the want.

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re gonna make me cum so fast, baby.”

and for a second, you think he might.

but then—he swallows. hard. sets his jaw like he’s fighting with himself.

and you watch it—watch him choose not to let go. not yet.

he’s breathing like he’s been running, chest rising and falling fast against yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples. but his pace slows, just barely—enough to make every thrust feel deeper. heavier. drawn out like he’s trying to memorize the way you fit together.

“i missed you so much,” he says, voice rough and uneven. “you don’t—you don’t fuckin’ know.”

you do. god, you do. it’s all you’ve felt since he walked through the airport gate—like your body had been waiting without you, aching in your bones and your blood and your fingertips.

you open your mouth to say it. to say me too, or i love you, or something that doesn’t make your throat feel like it’s about to close.

but then he rolls his hips—just right—and your voice breaks on a moan instead.

he groans. low, desperate.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking good.”

your legs tighten around him, body arching into his, fingers gripping at his shoulder like he’s all that’s holding you up. and maybe he is.

he slides his hand between you—presses his palm flat over your chest again, thumb tracing your piercing in slow, lazy circles like he knows exactly what it does to you now.

and it’s too much.

you’re already so full. already so close. and the added friction, the heat, the thrill of being seen like this—laid out and shaking and known in this way—it’s all stacking on top of itself in your stomach, hot and heavy and tight.

“schlatt—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he looks at you. really looks. and his face softens.

“i got you,” he murmurs. “just let go. i’ve got you.”

and you do.

you come with a cry—loud and open and shameless, your whole body tensing, then breaking. it rips through you like a snapped wire—sharp and fast and blinding, curling your toes and flattening your spine against the couch as your hands clutch at him for dear life.

and he feels it.

he lets out the most wrecked groan against your throat, holding you through it—letting you ride it out with slow, shallow thrusts as your body jerks around him in waves.

you’re gasping. whimpering. blinking hard against the blur in your eyes.

“fuck, fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice coming apart. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

your muscles twitch. your thighs are still shaking. your whole body is buzzing with the kind of heat that leaves you boneless and ruined.

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers, all hoarse and reverent. “you did so good. so fuckin’ good for me.”

and you believe it. even if your brain is barely working.

you’re so gone, you don’t realize he’s pulled out until his cum-slick cock presses against your stomach, twitching in his hand.

you blink at him. still breathless. still warm and open and raw.

he’s staring at your chest again.

then—quietly, still panting—he says:

“lemme cum on ’em.”

your stomach flips.

“wha…?” you manage.

he swallows. nods, like he’s reassuring himself. like he’s asking permission, even as his hand keeps moving around the base of his cock.

“your tits,” he says, eyes locked on the piercings. “lemme fuck ’em, baby. i gotta. i have to. please?”

and you—you don’t think. you just nod.

he kisses you, fast and crooked, missing your mouth a little like he can’t think straight anymore. like he needs to touch every part of you to stay grounded.

“fuck—thank you,” he mutters, voice gone wrecked. “fuckin’—thank you.”

you barely process him moving. you’re too loose-limbed and blinking slow to react. he kneels back, pulling you with him gently until you’re upright, your spine brushing the back of the couch, thighs still parted lazily across the cushions.

your chest rises and falls. your skin’s still flushed from the orgasm. and your tits—

they’re still shining. spit-slick from his mouth, flushed and sensitive, the tiny metal bars glinting in the low light like jewelry.

you glance down and see them like he’s seeing them.

and yeah.

you’d wanna fuck ’em too.

“press ’em together for me,” he says, rough. “please, baby. lemme—lemme see it.”

his voice breaks on that last part, and it does something to you. you bring your hands up, slow, still shaking slightly, and squeeze your breasts together between your palms.

you can feel the cool metal of the bars press into the softness of your skin. can feel the sweat, the heat, the need.

he groans—loud. hand stroking himself at the sight, chest flushed, eyes wide and ravenous.

“jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re—you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

he shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right there, cock in hand, flushed and glistening, already leaking at the tip. his fingers tremble as he slots himself between the valley you’ve made, pressing into the warmth of your skin with a shuddering inhale.

“ohhh my god.”

he thrusts once—just once—and it punches a sound out of both of you.

the slick slide of him between your tits is obscene. hot. messy. you can feel every ridge of him drag over the swell of your chest, the way his tip nudges the curve of your collarbone. the way the piercings barely catch on the motion.

he’s already losing rhythm.

“you’re so hot,” he gasps. “you’re so fucking hot. i’ve been thinkin’ about you like this the whole fuckin’ trip—shit—baby—”

you just nod. can’t speak. can’t look away.

his hand joins yours, squeezing around the outside of your tits, fucking up into the softness like he needs it. like he wants to burn the image of it into his skull.

his eyes flicker—up, down, back to your chest, your face, the piercings again.

“gonna cum,” he pants. “gonna—fuck—lemme cum on ’em, please. fuckin’ lemme—lemme—”

“yeah?” you breathe, voice wrecked and sticky-sweet. “you want these that bad, baby?”

your thumbs flick over the barbells as you squeeze your tits tighter for him, watching the way his eyes snap to the movement.

“then fucking do it.”

and then he does.

with a shout that comes from deep, he cums hard—thick and hot and everywhere. ropes of it across your chest, your throat, your collarbones, dripping down the piercings like they were made to hold it. he keeps thrusting through it, jerking slightly, riding the last of it out until he’s completely spent, cock twitching between your tits as he collapses forward onto his elbows.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. he’s breathing so hard it rocks you both a little.

you sit there, still holding your tits together, heart hammering, cum cooling on your chest, mouth parted in absolute disbelief at what just happened.

and then—

“...okay,” he pants, hoarse. “next time? warn me if you upgrade your body again. i’m not emotionally prepared for this shit.”

you wheeze out a laugh.

“i’ll consider it.”

“consider it strongly. i’m tryin’ to live a long life.”

“you just made a mess on my chest.”

he groans, flops fully onto you, kisses your shoulder like an apology and a thank-you and a “holy shit” all at once.

“worth it.”

[rafeyssugar]

CHERRY GLOSS AND CIGARETTES

bf!rafe cameron x bimbo reader

she walked like sin on satin heels. bubblegum gloss, glitter on her lids, and that tiny pink mini barely covering her ass. everything about her said trouble, but rafe? he was the kind of boy who begged for it.

she twirled her gum around her finger like it was a cigarette and rafe cameron swore she was made in a lab. a doll. a daydream. a walking heart attack in heels that clicked when she walked toward him, always toward him.

“hi baby,” she purred, soft and sweet like cotton candy melting on the tongue.

he was leaning against his truck, hands shoved in his pockets, but the second she got close, all that fake nonchalance went out the window. she was wearing his varsity jacket over her outfit. god, she looked like a fantasy — his fantasy.

“you wearin’ that just to kill me?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, eyes drinking her in like she was his favorite kind of poison.

“no,” she said, giggling. “but if i did, would you die happy?”

rafe smirked, stepped forward, cupped her cheeks in those big, rough hands and tilted her head back like she was something precious. “i’d die fuckin’ euphoric, princess.”

she gasped all dramatic, plush lips parted like she was in one of those old romance films. “you’re soooo obsessed with me.”

“can you blame me?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to her lips. “look at you. you’re like... the end of the world.”

she blinked up at him, lashes thick and fake and flirty. “i don’t even know what that means.”

he laughed. soft. stupid. completely enchanted. “means you’d be the last thing i’d wanna see before the apocalypse.”

she tilted her head, letting that process with her glossed-up, bubble-brain pout. then she grinned like sunshine. “aww, baby, that’s soooo sweet.”

rafe kissed her like a man possessed. slow and messy and full of hunger. her gum got caught between their tongues, but she didn’t care. she moaned into it, fingers tangled in his golden hair, hips bumping into his, all heat and perfume and pink-sugar chaos.

he pressed her up against the truck door, his jacket falling off her shoulders, but she didn’t fix it. just kept looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“you smell like strawberries,” he muttered, burying his nose in her neck. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

“duh,” she said, giggling. “that’s, like, the plan.”

he groaned, head thudding against her shoulder. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

she bit her lip. “i do. that’s why i wear the little skirts.”

he looked down at her legs — long, smooth, tan, perfect — and nearly whined. she hooked one over his thigh, pouting up at him.

“you gonna take me to the diner or just keep kissing me till i’m dizzy?”

“both,” he said, without a beat. “diner first. dizzy later. maybe both at once.”

the neon motel sign flickered outside like a dirty promise. room 7 smelled like smoke and lemon cleaner, but rafe couldn’t care less.

not with her sitting on the edge of the bed in her thigh-high socks and panties, reapplying her gloss like they weren’t about to ruin the room.

“you look like a dream,” he muttered, kicking off his boots.

“i am a dream,” she said, smacking her lips. “and you’re so lucky i picked you to have me.”

“i’d thank god if i thought he had anything to do with it,” he murmured, crawling between her legs. “but i know you’re way too good for heaven.”

she giggled, squealed when he grabbed her thighs and dragged her closer.

“careful! i just did my nails.”

“then you better hold onto the headboard, baby,” he growled, yanking her panties down with his teeth, “cause i’m about to make you forget your name.”

she gasped, tossed her head back, eyes all heavy-lidded and pretty while he buried his face between her thighs. one hand in his hair, the other clawing at the sheets, high-pitched moans falling from her lips like a pop song stuck on repeat.

“rafe— ohmygod, rafe—”

he hummed against her, grinning, totally feral. “say it again.”

“rafe,” she whined, “baby, baby, please.”

he pulled back just long enough to look up at her, lips shiny with her gloss and her. “you look so fuckin’ pretty like this. all messy for me.”

she blinked down at him, face flushed, hair a mess, and god, he wanted to take a picture. frame it. tattoo it on his chest.

“come here,” she whispered.

he climbed up over her, hand slipping under her bra, squeezing just to make her gasp. she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him like she owned him — which she did.

he slid in slow, thick and deep, both of them moaning into each other’s mouths.

“god,” he hissed, “you’re so— tight— fuck—”

“told you i was a dream,” she whispered, biting his lip. “don’t wake up, baby.”

he laughed. “never could.”

they moved together like it was choreography. like a vintage tape left on repeat — her moaning his name, rafe whispering mine, mine, mine in her ear, her pink nails scratching down his back, her lips parted just enough to look obscene.

when she came, it was loud and pretty and perfect. when he did, he swore he saw stars.

after, she laid on his chest, tracing hearts on his skin.

“you’re, like, so obsessed with me,” she mumbled, yawning.

“you don’t even know the half of it,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.

and when she fell asleep, lips parted, cheeks pink, hair a mess, rafe just stared at her like she was everything. because to him? she was.

and he'd burn the world down just to keep her soft and spoiled and smiling like that.

taking requests !!

[nyxieinshadows]

✦𓂃 Trouble Maker! A shattered truth whispered in drunken silence, haunting two hearts forever.

You never wanted to get caught in the Haitani brothers’ twisted game, but fate dragged you into their shadowed world where cold eyes hide ruthless desires, and silent confessions bleed like wounds beneath the surface…

‼️Content Warning: This story contains dark themes including emotional turmoil, complex relationships, and mature situations. Reader discretion is advised.

★ Tenjiku Haitani brothers — ꒰ Forginer! Fem ꒱ !

Being eighteen is a strange age. One day, you might find yourself catching someone’s attention just by starting a random conversation about the differences between Michael Jordan and Michael Jackson.someone whose chance of being in your life is one in a thousand.

For you, getting to know Ran Haitani wasn’t something you ever planned. His filthy reputation had echoed through every hallway of your high school and all over Roppongi for what felt like forever.

I mean, was it even possible to be a student at that damned school and not know about him and his brother? Was there anyone who could mention Tenjiku without saying Ran Haitani’s name in the same breath? And really, who could ever forget those deep purple eyes?

It was on a warm spring day when you met him. Right there, at Nana’s hair salon, that’s where you saw him. Those purple eyes. That long hair. God, even the way he looked just screamed that he is important.

You watched him as he sank into the salon chair, chatting casually with Nana.

“Michael Jordan? But he’s a basketball player…” Nana said, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

And Ran, in his usual stubborn tone, with that nerve-wracking smirk, answered:

“I told you I want my hair done with the vibe I get from one of his songs!”

Nana, apparently not in the mood that day, lowered her pink comb and snapped back:

“And I told you! Michael Jordan is a basketball player. Not a singer!”

“Everyone knows Michael is a singer!” Ran shot back, like he just refused to admit he’d messed up.

And that’s when his eyes, almost by accident, landed on you. Sitting quietly at the manicure table, flipping through magazines, doing your best to suppress your laugh.

“What’re you laughing at?” he snapped.

For a second, you almost forgot who you were talking to. Ran Haitani. One of the Four Heavenly Kings of Tenjiku. The kind of guy no one dared to even glance at the wrong way.

But starting a conversation with him? That might just be your lucky shot.

“Sorry, but I think the Michael you mean is Michael Jackson, not Jordan,” you said, closing the magazine, resting your chin in your palms, meeting his eyes with a calm gaze.

And god, you looked too perfect. It was as if angels had carved every line of your face with their own hands.

The second time you ran into Ran Haitani, you literally crashed into him. You’d slammed right into his back, hard.just as he was walking out of a bakery, his precious Mont Blancs flying from the box and splattering all over the ground.

He turned to glare at you, furious, his eyes flicking between you and his poor, fallen pastries.

“Where the hell did you come from??”

And there you were, shamelessly staring back at him, completely unfazed.until a voice suddenly yelled from behind you:

“Don’t think you can run, you bitch!”

God. Was he seeing this right? Those lowlifes were actually chasing after this girl.someone whose head barely reached his shoulder?

And you? You knew. They wouldn’t dare come any closer. Not with Ran Haitani standing right there. So you stayed put.

“What the hell did you do to get them chasing you like that?” he asked.

“I kinda… smashed a glass bottle over their boss’s head,” you shrugged.

“You can’t just go around the streets smashing people’s heads in.”

“Oh, please. I’m not worse than you, breaking their entire bones!”

All those trips to the salon… all that time Haitani spent caring way too much about his appearance… it naturally led to more encounters.

You kept showing up under the excuse of helping your step mother, Nana. And Ran Haitani? He kept coming back to see that pretty, stubborn idiot who had somehow caught his eye.

He could have anyone he wanted. But right now? Those galaxy-like eyes of his were completely locked on you.the girl who wasn’t even Japanese.Spending a little time with you wouldn’t hurt him… right?

Neither of you really noticed how fast time passed, until suddenly somewhere in the heat of summer, right before the holidays, in the middle of the high school library.

You both crashed into each other’s lips, like you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“You’re way too pretty to be unloved,” Ran whispered between the kisses he pressed against your lips.

“Then love me,” you breathed, tugging him closer, pulling him into a kiss that lingered much longer.

Time was never something you could stop. The clock hands seemed to move even faster now, and there you were.sitting right in the middle of your classmate’s house. Or, more specifically, in the house of the guy you were kinda dating.

You met your classmate.Honestly, he barely showed up to class enough to remember the names of more than five people. So you just chalked his weird stare up to that.

“That’s Rindou… but you probably know my brother better, huh?”Ran shrugged casually as he introduced him.

Of course, Rindou recognized those eyes that clearly didn’t belong to a local. There was something about the way you looked.it was impossible to forget.He’d glanced your way a few times in class before, stealing looks at your hair, those deep eyes. But it never crossed his mind that you were the girl his brother kept talking about.

“Even though we’ve seen each other plenty of times… still, nice to properly meet you, Rindou.” You extended your hand with a smile.

Yeah, seeing your classmate wrapped in your brother’s arms was… kind of weird. Especially when your brother was as stupidly good-looking as Ran Haitani.

But one thing was painfully clear: You weren’t just pretty for a classmate. You were drop-dead gorgeous.And that made it all taste just a little bit more bitter. Because Ran had no idea he was dating his brother’s crush…

The bar was loud, buzzing with the usual mix of voices and bad music.Ran sat across from his little brother, lazily stirring the ice in his drink. Rindou, meanwhile, was clearly gone.

his glasses slipping down his nose, his words messy, unfocused, borderline nonsense.

Just another night. Just another round of drinks.Rindou mumbled something. Low. Slurred.Ran didn’t catch it at first.

“What was that?” he asked, half-laughing, leaning closer.

Rindou’s head barely lifted. He mumbled again, soft, almost like a sigh.

“I loved her.”

Ran blinked.

And then he smirked. “You’re drunk as fuck, man. Don’t talk shit.”

His laugh was light. Teasing.That was always the vibe with them. Always playful. Always easy.

But when he looked up,Rindou wasn’t smiling.

His gaze, fogged up behind his crooked glasses, wasn’t focused but it wasn’t gone either.

That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t nothing.

Ran’s smile faltered. Just a little.

“Hey. You serious?”

Rindou didn’t answer.Didn’t look at him.Didn’t explain.Just sat there. Quiet. Heavy. Like saying those words took everything out of him.

“Rindou—”

“Forget it.”

His voice cracked, barely there. “I’m just drunk.”

Ran’s chest tightened. His throat felt dry.

He wanted to laugh again. To shake it off. To shove his brother’s shoulder and joke it away.

But he didn’t.Because he knew.Somewhere deep down, he fucking knew.

Rindou stood up, clumsily pushing his glasses back up. “Forget it, Ran.”

That’s all he said before walking away.

But how the fuck could Ran ever forget?The words crawled under his skin. They burned into his bones. They wouldn’t let him go.

I loved her.

Not “I love her.”

Not “I want her.”

Just—I loved her.

Something old. Something buried.Something Ran could never erase.

Rindou would never bring it up again.But Ran would hear it every time he looked at you.Every smile. Every kiss. Every second…

He would remember.

And it would fucking destroy him.

Some stories can’t end that easily…

To be continued.

✦Author’s Note:

Writing this felt like walking on glass. It’s messy, complicated, and a little painful, but that’s what makes it feel real, doesn’t it?So tell me…Who would you choose?

The boy who holds you with warm, playful arms? Or the one who loved you quietly all along, even when he couldn’t say it?

I’d love to know which brother has your heart. Feel free to let me know in the comments. ♡

English isn’t my first language, so there might be some grammar mistakes here and there. Still, I poured my heart into this piece. If you enjoyed it, please let me know.it really means a lot!

Cover is not mine

All rights to this story and its content belong to me.I do not give permission to copy, repost, or translate any part of this work.Please respect my effort and creativity

[nhmkhnh]

hellooo, do you take c.ai requests? if so, may i please request a rich!older!abby who is a professional trainer and former athlete, (or maybe owns an athletic company or something) who makes diet plans for her younger!bimbo!girlfriend, and she likes, helps her workout and stuff too

𐔌 older!rich!abby anderson ━ younger!bimbo!fem!user ⸝⸝

≔ chat here (c.ai)! || ≔ chat here (janitor ai)! (soon?)

the weights clink quietly in the background. not the heavy kind—abby made sure of that. those were racked neatly out of reach. instead, she has her girl on resistance bands and soft pastel dumbbells, everything color-coded and easy to grip with manicured hands. no strain, no sweat—just enough to keep her toned. soft. touchable. pretty.

exactly how abby likes her.

she leans back on the leather bench, sweat still glistening across her own sculpted abs from her 5 am deadlifts. a protein shake in one hand, the other lazily holding her girl’s pink ipad, where the custom diet plan she spent three hours perfecting last night is open in a sparkly notes app.

“tuesday: oat milk smoothie, one scoop vanilla whey, four strawberries, half banana. protein waffles. no syrup.”

abby smiles at her own work. she’d even added a glitter heart sticker next to “abby’s approved 😘.”

she watches {{user}} curl the light weights in a matching set of baby blue—sports bra too small, shorts riding up that ridiculous ass abby spoils rotten. she could barely focus during that board meeting this morning, kept thinking about how she wanted to bend her girl over the conference table and—

“back straight, baby,” she murmurs instead, voice low and fond.

{{user}} adjusts instantly.

good girl.

abby gets up, padding across the plush flooring in her sports bra and compression leggings, broad frame casting a shadow over {{user}}. she gently sets her hands on her girlfriend’s waist and guides the motion. “there we go. just like that. you’re doing so good for me.”

she watches her form. watches the little pout when her arms get tired. watches the way her thighs jiggle just the right amount. abby swears she’s never been more obsessed in her life.

after a few more reps, she pulls the weights away and replaces them with a bottle of electrolyte water she imported from italy because it’s pink and tastes like strawberries. “hydrate,” she commands softly. then wipes her girl’s forehead with a warm towel.

“let’s do stretches now, yeah?” she says. “don’t wanna pull anything. you’re too precious for that.”

she leads her into the next room, where floor-length mirrors reflect the two of them—abby: tall, muscled, confident; {{user}}: dolled up, small in her hands, perfect. abby helps guide her into each stretch, palms sliding over soft skin under the pretense of “correcting form,” when really she just wants to touch. needs to.

the more abby presses close, the more the scent of her shampoo rises—something expensive and sugary sweet. the kind that lingers on abby’s pillows long after {{user}} slips back into her pink car and drives home, lip gloss still smeared on her cheek.

except abby never lets her leave without dinner. never lets her leave at all if she can help it.

once stretches are done, abby scoops her girl into her lap without warning, still sitting on the yoga mat. “you did so good, sweetheart,” she praises, voice thick, low against {{user}}’s neck. “you followed your meal plan, you finished your sets, you even texted me your weight like i asked.” a kiss to the jaw. “proud of you.”

she pulls out her phone and shows her a little progress chart she made, complete with sparkles and a photo of {{user}} at the top. “we’re gonna keep going slow, okay? keep you healthy. soft. just how i like you.”

[truerhearts]

astarion is sprawled elegantly across his blanket, somehow managing to look effortlessly put-together even in his simple camp clothes. one hand is draped dramatically over his forehead, the other gesturing wildly in the air as he regales her with some ridiculous tale about pickpocketing a drunk noble's prized ring off their finger during a dinner party.

the fire had settled into a steady burn, orange light dancing across the quiet camp while the other's slept. and she's watching him again.

not in a creepy way… well, maybe a little creepy, but she prefers to call it 'observational fascination'.

there is something she noticed a while ago that's been bothering her for weeks: his chest. it rises and falls with perfect rhythmic precision. in and out, in and out, like clockwork. like… breathing. which is weird because he's dead. very dead.

"-and the fool had the audacity to accuse me of being a lowly waiter. can you imagine? meanwhile, i'm standing there, looking innocent as a lamb, but little does he know i'm twirling his precious ruby ring between my fingers in my coat pocket. this very one right here-" he points to the jeweled ring on his pinky finger. "see, this is the ring - darling, (y/n), are you even listening?"

she blinks, snapping back to attenion. "sorry, yes. nobles, rings, you really fooled him."

he sits up and presses his back against the log they were using as a makeshift bench. he narrows his crimson eyes at her, suspicious. "you're staring."

"no i'm not,"

"yes you are."

"i was merely… observing."

"ah, yes, merely observing." he sighs, then tilts his head like a curious cat. "if i didn't know you better, i'd have taken that response and left it at that. but i know that look, this is your 'i'm about to ask something weird stare'. i've learned to recognize it."

she grins, caught. "okay, fine. i have a question…"

"shocking."

"do you fake breathe?"

he pauses, mid-gesture, blinking slowly. "i'm sorry… what?"

"breathing," she says, sitting up straighter, suddenly animated. "you do it constantly. right now, even. but you're… you know." she gestures vaguely to all of him.

"i'm… what?"

"dead." she says flatly. "vampires don't need air, they don't need to breathe. so do you do it on purpose? like is it a performance thing? to make sure people don't suspect you're a vampire?"

astarion stares at her for a long moment, his expression cycling through confusion, realization, and then something that might be embarrassment if he were capable of blushing.

"you've been watching me… breathe?"

"it's been very distracting since i've noticed," she defends. "because… you're dead."

"i am not dead," he huffs, though there is no real offense in it. "i'm undead. there's a difference. namely that i'm still able to be this unbearably attractive while putting up with your questions."

"astarion."

"fine, fine." he shifts, looking oddly caught out. "it's… camouflage, obviously. breathing makes people comfortable. no one questions a man who breathes."

"so it is fake!" she exclaims. "you fake-breathe!"

"well, yes," he says, and suddenly he’s sitting up straighter, looking rather pleased with himself. "but I’ve refined it, obviously. had to relearn the whole thing after I was turned.

he gestures loosely, like it's obvious. "there was a time, early on, i was seducing some poor soul and they stopped mid-kiss to ask why i wasn’t breathing." he grimaces, teeth flashing. "awkward, to say the least. so i’ve been doing it ever since. without pause."

she stares at him, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"what" he asks, still looking proud.

"you relearned how to breathe on purpose." she says, clearly delighted. "that's… that's actually really sweet..." she pauses for a moment, picturing astarion practicing his breathing on his own, it was an endearing thought. "kinda... cute."

he freezes, like the word has physically stunned him. "cute?" he repeats, voice climbing. "cute? i am not… that is not—" he sputters, looking genuinely bewildered. but he quickly tries to compose himself, eyes lowering, and smirking, but he doesn't entirely mask his flustered tone. "darling, i am many things. dangerous, alluring, devastatingly handsome, but cute is not—"

"you tried so hard at something most people never think about once in their entire lives. you had to practice it, and you did!" she points out, grinning at his obvious panic. "that's adorable."

"it's professional!" he protests. "it's survival! it's—"

he stops mid-sentence, noticing the way she's still grinning at him, clearly delighted by his flustered state.

he makes a strangled sound of protest. "most people don't have to think about it because they're not vampires trying to blend in with the living!"

she's still staring, and his usual wit is abandoning him.

"what?" he asks defensively.

"you haven't stopped fake breathing this entire time," she says, eyes sparkling. "even while panicking about being called cute. it's automatic now, isn't it?"

he makes another strangled sound of protest, but there's fondness hidden not very well beneath it now. "you're going to be the death of me."

"you're already dead."

"undead," he corrects automatically, then gives one of those perfectly calibrated sighs - too smooth to be real. he pauses for a moment. then, almost like the thought escapes him before he can swallow it: "gods, how do you even notice things like that?"

she smiles, settling back but still close enough to watch the gentle, purposeful rise and fall of his chest. "you're more careful than you need to be. there's no one here that you need to convince."

their eyes meet and he pauses, his expression shifting slightly. for a split second, a forbidden thought enters his mind...

he makes a soft, noncommittal noise — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the blanket.

"i'm not used to that," he says at last, quieter now. there's no performance in his voice. just honesty, small and startling.

she doesn't press. she just watches him a moment longer, then lets herself relax into the quiet.

after a while, he speaks again, softer than before — like the words aren't entirely for her: "for the record… i still don't like being called cute."

"sure you don't," she murmurs, smiling. she then pushed herself to her feet with a stretch. "well, that's enough vampire lore for one night. we got another horrible day ahead of us tomorrow. i'll see you in the morning." she began walking to her tent. "goodnight, astarion,"

"goodnight," he replies, his voice softer.

he watches as she retreats into her tent, leaving him alone with the fire that's now been reduced to embers. his chest rises and falls in that pointless rhythm again, and this time he catches himself.

he stops… but it feels weird.

so he continues, in and out, in and out, the cool evening air and the scent of the smouldering coals filling his lungs.

for once, he doesn't mind being seen.

and maybe… he liked being called cute.

a/n: vampires and breathing

[volturi-stuff]

Dusk til Dawn.

Book!Demetri volturi x fem!reader

Summary: Demetri helps the reader through her tough mental day.

Warning: insecurities and kinda depression self doubt and reassurance

A/N: I’m very rusty and this isn’t spell checked.. in this fic it’s she/her pronouns. Book accurate Demetri!

Demetri was a lot of things, but she was his mate. His heart and his soul. The sunshine in his life that only exists because of her. She was the most important person to him. She changed his life for the better. Once a broken Casanova, turned lover boy. There was nothing in this world he would not do to protect his little human.

That’s why he hated days like this. The days where she didnt want to get out of bed. Days she felt hopeless and insecure. The days where he would lay with her in bed, letting her play with his long black hair because it made her feel better. “Demetri I-… You don’t have to stay…I’m fine.” She mumbled, feeling his silk strands between her fingers. Demetri lifted his head from the pillow, looking at her with those dark red eyes that she fell for. “Do you think I’m leaving? My darling…Just tell me what’s wrong..” he whispered stroking her cheek.

She sighed, looking away from his gaze. “Metri I-“ she began but the words got caught in her throat. He rubbed her back reassuring her she was okay. “I just… I hate myself… How I look…My..sadness. I just want to be pretty, I want to feel happy and I -… I want to be good enough for you.” She mumbled, the tears coating her eyes, the tears that bursted through the walls she tried to put up, the tears she could no longer hide. His unbeating heart broke hearing how she thought of herself. Demetri sat up, taking her soft face into his cold marble hands. “Darling… My sweet love. You are more than beautiful. Even if you don’t see it or believe it. You’re beautiful inside and out. There’s nothing wrong with you baby.” He whispered wiping the tears from her cheeks. “You are good enough for me. You make me feel alive again, you gave my life purpose y/n. And don’t even say you didn’t. You’re my heart and soul. I’ll always hold you when things go wrong… my love I’m right here.” He said softly as he kissed her head.

Y/n broke down crying into his chest. The way he was sincere about it, but her mind couldn’t believe it. It would always deceive her, even in the face of truth. “Dem I-“ she began to say but he shushed her softly, knowing what she would say next would be negative. “Baby you’re perfect.” He whispered, holding her all that much closer.

After awhile, her hand found itself back into his hair, delicately wrapping her fingers around the silk strands. She laid on his chest, while he rocked her so carefully, as if she was the most precious thing in this lifetime. And to him, she was.

[mx-loar-tev]

One thing I love in the mcu, is how human Clint and Nat are, and how it's depicted.

Even when Clint isn't giving a "pep talk" (if we can call it that) to Wanda, just his face, Jeremy's acting, shows that he's thinking "The fuck I'm doing here among gods and lab-rat soldiers?"

Even if Natasha is calling herself a monster, even if she thinks she can't love people properly, just her face, Scarlett's acting, when she's face to the Hulk you can tell she's terrified. She's clearly not in her element but keep on fighting. Then there's an alien invasion and she's fighting an army and she's tired and she'd rather be in bed with a good book or a Bond movie, but she keeps on fighting.

What are they compared to a literal god, a super soldier that can bench press a semi, a genius inside a high tech titanium suit of armor that can fly and a three story high green guy that is bulletproof?

Nat has her widow's bites, her hand guns and her combat skills. Clint has his bow and arrows and his combat skills. And they keep on fighting, along side people that could crack their skulls with their pinky.

They do it not because of their ego, because they think they are these other people's equals, but because they feels like it's their duty. Clint probably because he wants to make the world better for his family and Nat obviously because she want to wipe the red in her ledger, because she thinks she deserves to pay but also because it's all she knows. And I think, at least it's my head canon, that she fight because of Clint and his family, and later because of her own family.

They keep on fighting and fighting...

And yet thermu're so fragile of body. The wrong move and they are dead. Yet they survived again and again against all odds. They have bruises and scars, they're bleeding, they are limping, Clint lose his hearing, Nat severs her own olfactory nerve.

It's shown with Rhodey too, but he's warmachine and Tony's friend so he gets a fancy exoskeleton while for Clint and Nat the treatment is more mondane. Sure's there's Dr Cho healing him in AoU but it's thanks to Tony and you can see the treatment is painful and taxing just with Jeremy's acting. When he becomes hard of hearing he has standard hearing aids and his family are learning ASL. Nothing fancy or high tech because he's just human and humans have disabilities and there's just no miracle happening and it's okay. Nat probably lost her sense of smell for the rest of her life (though never shown because BW came out after she was dead, and I'll be forever pissed about that). (Also she probably couldn't taste her sad sandwich.)

Anyway, this is part of why they are both so precious to me. And again, I love Jeremy and Scarlett's acting, it's perfect.

[torusangel]

hate the sin love the sinner | Choso Kamo

Description: for all of Choso’s life he had believed in a higher being that could save him. As the older brother of 3 brothers orphaned at the church, he always had faith that it was god who saved them and brought them to safety after being alone on the streets. Dutiful to a fault, he would never dare to cross a line of the holy scripture he was taught. That was until a storied family came back to their peaceful community. A minister had moved back with his family and his daughter seemed like a gift from god himself. Beautiful, faithful, kind, and a fellow student of the father. How could he have known she’d be a hurricane set on breaking him completely.

Warnings: 18+, smut, religious themes, just slightly non-con, sub! choso x dom! reader, virgin! choso

A/N: I’ve wanted to write something about religion and corruption for awhile and finally got the motivation to do it. Originally I thought of this with Gojo but when I really thought about it, Choso definitely seemed like the better fit. This is not meant to belittle or demean anyone’s faith, just an idea based in fantasy and kink that I think is pretty hot. Also it’s been a hot minute since I’ve posted! It’s so hard for me to actually finish writing something. I come up with the idea and start it but can never seem to find the end so I’m very happy with this. High chance I’ll make another part just because it was so enjoyable to write but I make no promises haha. Enjoy!

It was a busy day at the church with everyone eagerly preparing for the famed minister of the towns arrival. He was famous for his unwavering devotion to the lord and the help he brought to rebuild communities. Finally after his long mission across the country to help those in need, he was returning home with his family to fulfill his position once more. Choso had never met him before as he had only joined after he took his family to spread god’s power to others but he heard many stories of his heroics. How many people he saved with the word of Christ.

Choso diligently helped the older ladies carry the food they brought inside and made sure to clean every spec of dust in the chapel. Most importantly he made sure to drill it into his younger brothers heads that they had to be on their best behavior. Although good kids, they were getting to be the age where mischief was starting to run rampant and Choso could not let their first impression be that they were tricksters or heathens. He made sure to emphasize how important this was for all of them, and though they had pouty expressions, they agreed for the sake of their big bro.

“They’re here!” one of the younger ladies eagerly exclaimed, poking her head in briefly before scurrying off to tell the others.

After quickly giving his brothers one last warning, Choso too, made his was hastily to the front courtyard to welcome the family he’d heard so much about.

He immediately spotted one of the higher ranking priests shaking hands with a very polished looking man. Next to him stood who seemed to be his wife but his eyes were instantly drawn to the young woman who stood behind them. She smiled radiantly in a pretty floral dress that flowed in the calm breeze in sync with her hair. Choso was so enamored that he barely comprehended when your head turned to lock eyes with him. Gorgeous and bright, he felt himself slipping further away into your trance. He almost fell over when he saw the sweet little smile you aimed his way.

‘An angel’ he thought. A beautiful perfect angel who had come to bless him with their presence. Thoughts of how he could court you swirled through his head. Bring you freshly picked flowers for any occasion, politely open each door and take your hand for every stair. Would you look at him like that again? Could he make your cheeks flush? Would your father except him as good enough for his precious daughter?

He was so caught up in his daydreaming that he could barely remember how you ended up on top of him in a basement closet of the church.

This couldn’t be right.

He had to still be in his fantasies because how could it be that you, the shining beauty of his dreams was looking at him with such sultry eyes. How could it be that the ministers exemplary daughter had her dress hiked up to her hips while sitting on his stomach? How could it be that such a perfect angel looked like the embodied of lust.

That was right. Choso started to faintly remember the priest picking him out from the crowd to introduce him. Telling your father of how he was a wonderful student of the lord, completely dedicated and humble to boot. He remembered how your father had earnestly asked him to show you around after all the years you’d been gone. That it wasn’t often you got to interact with other people your age and that it’d be lovely if you could be friends. The angelic soft laugh you gave just to him as he lead you to the basement, mostly used for storage.

Ah yes. The reason he found himself in this position was when you opened the closet like you had never even forgotten the layout and pulled him in along with you.

Before he knew it your hands were cupping his face. Your head was dipping down closer to him and your breath was hot against his skin, “so pretty boy, tell me what you want.” oh heavens above. Every movement was leading him further and further into a depth he would not be able to repent from.

“P-please…. this isn’t right. We’re in the home of the lord, we- we aren’t even married!” careful not to touch you, Choso’s hand flew up to block his face from yours. You were a ministers daughter, there’s no way you wouldn’t know the debauchery you were partaking in right now. Which could only mean you were doing it purposefully, knowingly.

This time, your laugh hit him like a slap in the face. Not the same light and airy giggle from earlier, no. This was much more dark, “do you really think that old book dictates the laws of good and evil?” it couldn’t be, “Choso, was it? I imagine since you’ve never experienced a different path in your whole life you can’t begin to imagine a world where god doesn’t infiltrate your judgement,” his mind was spinning, how could you say such things with such a beautiful mouth?

The worst part was that he couldn’t move. No, that he didn’t want to move. Not when your hands unbuttoned his shirt with a practiced touch, not when your glossy lips kissed his neck, and not when your fingers grazed over his chest just for you to pinch one of his nipples. The forbidden fruit of desire was corrupting him faster than he could react, thoughts swirling so rapidly that he could barely think. Choso wasn’t strong enough to deny you, and his body yearned for your attention.

Too pretty. Too perfect. Too beautiful.

With every tweak, every kiss, his conviction slipped even further from his grasp. He could feel himself aching down there, one all too familiar to him. The same one he’d try his best to just pray away in the mornings and sometimes late at night. A sinful part of him he desperately wanted to ignore, “poor thing. I can feel you rock hard underneath me,” you spoke in a feigned pity. In a tone that reminded him of how mothers tend to their children’s needs, “I can help you. You’ll feel so good I promise.”

God, did he believe you. The way you’d touched him so far set his skin ablaze. Made him pine for more while part of his subconscious was still trying to reject you, “please oh please~” the words came out before he could process them, he barely registered that it was his voice. Never had he spoken so whiny and wantonly.

So you did. You made swift work of his belt and pulled his slacks down to just about his mid thigh. There lied the evidence of his transgressions. The spot on his black briefs that was dampening even more the closer your got. ‘So cute’ was the first thing that came to mind. You had no doubt that Choso was a virgin but seeing how desperately his adorable little cock wanted to be touched made you want to taint him even more.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

That was the only warning he got before your hands were freeing him from his confinement and your mouth was sloppily spitting on his dick. With a flick of your wrist he was coming undone.

If this was so wrong why did he feel like he was ascending to heaven?

‘Lord save me save me save me’ A rush of pleasure he never knew was possible came flooding through him. All he could do was cry your name and squeeze his eyes shut as wave after wave of unholy satisfaction wracked his body. He opened his eyes still in a daze of rapture and depravity. With his senses slowly coming back, he finally found the strength to push himself up to sit but he was instantly greeted with a horrific sight of his own creation.

You smiled sweetly at him once more but his semen had defiled your face,”Please forgive me, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so-“ with a light press of your index finger to his lips, you stopped his rambling; with the other you collected his cum from your face and stuck out your tongue to make Choso watch you lick it clean.

It was worth it to see his reaction. Flushed red, his hair sticking to his face, and eyes completely glossed over. Not to mention the wrecked state his body was left in. He was still shaking, probably from the shock to his system after such an intense orgasm.

“What a good boy~ shh shh I’ll help you.” and help you did. After grabbing your purse that you had carelessly thrown and finding the small pack of tissues tucked in the side, you gently wiped him down. Not only that, using your mini brush you fixed his hair back into the neat fluffy buns on each side of his head. Choso didn’t talk during the whole ordeal. His mind was elsewhere thinking of the divine punishment that awaited him.

By what means did he have to even be here anymore? After the sacrilegious acts he’d just partaken in he couldn’t think of how he would face anyone knowing what he committed in a place of the lord. He didn’t know how to process it all. The feelings that bubbled up inside finally burst as he broke out into tears, “I’m so terrible,” he sobbed out trying to stifle his cries, “god will never forgive me.”

Immediately you jump into action. Pull him into your chest and gingerly stroke the back of his head, let his tears stain your dress as he tried not to get any snot on you, “breathe, it’s okay. You’re okay. You have nothing to apologize for.” your words are so tender and caring that Choso almost believes you. Almost forgets all the verses that tell him just how much of a degenerate he was. Almost. Still, he just couldn’t rid himself of the guilt he felt. Remorseful for his actions— but even more so because he didn’t regret it.

He was just so helpless against the melodic ring of your voice. The way your hands felt against his skin, leaving him eager for more. You just made him feel so euphoric, never had he felt like he was seeing the gates of heaven when he’d sunk so deep into the pits of hell. There was something about you that he couldn’t deny. Even if a tiny voice in his head was telling him you were big trouble, a sinner, he was incapable of being truly upset with you.

So you sat there with him until his breath steadied. When you tried to pull away though, his arms pulled you back in. He just wanted to listen to the rhythmic beat of your heart a little more. Take in your scent for a little longer. How was it that the source of his grievances also gave him so much solace?

Why did you have to be so compassionate towards him?

[xi4oyan]

𓆩❝He Danced with the Servant❞𓆪

And in that crooked step, the world turned into poetry

۶ৎ

Once upon a time, in a kingdom suspended between clouds and ancient mountains, where the wind whispered legends into the dry branches of plum trees and the rivers flowed like the veins of a dreaming world, there lived a young girl whose name seemed to have been forgotten with time — or rather, buried under the weight of unspoken words. She was the daughter of a respected scholar who traded scrolls for promises and stories for silence. Her mother had died long ago, leaving behind only a locket with dried flowers and a perfume that sometimes still lingered in the corridors, as if she had never truly left.

Her father, a man with a soft heart and a tired mind, remarried a woman who came from the south, where days were warmer and tongues, sharper. The stepmother brought with her two daughters: beautiful as polished gold, but with souls that creaked like cart wheels. They smiled with painted lips but hid poison beneath their nails. Since then, the house that once echoed with laughter and poems filled with heavy steps, locked doors, and mirrors that reflected only what pleased them.

You — a nameless flower in that garden of thorns — were cast into the ashes of the household. You sewed clothes you would never wear, swept leaves the wind brought just to spite you, and fed birds that left before singing. The days were a perfect repetition of absences: your father, distant like a blurred memory; your stepmother, a perfumed shadow of wilted roses; and your stepsisters, walking thrones who demanded reverence even in silence.

But you had the attic. A place of creaking wood and fogged windows where the stars leaned in at night to watch you sleep. There, you collected crumbs of beauty: feathers forgotten by swallows, broken beads that glinted like promises, and dry leaves that held the sound of autumn. And there, in your high refuge, you dreamed of a world where your feet weren’t covered in soot and your voice wasn’t just a whisper lost in others’ shouts.

The kingdom, at that time, was restless. It was said the sky had lost a star and that the gods had descended to earth, disguised as wind and poetry. The western temple — a place hidden among mountains and bamboo groves, where monks trained with the patience of time — had begun receiving strange visitors. Among them, it was murmured, walked a golden being, with eyes like dusk and laughter like thunder: the Monkey King, he who danced among clouds, fought dragons, and mocked the very heavens. Liu Er Mihou. Sun Wukong. Many names, all with the same flame in his eyes.

You knew nothing of this. You only dreamed of bare feet in the grass and someone who would hear your voice as if it were a precious secret.

On the night everything began to change, it rained. Water beat on the rooftops like impatient fingers. Your stepmother read letters from the palace about an upcoming festival — a celebration of the rains, where sacred creatures would perform, where the king of Mount Huaguo, the cunning Wukong, would choose an apprentice to learn the arts of immortality. Someone with courage. Heart. Soul.

The sisters laughed.

“As if a soot-covered fool like you could even step outside this house,” they said through pomegranate-stained teeth.

You only lowered your head, feeling the hot blood in your face, though your hands remained calm. You stored your dreams in silence. Like someone who sews, stitch by stitch, an invisible dress of hope.

That night, like so many others, you climbed the wooden stairs with a heavy body and a soul trying not to make a sound. The attic awaited you with its familiar dimness and fogged window that always wept a little when it rained. The wood groaned as if it, too, complained about the cold. You sat in the usual corner, between a pile of forgotten scraps and a blanket that still smelled of lavender. There, knees together and eyes far off, you let the world disappear for a while.

It was curious how tears no longer came easily. As if time had dried even sorrow. All that remained was absence — the absence of your mother, of your father who had become just a polite shadow in the hallways, and of yourself, replaced by a pale, useful version. Like old porcelain that still serves, but has lost its shine.

The invitation to the festival lay on the table downstairs, under the weight of a halved apple. It was a golden sheet, sealed with the symbol of a dancing cloud and edges that glittered in the lamplight. The sisters spoke of it all day, fighting over mirrors, patterns, and dresses as if eternity could fit into one night.

You, from the attic, heard only echoes. Sharp laughter, orders spit into the wind, dreams that were not yours.

The house’s windows, once frames for the world, had become hollow eyes. Outside, the village adorned itself with paper lanterns strung between the bamboos, swaying with the breath of time like suspended hearts. Travelers arrived from other provinces, caravans with drums and banners, people with eyes full of longing, as if the night of the festival were a fragile bridge between the real and the impossible.

You watched through the cracks, observing the street’s movement, old Mr. Nian arranging his tea stall, the butcher’s child running with ribbons tied around their ankles, as if about to fly. You heard distant bells — the bells of the mountain temple, where they said destiny flowed through the monks’ hands like sand between fingers.

Downstairs, the sisters quarreled over mirrors.

"*That jewel is mine!*"

"Liar, you took it from the chest without permission! Mother, tell her!"

“Silence!” snapped the stepmother, exhausted, her upper lip sweaty and eyes half-shut from judging too long. “At least pretend you’re ladies. Tomorrow you’ll be before the great ones, the chosen. I can’t have filth under my roof.” She spat the word with relish. "*Including you.*" And she raised her eyes toward the ceiling, as if her scorn could pierce through the boards and wound you.

You didn’t reply. You’d learned early that silence was a better shield than any response. But still, upon hearing them laugh, something inside you cracked. A subtle fissure, like thin ice beneath cautious steps.

That afternoon, your stepmother ordered you to clean the inner courtyard — where a plum tree grew that no one watered, where birds no longer landed. You swept the smooth stones one by one, until your hands ached. Then, they poured well water to wash the dust, and you stood there, barefoot in the mud, your dress soaked, hair clinging to your face like ivy. One of the sisters saw you and laughed loudly, pointing:

“Look! The servant looks like a flower fallen in the muck.”

The other added, with cruelty twisted in her teeth: “Or a rat thirsty for a throne.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. Breathed. You smelled the wet earth, the memory of your mother buried at the end of the yard where no one else went. You remembered the stories she told, about spirits of the seasons and creatures hiding in forest shadows. "*Never forget that even dust glows under the right sun,*" she would say, with eyes so soft they hurt. "*And those who live in shadows learn to see what others cannot.*"

After the chores, you were sent to the market with counted coins, a list of ingredients, and a sharp warning: “If you lose anything, don’t come back.”

The way was long, crossing the village to the red hibiscus fields, where hawkers shouted names of fruits and fabrics. In the crowd, you tripped, fell, scattered the pears on the ground. No one helped. They stepped around. Laughed. The world was in a hurry, and you were no one.

Until a gentle, old voice spoke behind you:

“You keep your head so low, you don’t see where you’re going.”

You turned. It was a bent old woman, her face wrinkled like dried plum skin, and eyes so dark and shining they seemed to hold the remnants of an entire sky. She reached out and picked up one of the pears.

“You remind me of a girl I knew, long ago. Quiet, but full of thunder inside.”

You tried to smile, not understanding, only gathered the fruit.

“Thank you…”

“Don’t thank me. Just promise me that when night falls, you won’t run from your own light.”

Before you could ask anything, the woman vanished like mist carried off by the wind. She disappeared among the stalls, leaving only her echo and the scent of incense.

You returned home with dirty feet, the dress still damp, and your hands steady. At night, when the village lights began to glow like fireflies dancing on rooftops, you climbed to the attic, faced your reflection in the windowpane. You weren’t beautiful like your sisters. Not rich. Not desired. But there was something there — a spark. An invisible ember, like coal still warm beneath the ash.

And when you lay down, the sky looked different.

The stars, for the first time, seemed to whisper back.

To be continued ۶ৎ

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

oh! and also, which members in enhypen is which glee character? curious on your take😅

LOLLLL anon how did u know im such a gleek...this is so funny pls. idk if any of these make sense but i just did whatever character first popped up in my head for each member...

jungwon is soooo blaine anderson coded. i feel like blaine is one of the very few normal ppl on that show that isn't like....batshit crazy LOLL and just super lovable and shows great leadership and is SUPER TALENTED of course but also funny silly & goofy in his own way. he's always the moderator and calming other people down and is always there for others during the show–all of which our jungwonie definitely is for the rest of the group

heeseung is finn hudson. tall. athletic. a little (a lot) confused some (most) of the time. face of the group in a way. you know how there's that inside joke that heeseung went on i-land to find his missing members? it's kinda like how finn lowkey brought together the band of what the new directions were. if it wasn't for him, many of the other members wouldn't have joined. loser in a hot body that doesn't know what to do with it half of the time!

jay is rachel berry. HAHAHAH this is probably the funniest. they're both just super ambitious and like how enhypen is always entertained by jay, the new directions are always entertained by rachel (whether that be from her insane dramatic flairs or from her singing). plus they both can hit insanely high high notes . need i say more .

JAKE IS SO SAM EVANS I CAN"T STRESS ANYTHING MORE!!! like are you kidding me??? they're both the most golden retriever ppl to ever walk this earth. they're just so precious and pure and innocent and also will say dumb things every now and then but it charms everyone anyways. they both definitely throw up awkward thumbs-ups or peace signs in photos. just super sweet to everyone they come across, but yet manage to be super hot at the same time LOL

sunghoon is quinn fabray. now hear me out. you know how everyone thinks sunghoon looks 'cold' at first glance? but deep down he's literally just an extroverted introvert and is literally so super uber soft and chaotic??? that's quinn fabray. she comes out as cold and 'perfect' and just 'pretty' but DEEP DOWN . she has a good heart and is super soft and looks out/cares for others more than she makes it out to be. but they both still manage to look perfect & pretty while doing so of course hehe. also they're both just super insane like sunghoon being a national ice skater???? quinn going to yale???? yeah. insane.

sunoo is so tina cohen-chang. HERE ME OUT. fashion icons. can pull off the emo look (tina season 1) and the preppy look too (tina season 5). always positive, cheers others up, good friends with everyone but also has the funniest facial reactions and side eyes when they judge others LOLLLL

ni-ki is santana lopez. LOLLL OK THIS ONE MIGHT BE A STRETCH BUT you know how riki tries so hard to be nonchalant and cool kid vibes but we all deep down hes a huge softie and crackhead??? SO IS SANTANA !! santana keeps up the cool girl facade (and well, is straight up mean sometimes but we ignore that) and is a baddie but deep down has a good heart and cares deeply for everyone and is very sentimental <3

[disaster-magician]

Had a lot of fun using the template by anikiri._.6 on insta and my most recent comm from @sunflowerpin to show off my baby more 💕

[musicalmoritz]

I have not watched Bet yet but every post about it reminds me of how much I love Meariri. Nothing can beat their dynamic in Kakegurui but the edits I’ve seen are giving me hope. Praying they get to run off into the sunset together bcuz that’s what every version of Mary deserves

[gojoest]

“if you were also an art piece, then whoever created you… must have loved you dearly.”

[haydenthewitch]

Chapter Three: A blissful daydream titled "Forever"

3.2k words, Tags include: Eddie is bucks rock, Dad4Dad Buddie, no thoughts about irl laws just vibes, adoptive dad Buck Buckley, Ellie Buckley is a ray of sunshine incarnate

She’s perfect. Literal sunshine, big brown eyes and strawberry blond, slightly curly hair starting to come in. She smiles up at him, and Buck finds himself automatically relaxing and smiling back down at her. Even if it didn’t work out, he needed to fight for her. She was so precious, and she deserved someone who would love her for the rest of her life. She deserves someone who is going to fight for her, and Buck was starting to understand that he would. --Or-- Buck Fights For His Daughter.

Read on Ao3

I know nothing about the California adoption system. I understand that i know nothing. We are looking at this through the lens of buck-gets-a-baby and NOT comprensive-guide-to-the-complicated-califona-family-and-child-services-department okay. have fun. it's not accurate and i'm not going to try and make it accurate. we're having fun okay. slaps fic this bad boy can hold so many vibes

My Whole World

Chapter one: Little Miss Jane Doe

3k words, Rating: General, Tags include: Girl dad Evan "Buck" Buckley, Female OC, Buddie, alive bobby

“Cap!” He calls out, And something in his tone must be off, because Bobby immediately stands up and turns around, scanning for signs of danger. Bobby’s eyes catch the infant right as another desperate sob sounds out, and everyone in the room jumps at the sound.  He hears thundering footsteps And both Eddie and Hen round the corner out from a hallway. They are both parents, Buck's brain supplies to him. Of course the sound would trigger some sort of fight or flight response. “Shh, it’s okay,” he says, and he doesn’t know who he’s reassuring. He starts to bounce back and forth and sway the kid. “It’s okay, sweet pea, I know.” 

Or: Buck Finds a baby

Read on AO3

ahhhhhhhhh it's out! this fic has been a long time in the making, and i'm super proud that the first chapter of my baby is officially making it's way into the world! this chapter was beta read by the lovely @icyfox17 and it literally would not be done without their help!!!!!!!!!!!

[usertoxicyaoi]

"But the bad news is that Can hates sutlac."

KIZIL GONCALAR (2024-2025). EPISODE 32.