#a really cold string bean

[catnipster69]

A Really Cold String Bean

A cold wind blew in from the north, cutting through Sam’s canvas jacket and making him shiver. He hugged himself to stay warm and looked at Dean’s leather coat with envy—maybe the only time in his life he’d done so.

“I don’t suppose we could call it a day soon?” Sam’s teeth chattered embarrassingly. Dean put down the binoculars he’d been using to spy on the vamp nest down in the valley below: a rustic cabin that looked warm and cozy, and Jesus, Sam really was freezing if he thought a vamp nest would be cozy.

Dean looked at Sam appraisingly. “You know, maybe if you ate something other than leaves and tofu, you’d have some meat on you; you’re like a—a really cold string bean.” 

The best Sam could manage in response was a roll of his eyes. Even his brain was frozen solid.

“C’mere.” Dean stood up and started to take off his leather coat—Dad’s leather coat.

“Wha—What are you doing?!” Sam asked incredulously.

Dean came over and swung the coat around Sam’s shoulders, pulling on the lapel to fit it in place. “There.” He stood back a step and looked Sam up and down. “It looks good on you.”

Sam didn’t know how to read Dean’s expression, and Dean turned away before Sam could figure it out.

“Let’s get back to the car. I’m freezing.” Dean started the trudge back to the Impala.

Sam watched Dean’s muscles move under his shirt and noticed how his jeans fit the curve of his upper thighs as he moved over the rough terrain. Sam was warm from Dean’s body heat and the extra layer, and—finally—his brain caught up.

Suddenly, Sam was too hot.

Dean turned back. “You coming?”

Sam nodded and hurried to join his brother.

[mollygrass]

Preacher Girl part 2

Remmick x Female reader

Summary: Regretful and shameful for losing your virginity before marriage, you avoid Remmick for the whole week until guilt eventually pulls you back at his porch in hopes of his forgiveness.

Tags & Warnings: religious themes, female reader, ambiguous reader, blood drinking, turning into vampire, smut, power imbalance dynamics

A/N: proofread only once, so sorry for any errors I’m lazy

Word count: 4k

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In his bedroom the curtains block out the bright sun rays, keeping the room dim. You lie next to Remmick, cuddled close and cozily warm. Slowly your eyelids flutter open. Each blink clears the blurry fog of slumber. On his side he lies comfortably, chin held up in one hand as the other caresses your smooth cheek.

“Mornin, darlin.”

In a flash, you spring to life, sitting up. The covers sink low to your bare waist. Your eyes fall down to your exposed chest. It all pieces together in your brain like a puzzle. Unholy, vomit inducing memories makes your heart thump as your tummy twists endlessly on loop.

“Oh…oh, heavens,” you murmur, feeling terribly sick.

A mistake. Last night. It was all a horrible regretful mistake you made. All you wanted was to talk about your feelings with him. But here you are, waking up nude next to Remmick.

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re regretting last night.”

Unease strings your breaths out in erratic rhythms and your hands quiver in your lap. You refuse to spare glance his way, eyes more interested in the dry walls.

“I need to go home.”

“You can’t go yet. I ain’t even offered you breakfast,” he insists.

The gloom cracking his voice nearly splits your heart in two. Any other day you would have loved to stay for breakfast. However, today isn’t just any other day.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go, Remmick. I’m sorry, really.”

Swiftly, you collect your discarded clothes on the floor and put them on, guilt mixed together with shame plaguing your brain. Then without uttering another word you dash out the bedroom with him hot on your trail like a lost puppy. Brown eyes round and wide, brimming with disbelief as he helplessly watches you leave.

How can someone as angelic as you treat him in such a way? Stiff, cold and distant, instead of the usual cheery, bubbly you. He wants to scream out to you. Yank you tightly into an eternal embrace, never letting you escape out the front door in the living room. He doesn’t. Limbs made of stone, adhered to the floor, Remmick is frozen in time as he watches you walk out the door. And when he does dare to bravely reach a hand out to you it’s too late.

You’re already long gone down the street at home.

…………………..

The days blur together in one messy chain of events, tangled all over the place. Each passing day you keep yourself occupied with mind numbing tasks. From helping out around town to volunteering at church. Yet it never fully eradicates that night tattooed in your brain. Like an angry, bitter spirit it haunts you endlessly.

The worst of it always seems to find you in your devoted worship to God. As you say prayers, his lewd voice whispers in your ears. While you sit in church listening to the pastor's graceful praises of the high lord, images of Remmick from that night dusts your skin in shameful goosebumps. In fact because of these unwanted reminders of your sinful acts you’re beginning to hate going to church or let alone anything that relates to God.

The day of the lord is nearly over as the sun drifts lower and lower from the sky. Your home is packed with your fellow believers from church. As promised, you serve Sunday supper for them.

Chatter and laughter fills your home as everyone stuffs their mouths at your dinner table. Golden crispy fried chicken, creamy buttery mashed potatoes, well seasoned string beans and your famous tooth-rotting dessert–peach cobbler. It brings everyone together in blissful joy and harmony to eat your delicious cooking.

“By now you would’ve been down the street with a wrapped plate for that odd fella. You finally realize how weird he is or something?” A man who always sits in the front row at church, snickers.

Out of everyone in town and especially at church, he never missed an opportunity to urge you to stay away from Remmick in all his “unholiness” as he always puts it. It always puzzles your brain why he does it, and usually shrugs it off like a harmless bug. Though, today his words hold power to them.

A woman sitting at his side jabs a sharp elbow in his gut. “Stop that, John!” She snaps in a hushed whisper, an annoyed glint in her eyes.

The mention of Remmick makes your heart thud wildly. He’s the last somebody you want to talk about with this crowd of folks. It’ll only make the overwhelming shame you feel eat you whole.

You ignore John, pretending to eat your food.

“Hmmp, I must be right. I’ve been watching you since Monday and you ain’t not once visited that man.” He points his silverware at you. “See, this is why you should’ve taken heed to my warnings before you found out the hard way, sweetheart.”

The dinner table falls silent. Their eyes all lock on you. Curious and nosy about if John’s words hold truth.

You clear your throat, lips pursed. “I’ve just been under the weather, so please, let’s talk about something else.”

The soft smile etched on your lips reassures everyone. Well, except for him–John.

He scoffs, shaking his head disapprovingly. The table’s lighthearted atmosphere returns and everyone goes back to chatting up storms. You don’t join in the conversations, mind battling off storms of shame. Instead you act as if you're listening and smile as John suspiciously eyes you from across the table.

After dinner, they all hang around for a bit longer until the moon glows in the sky. One after the other they leave until only one person remains–John. He halts on the porch, turning on his heels to face you in the doorframe. Eyes intense, brows knitting, lips in a fine line. He extends an arm, hand lightly gripping your shoulder.

“Let this be my last warning, girl. Stay far away from that damn man. There’s something evil and demonic surrounding him. A soul pure and sweet as yours is just perfect for somebody like him to destroy.” He adjusts the black hat on his head and turns for the steps. “May our heavenly father be with you, goodnight.”

You watch him get in an automobile as his grim final warning plummets your stomach. His car drives off into the distance, darkness of the night swallowing his car.

In bed you toss and turn relentlessly. John’s warning and Remmick haunt your mind. One minute your conscience agrees with the latter. This side of you urges you to stay away from your outcasted neighbor. On the flip side the other half shames you for how you have been treating Remmick lately. In all honesty it shocks you that you feel this way because throughout the week you never once felt bad for it until now. Maybe it’s from what John said at dinner or possibly the guilt is finally kicking in. Afterall, you don’t normally treat people with such cruelty.

Once more you wash away all the pesky thoughts, but they all come slamming back and this time heavier than a bag of bricks. It forces you to make up your mind and that’s just what you do.

Easily, you chose Remmick.

You hold a nice plate full of leftover food from dinner, neatly wrapped. Your shoes slap against the dry pavement. Humid summer wind blows your night gown in wild ripples. This time around you don’t pray to god for Remmick to answer the door. In fact you don’t pray at all. All you do is focus on getting to his home.

At his house, you knock on the door. A long minute passes and you knock again just to meet silence. All you hear is crickets singing in the nearby woods paired with whispers of the soft breeze. Sighing, you turn to leave his porch.

“What was I thinking? Of course he’s not going to let me in after I ignored him for a week,” you mumble, sulking.

As you begin dragging your feet to leave, a bitter taste filling your mouth, his door groans open.

“Come in,” is all he says.

He doesn’t say anything else as you slip past the doorframe. Rather loudly, the door slaps shut. It jolts your slouchy spine in a fine line and your aching heart racing. He must still be upset with you still. Understandable. You don’t knock him for his valid emotions. It’s the whole reason you're here in the first place. To make it up to him.

The wooden planks squeak as he walks deeper into the house, but the usual bright light never comes. It’s puzzling and odd. But still you don’t judge him. Well, that’s the case until a potent smell overwhelms your nostrils—wet pennies.

“Remmick, what’s that smell?”

You no longer hear the floor moaning under his feet.

“Do you really want to know?” His voice rumbles low, something wicked brews deep within it.

John’s goosebump inducing warning loudly echoes in your ears. You gulp, wondering if he’s right about your odd neighbor.

“Yes.”

The room lights up in a blink of an eye. You carefully eye the room and everything seems to be the same as the day you left. Untouched, neat and clean. It’s another story as your eyes land on Remmick. Eyes widening, the plate slips from your hands. It crashes on the floor with a soft thud. Cold food and the plates glass shards decorate the floor.

you finally look at him though, your eyes widen. The plate slips out of your hands. It crashes onto the floor with a soft thud. The cold food spills everywhere mixed with glass shards.

He stands there, frozen in his tracks. Blood, still wet and fresh, drenches his chin all the way down to his ivory collared shirt. An unreadable blank mask sits upon his bloody stained handsome face.

“Do you know why they fear me? Why everyone avoids me like I’m the devil’s spawn?”

Backing away from him, you trip over your own feet, landing on your butt. Dread sneaks up your spine as you crab walk away from him. Words bundle, sticky as glue in your mouth. You can’t speak as you take in the horrific view of Remmick.

He prowls closer, glowing eyes matching the color of blood staining his shirt. Crouching down at your level, his head tilts. As usual his eyes are round, but a sinister darkness storms within them. “You’re right, I’m sinful. Unholy. Everything the Bible curses. Yet you,” he pauses, gliding a clawed finger under your chin to look up at him. “Always seemed to flock to me, the so-called devil. How can that be when you’re pure and sweet?”

You remain silent. Limbs too scared to dare move an inch.

“Can’t answer that, can you, darlin?”

You frantically shake your head, heart drumming in your ears.

He inhales deeply, eyes sealed shut. Then exhales. Eyes open again. “Didn’t think so.”

Your trembling frame pulls his bloody lips in a gentle smile. Oh, how he hates what he’s planning to do to you next. But it must be done, otherwise you’ll never be his.

“Well, you wanted to know what that smell was, right?” He motions his long talon fingers at himself. A wide smile reveals his vile fangs.

The sight of his unholy, devilish teeth only chokes you tighter with fear. A breathless gasp chokes past your parted lips.

“One of your little friends from church.”

Your heart drops. “No, you didn’t!”

He laughs, shaking his head like a deranged asylum patient. He’s enjoying every second of this. “No, not the ones from your little dinner party, darlin.”

Shamefully, your chest deflates, relieved Yet guilt tears you to shreds at the fact that some innocent person you worshipped God with has been killed by Remmick’s hands.

“Unlike y’all, I don’t find regular ole food appetizing. I prefer something warm, liquidy and fresh, darlin.”

“W-What type of monster are you? You’re not Remmick…you can’t be! He would never do such a disgraceful, disgusting thing.” Tears stream down your cheeks. Your chest heaves heavily, burning hot.

“Ain’t you just the sweetest thing. Too naive for your own good, really. Don’t be deluded, I am indeed Remmick.”

“Lies, you wretched devil!”

Twisting on all fours, you spring to your feet and dash for the door. He idly catches your night gown, its fabric bundled in his fist and yanks you back. Hitting the floor knocks you breathless as pain blossoms in your backside. A quiet whimper slips past your lips.

“Uhn-Uhn, I ain’t finished with ya yet. You ain’t going nowhere, not till I’m done with you.”

The danger coating his voice raises a new concern in your limbs. You thrash on the floor as he drags you through the hall leading to his bedroom.

He sighs heavily, still not looking forward to what’s coming next. Remmick knows how you’ll react. How your screams and cries will slice his heart to pieces. The way you’ll squirm as pins you down in the mattress.

Just as his previous wife did many sunrises ago.

Together they lived happily under the moon together, traveling the world. Until she gruesomely died at the hands of vampire hunters without a drip of mercy. After her death he always figured he’d live out the rest of his days, miserable and bitter in the night. That’s what he thought until you.

Years stacked on top of years fleeing towns, Remmick finally settled down in a small quiet town deep in Mississippi. His days of hunting poor helpless souls for the gift to bring spirits forth from both the past and the future was over. All he craved was to live a quiet, mundane life as he mourned his wife.

He got his wish, but at what cost? Everyone in town damned him for his strangeness. They’re a religious town of people. So, when he never showed his face in church people began wondering things. Curiosity turned to sympathy. Then sympathy became hatred. At first folks thought he was a shy man, until they didn’t.

But one person out of the entire town did show him kindness. A warmth, Remmick never thought he’d feel again after his wife. Maybe it’s because you were new to the town or simply because it’s just who you are. Sweeter than honey, everyday bringing him gifts. Spending time with him. In the beginning he found you. Then suddenly he found himself smitten with you.

“Sorry. I really am, darlin. But after you left me. Abandoned me, I can’t risk having that again.”

He kicks the bedroom door shut, locking it with a key fished from his pocket. Then he lifts you with ease in his strong arms. Like a wild rabbit caught by the neck, your flailing persists till you're dropped on the bed. Its spring wires whine under your weight. Swiftly, you sit up. But Remmick is more swift, shoving you back on the mattress.

“Let me go! You vile demon,” you wail, voice cracking.

“Hush all that racket now.” He hovers you on the bed. With only one hand he effortlessly pins your wrists above your head.

“S-Somebody help! Help!” You scream.

Just as your lips part, ready to cry for help again, Remmick’s calloused palm gags you. It silences your every scream.

“Make me repeat myself again, you’ll be gagged and not with my hand.”

As his hand draws back you don’t dare utter a single word. All you do is quietly whine.

“Good girl,” he coos, red eyes softening. Though his iron grip never falters around your wrists. “Now this next part is gonna hurt. But don’t freight, I promise to take good care of you, darlin. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Do what? What are you going to do to me?”

He huffs a raspy laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

His head dips down to your face. Soft lips gently press against your forehead and slowly trail to your neck. Each kiss he litters, your body trembles. Even after experiencing sex, your reactions are still pure as if he never explored your body’s every crevice. So cute and sweet. Just for him only.

His tongue takes its time gliding across your neck’s feverish flesh. Its slick wetness drags unbalanced breaths from your chest.

Truly, you can’t fathom why he’s doing this to you. All the kindness you showed him when no one else in town did. The chance you alone offered when no one else did. How could he?

Your vision blurs as tears stain your flushed cheeks. “W-Why?”

He buries his face deep in your saliva coated neck. “Hmm?” He hums, drowned in total bliss, inhaling your mouth watering sweet scent.

“This…why are you doing this? I thought we were friends?” You sniffle, voice shattered. “Even if you are some kind of monster, Remmick, why?”

He keeps his face nuzzled in your neck’s warmth. “Because you’re mine. I want you to be mine. I can’t have you if you’re avoiding me, now can I? And once I’m done with you, you’ll be mine for eternity.”

“You can’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“My being, my soul, everything. It all belongs to the lord above and no one else.” You draw out a quivering breath, eyes glassy and stained red.

He laughs, the mockery in steals your breath away. It feels like a slap to your face, watching amusement shake his shoulders. Remmick’s chest deflates in satisfaction. Grinning ear to ear, his fangs show.

“And that’s why I’m doing this.”

“What—”

Deep in the side of your neck an unbearable pain erupts and burns. Your wailing voice fills the bedroom as your limbs freeze. Blood gushes in endless waves, soaking your gown’s bust area.

As expected, it shatters Remmick’s heart. Though, in the same breath euphoria fogs his mind. Filling his mouth, your blood is richly divine and deliciously sweet. He could feed on you all day and night, but that would be no fun and too cruel for his liking. He doesn’t want to hurt you or break you.

Freeing your flesh of his pointy fangs, he leans back, moaning. Mouth gapping. He devours the sight underneath him. Nonstop, tears stream and shock and pain shakes your frame. Remmick hates to admit it, but he’s savoring every minute of this. To you it’s probably mind spinning and heart wrenching. To him it's heaven on earth.

He releases your wrists. It’s no longer of use or necessary to do so.

“R-Remmick. I-It hurts…Blood…my neck won’t stop b-bleeding,” You manage to stammer through sobs.

“Shh, I know. It’ll stop eventually.”

He sits up on the bed and scoops your trembling frame into a gentle embrace, bridal style. Instinctively, lost to fear and dread, your arms hook around his neck.

“I’m scared. The blood won’t stop. I’m gonna die if it doesn’t, Remmick.” You hide your face in his chest. The stench of blood fills your nostrils. It rises bile up your dry throat.

His hand strokes your back gently as if dealing with fragile glass. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

“G-God… please…help me,” you breathe one last time. Then in his warm embrace your body runs cold to the touch. Your shoulders slump as your head rolls to the side like an empty doll.

Remmick sighs, embracing your stiff head close to his chest. He didn’t want to do this, but you left him no choice. You could’ve lived as a regular human like everyone else did in town. To be kissed by the lovely sun as humans should. Too bad. Now, all you’ll ever know is darkness and the dim light of the moon.

He pecks your forehead and lightly rocks back and forth. Low and soft, he hums an Irish lullaby as he awaits your arrival.

For the rebirth of a graceful fallen angel.

…………………..

When you rise to life it’s a new day. High in the sky the sun blazes making the house sweat feverishly hot. Wrapped in his arms skin to skin, you stir awake. Your night gown sticks to your skin, doused in warm sweat. Sharp teeth in the top and bottom row of your mouth pokes your curious tongue.

Leisurely peeling away from his embrace in bed, you slip from the room out into the hall.

Home. You need to get home and fast before that vile devil awakens.

Though fog plagues your brain, memories of his cruelty still remain. Each step drains your energy and you find yourself grabbing the rough walls as if your life depends on it. More sweat glosses your skin as your body burns. You draw out ragged breaths, mind spinning like a twister. The closer you get to the door in the living room the hazier your vision becomes.

Then a stomach aching pain yanks you down on your knees. It doesn’t stop. Each stab in your gut comes in waves, sharp and acute. It’s as if your belly is devouring itself from the inside. No longer on your knees, you lay crumpled like paper, whimpering as the pain rips you apart.

“It hurts…”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Remmick’s voice echoes from the hallway, deep and raspy from slumber. He strolls into the living room and halts before you on the floor. Disappointment fills his eyes as he watches you, still standing tall.

“Stay away from me,” you snarl.

He only sighs. “I can’t do that.”

Easily he lifts you in his arms. Your limbs lie stiff, lacking energy to move.

“What have you done to me?”

Remmick’s feet halt, frozen. His brown round eyes meet yours. “Want me to show you?”

You don’t nod. Don’t speak. You only gaze back at him. He takes it for a yes and lazily heads for the door. The door cracks open with a soft click and a groan. He hisses as the blinding beams, stinging and smoking his skin. Remmick, he’s ancient as the sun and moon. Therefore, he can withstand the brutal heat of the sun’s light.

You on the other hand…

A gut wrenching gasp rips from your throat, skin searing into nasty open wounds. Your flesh boils and smokes as you thrash like a rabid animal. It shatters his heart seeing you cry and claw at him, desperate to hide away from the sun.

“You wanted the truth. Now you have it. Do you understand now?”

…………………..

As you two hide away from the sun’s dangerous rays, now both creatures of the dark, the entire day you avoid Remmick in every way you can. You don’t speak, touch, or even spare glances his way. Sure, the stomach aching hunger collapsing your stomach in on itself drives you mad. But the overwhelming new hatred thumping through your heart is stronger.

It breaks him. On the surface he comes off as if he’s given up on you, but underneath that long frown dragging his lips down, he knows something you don’t. Soon you’ll come around. If your brain and heart doesn’t, then surely your hollow stomach will.

So, he waits.

The days blur by and each day you never cave in to your stomach’s will nor to Remmick. Everyday he tempts you with what you eventually learned your mouth craves—blood. At first it churned your gut, but as time dragged on you began to not care. Though you never let him know.

Some days Remmick leaves the house, hunting for blood as you reside in his home. Those days are the worst for you because he comes back he’s dripping in blood. From his sharp claws, to his shirt and chin. The smell drives you insane as drool threads down your lips.

Tonight he’s gone again and you’re weaker than ever. By now even you expected Remmick to force blood down your throat. But he doesn’t. In fact he barely speaks to you anymore these past couple of days.

You lie on the couch in the living room. Its stale smell fills your senses as you toss and turn, mind haunted by mouth watering thoughts of blood. Time drags on endlessly until the front door whines open.

As usual, blood stains his shirt all the way up to the corners of his lips. The smell yanks you off the couch in one swift breath. You stand, slouched, eyes wide and frantic. Saliva drowns your mouth, seeping out the corners. Your heart thumps wildly. You need it. Want it.

Blood. It’s all your brain can fathom as he strolls across the room.

“Remmick,” you call out sharply, body trembling with an aching need.

He halts in his steps. “Yes, darlin?”

A raw whine claws its way through your throat. “Hungry…I’m hungry.”

The corners of his lips curl.

Finally.

He always knew you would come around.

………………

His blood, rich and ancient floods your tastebuds. It draws loud ragged breaths from your chest, euphoria swallowing you whole.

You don’t remember how this happened—body cradled in his lap, hips frantically rocking—needy for more. His white tailored shirt, bundled tightly in your fist as you hold on for dear life. Head buried deep in his neck, your fangs sink into his flesh. Greedily, you suck his blood as his hands guide your hips in a never ending bounce on his cock.

“That’s it, darlin. You drink as much as you want,” he breathes, chest rising and falling on loop.

You moan into his neck, eyes rolling, spine arching. Everything, it all turns you on. His blood filling your tummy, the fullness of his warm throbbing cock separating you tight walls. It’s blissful, liberating and illuminating.

You release his neck with a pop, blood decorates your lips and chin. Eyes, gazing up at nothing, breathy moans fall past your open plump lips.

“So good, Remmick. It feels good.”

“It feels good, darlin? Yeah?” He purrs, raspy and low through pants.

“Mhmm, so good.”

Your eyes glow crimson and he smiles at the sight. The irony of it all pulls a chuckle past his lips. You, the town’s sweet little preacher girl is now his. The thought swells his chest with pride.

Sounds of skin slapping, wet and sloppy fill the air, soaking your pussy wet more. Remmick’s hands drift to your asscheeks, gripping them. Starving for more of your delicious heat, he desperately bounces you on his dick. The pace, deadly quick.

“Fuck,” he grits, bitting his lips.

Your moans evolve into screams as he moves at an ungodly speed. The pleasure draws your head back, revealing your bare neck to him. Stars shiny and pretty envelope your visions as your eyes roll back.

“G-Gonna cum. I-I’m gonna cum,” you utter, spit trickling down your chin.

“Cum for me, baby.”

On his command, you cum and hard. Your body goes stiff, quivering as he keeps pumping his cock in. Like your nothing but an empty doll, he uses your tightening cunt. The endless pleasure he gives you pools tears in your eyes and your body crumples against him, shaking. Wrapping your weak arms around his neck, you hold on tightly.

“That’s it, baby. Being such a sweet girl for me. I love you so much. You’re all mine,” he huffs, voice breathy and hot.

Deep between your walls his cock throbs, releasing his creamy seed. He keeps rocking your hips against his, making sure to milk every last bit. Then when he’s done, he falls limp. His strong arms flex around your frame in a warm embrace.

The bedroom fills with your pants.

“I love you, darlin.”

Words you never would’ve uttered slip past your lips. “I love you too.”

“You belong to me, and I to you, understand?”

“Yes, Remmick,” you mutter, eyelids heavy.

“Together we’ll live together.”

“Okay.”

With him still deep inside your walls, you drift off to sleep. Soon after you he joins you, happily.

Now you’re his and he’s yours. No longer does your soul belong to God. You’re now free.

The End

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺ ‧⁺ ‧

A/N: Comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! I like to know what people think, hehe

[ch0llies]

FOREVER NOW | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO. PT.2

oneshot - chris x reader

You and Chris have been tied together by an invisible string ever since you met at 10. As you grew older, Chris became your safe place. He was always there, unknowingly shaping himself into the person you'd eventually fall in love with. By the time you were 18, you had become each other's first everything- first kiss, first love, first promise that neither of you could ever belong to anyone else the way you belonged to each other. And now, standing in the bathroom with ten pregnancy tests lined up on the counter, that promise felt heavier than ever.

story warnings: fluff, smut, pregnancy kink, basically everything that has to due with pregnancy and childbirth, established relationship, etc... if any of these topics upset you... don't read!

word count: 6k

MONTH 2

The sterile scent of the doctor’s office does little to calm your nerves as you sit on the exam table, your fingers gripping Chris’s hand like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the room. The last week had been a blur- between the endless late-night talks, the baby name debates, and Chris spending way too much time researching the best prenatal vitamins- everything still felt surreal.

“Alright, let’s take a look,” the ultrasound tech says with a warm smile, squeezing the cold gel onto your stomach.

Chris tightens his grip on your hand. “You good, baby?” he murmurs.

You nod, exhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Me too.”

And then, the screen flickers to life.

At first, it’s just static, a mix of shadows and shapes you don’t quite understand. But then- there.

A tiny bean-shaped figure appears, nestled inside of you. The heartbeat echoes through the room, fast and steady, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, tears instantly pricking at your eyes.

Chris lets out a breathy laugh, his eyes glued to the screen, pure awe written all over his face. “That’s our baby?”

The tech smiles. “That’s your baby. And judging by the measurements, you’re about two months along.”

Chris lets out a stunned chuckle, running a hand down his face. “Two months,” he repeats, like he’s trying to wrap his head around it. He turns to you, his expression softening. “We’ve had our baby with us for two months already.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, and Chris leans over, kissing your forehead. His hand stays firmly in yours the whole time, never letting go.

And just like that, the little bean on the screen makes everything real.

You decide that night to invite everyone over and tell them the news. Your apartment is full- packed, really- with family, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of home-cooked food. Your mom, dad, and brother are here, chatting with Chris’s parents and all his brothers. It’s the first time everyone’s gathered together in a while, and they think it’s just a normal family dinner.

But you and Chris have other plans.

Chris squeezes your thigh under the table, shooting you a knowing look. It’s almost time.

“Hey, Mom?” you call out casually, getting up and heading toward the kitchen. “I think something’s burning… can you check the oven?”

Your mom, who’s been deep in conversation with Chris’s mom, Mary Lou, immediately moves toward the oven. “Oh shoot, yeah, of course.” She opens the door, peering inside. “There’s just a… roll?”

Mary Lou tilts her head, coming over. “Let me see this.”

Chris, still seated but now grinning widely, leans forward. “What’s in the oven?”

Your mom and Mary Lou both frown at first, then look at each other as realization dawns.

“A bun…”

Their heads snap toward each other, eyes widening, mouths parting in shock.

Then, utter joy.

Screams, happy shrieks, as they grab each other and start jumping up and down like teenagers. Your mom clutches Mary Lou’s arms, her eyes already welling up.

“Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD-”

Chris laughs, standing up just in time for his mom and yours to practically tackle you in a hug. “Are you serious?!” your mom exclaims, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

You nod, laughing through your tears. “Two months.”

Another round of screams.

The commotion quickly draws in the rest of the family. Chris’s dad steps into the kitchen first, followed by your dad and your brother, then all of Chris’s brothers- Matt, Nick, and Justin, who were mid-conversation and now just staring at the scene unfolding before them.

“What’s going on in here?” your dad asks, looking mildly concerned.

Your mom turns to them, face lit up with pure joy. “THEY’RE HAVING A BABY!”

Silence.

Then, another explosion of excitement.

Chris’s dad claps him on the back, shaking his head with a wide grin. “You little shit.”

Your brother lets out a stunned laugh. “Holy shit, I’m gonna be an uncle?”

Nick lets out an exaggerated gasp. “I’M GONNA BE AN UNCLE TOO!”

“You’re not special, we’re all uncles!” Matt chimes in, and Justin just shakes his head, laughing.

Chris, overwhelmed but beaming, pulls you into his arms, kissing you right there in the middle of the kitchen, his hands cradling your face.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.

Tears still streaming, you smile against his mouth. “I love you too.”

MONTH 3

By the third month, your body is starting to change, though you’re not fully showing just yet. Your lower stomach has a tiny bump, just enough for Chris to become obsessed.

Every morning, before even kissing you good morning, he lifts your hoodie or pajama top to check your belly. “Lemme see our baby,” he mumbles sleepily, pressing a kiss to your skin. He does this every single morning.

At your 12-week ultrasound, you both hear the baby’s heartbeat loud and clear for the first time. Chris records the whole thing on his phone, his eyes misting over as he grips your hand tightly. “That’s our baby,” he whispers in pure awe.

Month 3 was fun but it came with mood swings. And they hit hard. One moment you’re laughing, the next you’re sobbing because you saw a video of a puppy and now you need one. Chris is patient, rubbing your back while hiding his laughter when you cry over the most random things.

Not to mention the weird cravings too…pickles with peanut butter. Chris gags every time you eat it but stocks up on both anyway.

MONTH 4

Your energy is coming back, and so is your sex drive. It’s like a switch flips, and suddenly, you need Chris all the time.

“You’ve been insane, baby,” he teases one night, hands tracing over your growing belly. “Not complaining, though.”

Chris also starts buying baby stuff constantly. You come home one day to find him unpacking an absurd amount of onesies, soft blankets, and a tiny Bruins beanie.

“We don’t even know the gender yet!” you remind him.

Chris just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Our kid’s gonna be a Bruins fan either way.”

MONTH 5

One night, you wake up to something- a small fluttering sensation in your belly. It happens again, and your breath catches.

“Chris,” you whisper, shaking him awake. “Chris, the baby just kicked.”

He sits up so fast he nearly falls out of bed. “Wait, what?!” His hands are on your belly immediately, waiting, eyes wide. When he finally feels the tiny kick against his palm, his breath stutters.

“That’s-” He swallows hard, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s our baby.” He spends the next hour whispering to your belly, telling them all about their parents and how much they’re already loved.

This is also the month you start turning the office into a nursery. You decide not to find out the gender until the baby is born and instead choose a yellow theme- bright, neutral, and happy.

You both spend an entire Saturday painting the walls, music playing, the windows open. Chris is in jeans, no shirt, covered in paint, while you’re in overalls, your baby bump finally visible. He insists on taking a picture of you holding a paintbrush to your stomach.

“For the baby album,” he says with a grin.

MONTH 6

Your bump is really showing now, and Chris is in love with it. He touches it constantly- rubbing it absentmindedly when you sit together, spooning you at night with his hands protectively splayed over your stomach, kissing it whenever he gets the chance.

“You’re glowing,” he tells you one day, watching as you fold tiny baby clothes in the nursery. “Like, actually glowing.”

The nesting instinct is kicking in full force. You’re suddenly obsessed with organizing and cleaning, and Chris is doing his best to keep up. One night, you wake up at 2 a.m. convinced the nursery needs rearranging immediately. Chris groans but helps move the crib- only for you to change your mind an hour later.

“Baby,” he mumbles, flopping onto the rug. “Please. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“No.”

MONTH 7

Your back hurts constantly, your feet are swollen, and even sleeping is uncomfortable. Chris gives you back rubs every night, rubbing your feet and making sure you’re drinking enough water.

Sex is still happening, but it’s… different. Your growing belly makes some positions impossible, limiting you mostly to doggy, but Chris doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s more patient, more attentive- his hands steadying your hips, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses along your spine. He’s careful with you, always checking in, always making sure you’re comfortable, but there’s something else in his touch lately- something hungry.

And then, one night, as his fingers trace the curve of your belly, lingering just a little longer than usual, he finally admits, “Baby… I think your belly turns me on.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “What?”

He shrugs, but the way his eyes darken as they sweep over you betrays his casual tone. His hand drags slow and deliberate over your bump, fingers spreading possessively. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Just… knowing our baby is inside you. That I put them there.” He shakes his head, smirking as he licks his lips. “It’s kinda hot.”

You roll your eyes, but the way your pulse quickens betrays you. Because honestly? It is hot.

“Yeah?” You challenge, your voice playful but laced with something deeper. You tug your shirt over your head, baring your swollen breasts and belly to him, your skin hypersensitive, your body already aching for him. “Wanna show me just how hot you think it is?”

Chris exhales sharply, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him. His pupils dilate, his jaw clenches, and for a second, you think he might actually lose his mind.

Then he’s on you, hands already reaching, already touching. His lips find your neck, warm and open-mouthed, his breath hot against your skin. “Get on your hands and knees, mama,” he rasps, voice thick with need.

You obey without question, shifting onto your hands and knees, arching your back just enough to give him the perfect view.

You had thought that since gaining pregnancy weight that Chris would be turned off… or maybe even stop finding you attractive completely. But it was the opposite. He loves it.

He grabs your love handles every chance he gets and rubs your thighs and massages your back, not because you asked, simply because he wants to. Because it turns him on.

Chris groans behind you, his hands immediately finding your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel grounded. He spreads his palms over your skin, dragging them down to your thighs, then back up, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You shiver at the heat in his voice, at the way he sounds almost wrecked already.

“Then show me,” you challenge, glancing over your shoulder at him.

His eyes flash dark with something dangerous, something wild, and then he’s moving- leaning over you, pressing his chest to your back as he kisses along your shoulder, his hands never stopping their slow worship of your body.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His hands slide under your belly, holding you, supporting you like it’s second nature. Like taking care of you is just as much a turn-on as anything else.

And when he finally pushes into you, slow and deliberate, a deep groan rumbles through his chest. His grip returns and tightens on your hips, and he drops his head forward, his breath hot against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, voice strained. “You feel even better like this.”

A gasp escapes your lips as you adjust to the stretch, your fingers clutching the sheets. Chris moves carefully at first, like he’s afraid of hurting you, but it only makes you want more.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” you pant, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “You’re not gonna hurt the baby.”

Chris lets out a deep, shaky breath, his hands tightening on your hips as he keeps thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace. His self-control is tangible, the restraint in every roll of his hips almost maddening. Then, suddenly, his hands slide from your hips back to your belly, spreading wide, cradling the swell of it with something so tender it makes your chest ache.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost wrecked. “I just- fuck.” He exhales harshly, thumbs stroking the soft skin of your stomach. “I just love you like this.”

Your breath catches, and before you can respond, he moves- his grip tightening, his thrusts deepening, more purposeful now. He’s still careful, still mindful of you, but the hesitation is gone, replaced by something more raw, more desperate.

“Chris,” you moan, your fingers clutching the sheets, your body arching into him.

His hands stay on your belly, holding you there, like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you- of the life you created together. His pace picks up, each thrust pushing you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. He’s panting above you, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your spine, his voice thick with need.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he groans, his grip flexing as he moves. “Carrying my baby, taking me so well.”

The words send a shockwave through you, heat pooling low in your stomach. You whimper, pushing back against him, needing more. He growls low in his throat, like you’re unraveling him, like he’s barely holding on.

“Yeah?” he breathes, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple. “You like that?”

You nod frantically, gasping as he rolls his hips harder, deeper, hitting that spot that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” Chris groans, his voice strained, his movements more desperate now. “Gonna make you cum just like this, mama. You ready?”

Chris’s thrusts grow more purposeful, deeper, his control slipping as your body clenches around him. His hands remain firm on your belly, holding you close, grounding himself in the feeling of you- the mother of his child, his woman, so perfect beneath him.

You’re burning, every nerve in your body alight as pleasure coils deep in your stomach. The way he’s touching you, how he’s holding your belly like it’s something sacred while still fucking you so thoroughly- it’s overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

“Chris- ” you gasp, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “I’m- oh my God- ”

He groans, gripping your hips again, pulling you back onto him harder. “I got you, baby,” he pants, his voice wrecked. “You feel so fucking good- so tight, so perfect. You gonna cum for me?”

You nod frantically, the tension inside you about to snap. His hand slides from your belly down between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing firm, tight circles that send shockwaves through you.

Your moan is almost a sob as the pleasure crashes into you, your body shaking as you cum hard around him. Your walls clench tight, dragging him deeper, and he groans, losing whatever fragile control he had left.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he grits out, his rhythm growing erratic. His grip tightens on your belly again, his forehead pressing against your spine. “Gonna fill you up- fuck-”

You’re still trembling from your own orgasm when you feel him go rigid behind you, a deep groan ripping from his throat as he cums inside you, his thrusts slowing but still deep, still pushing every last bit of himself into you.

For a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of your mingled breaths, heavy and uneven. Chris collapses against your back, wrapping his arms around you, his hands still possessive on your stomach.

He lingers inside you for a moment longer before he finally pulls out, groaning softly at the loss of warmth. He presses a lingering kiss between your shoulder blades before sliding off the bed, heading to the bathroom. You hear the water run, and moments later, he’s back with a warm washcloth.

“Let me clean you up, mama,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with exhaustion and satisfaction.

You sigh as he gently wipes between your legs, being careful with every touch. His hands are slow and methodical, taking care of you like he always does. When he’s done, he tosses the washcloth into the laundry bin, then climbs back into bed, pulling you into his arms.

You melt into his embrace, your back pressed against his chest, his hands instinctively finding your belly again. He rubs slow circles over your skin, his lips pressing lazy kisses to the back of your neck.

Just as you’re about to drift off, his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Baby,” he says, his tone laced with something mischievous.

You hum sleepily, too comfortable to open your eyes. “Hmm?”

“We’re gonna have to record a movie or some shit with you pregnant,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “It turns me on way more than it should.”

Your eyes snap open as you twist to look at him. “What?”

He grins, completely unapologetic. “I’m serious. You obviously can’t be pregnant all the time… unless I get you pregnant again right after the first baby is out.” He smirks, his hand splaying possessively over your belly. “How do you feel about Irish twins?”

You stare at him, half amused, half horrified. “Chris.”

“What?” he chuckles, nuzzling into your neck. “I mean, just think about it…. another baby, back to back? You’d look so fucking good carrying my baby again.”

You swat at his arm. “Let me get through this pregnancy first before you start planning the next one.”

He laughs, squeezing you tighter. “Alright, alright. But just so you know, I’m putting the idea out there.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re insane.”

“And you love me,” he counters, kissing your shoulder.

You sigh dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

Chris just chuckles, pulling you even closer. “Get some sleep, baby. We’ll revisit this conversation later.”

You shake your head but don’t argue, letting yourself drift off in his arms, knowing full well he’s absolutely going to bring it up again.

MONTH 8

Your families throw you the most beautiful baby shower. Chris spends most of the day looking at baby items like he’s in awe that they’re for his child.

He’s also officially in full-on dad mode. He refuses to let you lift anything, scolds you for overexerting yourself, and installs the car seat a month early.

One night, you find him sitting in the nursery, staring at the crib.

“Chris?” you whisper, stepping inside.

He looks up, a soft smile on his face. “I just can’t believe we’re gonna have our baby sleeping in here soon.”

You walk over, taking his hand and resting it on your belly. “Me neither.”

MONTH 9

Everything is ready. The nursery is done, the hospital bag is packed, and Chris is on edge 24/7.

Every time you shift in bed, he bolts upright. “Are we going? Is it happening?”

“No, Chris. I just have to pee.”

He starts leaving work early, checking on you constantly. One day, he comes home with even more baby clothes, a yoga ball, and a brand-new breast pump.

“Chris,” you laugh. “We already have everything!”

“I just… wanna be prepared,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

One night, as he’s helping you into bed, he kneels down, pressing his lips to your belly.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice full of love. “We’re ready for you whenever you are.”

And just like that, the final stretch begins. Any day now, your baby will be here.

MONTH 9, WEEK 1

Lying in bed, your body aching from the sheer weight of pregnancy, you shift slightly, trying to find some comfortable position. Chris, ever in tune with you, adjusts immediately, tucking himself behind you and rubbing slow, soothing circles on your belly.

“We need to talk names,” you murmur sleepily, your head resting against his chest.

Chris hums, his fingers trailing absentmindedly over your bump. “Yeah, we do. We can’t just keep calling them ‘baby’ forever.”

You smile, but then a thought strikes you. “Okay, hear me out- if it’s a boy, I still wanna name him Owen.”

Chris stills for a moment before tilting his head down to look at you. “Still?”

You nod, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. I just… I love the name, and I thought it’d be a sweet way to honor you.”

Chris is quiet, but then his lips press against the side of your head. “You know what, I love it,” he whispers.

Relief floods you, and you nuzzle closer. “For the middle name… I was thinking maybe after my dad or my brother?”

Chris grins. “Perfect. We’ll decide when we meet him.”

You nod before shifting again. “And if it’s a girl?”

Chris chuckles. “Do you remember what my pick was?”

“Aria?” you question, remembering what he had said months and months ago.

Chris exhales, and you swear you feel his heart pick up. “Yes. Aria,” he repeats, like he’s letting it settle. “Do you like it?”

“I love it, baby. And for the middle name,” you continue, tilting your head to look at him, “I was thinking… Lou.”

Chris’s breath hitches. “After my mom?”

You nod, watching as his face softens into something unbearably tender.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Aria Lou… that’s perfect.”

And just like that, your baby- Owen or Aria- finally has a name.

MONTH 9, WEEK 2

The first time you feel contractions, they hit out of nowhere. Your stomach tightens, and a dull ache spreads through your back, making you pause mid-step in the kitchen.

Chris notices instantly. “What? What’s wrong?”

You grip the counter, wincing. “I think… I think I’m having contractions.”

Chris immediately launches into action. “Okay! Okay, let’s go- hospital, now!” He grabs the pre-packed hospital bag, his keys, his phone, his soul practically leaving his body as he rushes to the door.

You exhale through the pain, holding up a hand. “Chris. Chris! It’s fine. They’re just Braxton Hicks contractions.”

Chris blinks, still frozen mid-panic. “The fuck is a Braxton Hicks?”

You sigh, rubbing your belly. “False contractions. My body’s just practicing.”

Chris stares at you like you just betrayed him. “Practicing?! Baby, I was ready to sprint down the hall and flag an ambulance!”

For the rest of the week, every single time you shift uncomfortably, Chris is on guard. If you so much as groan while rolling over in bed, he’s wide awake, scrambling for his phone.

You sigh. “Chris. I just have to pee.”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

You’re not sure how he’s gonna survive the real thing.

MONTH 9, WEEK 3

By now, the baby is almost a month overdue and you want nothing more than to push it out. God must’ve heard your prayers because you wake up to an intense pressure in your lower belly, a sharp pain that pulls you out of sleep with a gasp. For a moment, you think it’s just more Braxton Hicks contractions- until you feel it.

A rush of warmth liquid. A pop.

Your eyes go wide as realization slams into you.

“Chris.”

Chris, who had been sleeping like a dead man, groggily lifts his head. “Mmm?”

You slap his chest. “Chris, my water just broke.”

It takes him exactly three seconds to process that before he shoots upright, fully awake.

“OH, SHIT.”

“CHRIS, GET THE FUCKING BAG!”

Chris dives out of bed, scrambling for the hospital bag while simultaneously pulling on his jeans and trying to call everyone at once. “Okay, okay- uh, shit, okay- baby’s on the way, holy fuck!”

“Chris, breathe!” you hiss, gripping the bed as another contraction rolls through. “Just get me to the-”

And then you glance outside.

It’s snowing.

Not just a light dusting- a full-on blizzard.

Chris follows your gaze, his face draining of color. “No. No, no, NO- Fuck. Okay, hold on.”

He rushes to the window. Your car is buried under the snow, the driveway completely covered.

“Oh no….”

“DON’T WORRY! I GOT IT!”

And for the first time in your life, you see Chris move with the efficiency of a goddamn Olympic athlete.

He grabs his coat, shoves his feet into boots, and runs outside with nothing but a shovel and pure desperation.

You’re standing in the doorway, gripping the frame through another contraction, watching him shovel like his life depends on it.

“CAREFUL, CHRIS!”

“I’M BEING CAREFUL, BABY!” He yells as his left boot slips on ice and he almost takes a tooth out on the frozen pavement.

After what feels like forever, he finally clears enough space to get the car out. Panting, sweating, frost forming on his damn eyelashes, he runs back inside, scooping you up like a firefighter.

“Okay- okay, we’re going, baby, let’s go.”

He gets you into the car, throws the bag in the back, and peels out onto the snowy road, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping yours tightly.

Between contractions, you hear him frantically calling his parents, your parents, anyone will who pick up. “Baby’s on the way! We’re coming- SHIT, THESE ROADS ARE ICY- but we’re coming!*”

“Chris, focus on driving!”

“I CAN MULTITASK!”

But through the excitement, the panic, the snowstorm- Chris still finds a second to glance over at you, his free hand tightening around yours.

“We’re about to meet our baby, baby.”

And despite the pain, the stress, the absolute shitshow of this entire night- you smile.

Chris has the gas pedal pressed way too hard, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he simultaneously calls every single family member he can think of.

“Mom! We’re on the way- baby’s coming NOW. I don’t care about the storm, just- just get to the hospital!”

You groan through another contraction, gripping your belly, your nails digging into the seat. “Chris, shut the fuck up and focus on DRIVING!”

He immediately hangs up on his mom and dials someone else. “Dad! Baby’s coming- YES, RIGHT NOW- NO, I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG LABOR TAKES, JUST GET THERE!”

“Chris,” you grind out, trying to breathe through the insane pain in your abdomen. “If you call one more person, I swear to God-”

“Hold on, babe- Nick’s calling.”

“CHRIS!”

“OKAY, OKAY, I’M FOCUSING!”

Chris barely slows the car as he swerves into the hospital entrance. He parks right outside the ER doors, throws it into park, and launches himself out.

“Hang tight, baby, I got you!”

You let out a pained groan as another contraction tears through you, doubling over in your seat. Chris yanks the hospital bag from the back, sprints to your side, and immediately pulls open the passenger door.

“Come on, come on, we gotta go- ” He tries helping you out, but you’re moving too slow for his patience. His head whips around and locks onto the valet guy standing nearby.

“TAKE THE KEYS!” Chris chucks them at him before turning back to you.

“Chris,” you grit out, “I need a second-”

“NOPE, NO TIME, HOLD ON-”

Before you can argue, he sprints inside and grabs a wheelchair.

And when you say grabs a wheelchair, you mean full-speed, NFL linebacker, dodging obstacles, yanks one from the hallway and sprints back.

“Okay, baby, up you go- ” He lifts you carefully, places you into the chair, grabs the bag, and immediately pushes you through the sliding doors, moving like a man possessed.

“WE’RE HAVING A BABY!” he yells to the entire hospital lobby. “WHO CAN HELP DELIVER IT?”

A nurse rushes over, calm and professional. “Sir, please lower your voice-”

You groan, grabbing onto the wheelchair handles, “Shut the FUCK up, Chris!”

The nurse blinks, unimpressed. “Yeah, you heard her. Follow me.”

You’re wheeled into a triage room, and Chris hovers like a nervous wreck as the nurses work quickly around you.

“How far along are you?” a nurse asks, helping you onto the hospital bed.

“Nine months and three weeks.” Chris answers way too fast. “She’s been having contractions for…how long, baby?”

You glare at him through the pain. “CHRIS, I DON’T KNOW, I’M IN AGONY.”

“Okay, okay, right, sorry-”

A doctor comes in, pulling on gloves. “Let’s check how dailated you are.”

Chris freezes. “Wait, check what?”

The nurse gives him a look. “Sir, if you’re gonna faint, step outside.”

“I’M NOT GONNA FAINT,” Chris yells, then immediately looks pale when the doctor starts checking your cervix.

“She’s already seven centimeters,” the doctor announces.

Chris’s eyes widen. “Wait, so that’s close, right? Baby’s coming soon?!”

“Labor can still take time,” the nurse says calmly, way too used to panicked fathers. “Let’s get her into a delivery room.”

Once you’re settled into the delivery room, Chris refuses to sit down. He stands beside you, gripping your hand way too tight, bouncing on his feet like a fighter waiting to enter the ring.

“Okay, baby, just breathe. Remember the breathing exercises? In through your nose, out through your-”

“I swear to fucking GOD, Chris, if you tell me to breathe ONE MORE TIME-”

“Okay, yep, shutting up- ”

The contractions are getting worse. Chris watches helplessly, his eyes flicking between you and the monitor tracking each one.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “How are you this strong?”

“Because I have no choice,” you snap, panting through another contraction. “Because you put a baby inside me, Christopher.”

Chris gulps, squeezing your hand. “You’re doing amazing, baby. I love you so much-”

You barely register the doctor’s next words.

“You’re at nine centimeters- almost time to push.”

Chris blanches. “WHAT? ALREADY?”

“You ready to meet your baby?” the nurse asks, beaming.

Chris nods rapidly. “Oh, hell yeah, let’s go, let’s do this-”

The doctor smirks. “Dad, maybe sit down before you pass out?”

“I’M FINE!”

You glare at him. “Chris, SIT THE FUCK DOWN.”

And for once, Chris actually listens and sits down in the chair next to your bed.

And then It’s time.

Chris stands up again, gripping your hand both excited and terrified, his forehead pressed to yours as the doctor counts down.

“Push, baby, you got this- Oh my God, I can see the head- holy fuck- ”

You’re exhausted, screaming through the pain, every fiber of your being focused on getting your baby into the world.

And then-

A cry.

A loud, beautiful baby’s cry.

Chris chokes on a sob as the doctor lifts your baby up.

“Congratulations! You have a-”

But Chris isn’t even listening. He’s already crying, already pressing kisses to your damp forehead, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby, you did it-”

And then, they place your baby in your arms.

Tiny. Perfect. Yours.

Chris stares at them, absolutely wrecked with emotion, whispering, “Hi, baby,” his fingers brushing over their tiny hands.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse says softly. “6 pounds and 7 ounces. Perfectly healthy.”

Chris lets out a breathless laugh. “I knew it.”

Tears spill from your eyes. “Aria Lou,” you whisper, and Chris breaks, pressing his face into your shoulder.

“She’s perfect,” he chokes out. “You’re perfect.”

Chris holds out his arms the second the nurse gives the okay, gently lifting Aria from your chest. The moment she’s in his arms, his entire face crumbles. His hands tremble slightly as he cradles her tiny body against his chest, his thumb brushing over her impossibly small fingers.

A shaky breath leaves him as he leans down, pressing the softest kiss to her forehead. His voice is barely a whisper, full of so much love it physically aches.

“Hello, my baby girl. My beautiful, beautiful baby girl.”

Tears slip down his cheeks as he stares at her like she’s his whole world. Because she is.

SIX HOURS LATER

The hospital room is quiet now, the energy finally settling after a whirlwind of family visits. Both of your parents, Chris’s parents, his brothers, your brother- everyone had come rushing in, crying, hugging, taking turns holding Aria.

Mary Lou had sobbed the second she heard the name. “You named her after me? Oh, honey…” She hugged you so tightly you thought you’d burst into tears again.

But now, the room is peaceful.

Chris is sitting up in bed beside you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you cradle Aria against your chest. The hospital room lights are dim, and for the first time all day, it feels like time has slowed.

“She has your eyes,” you murmur, staring down at her delicate face. “Your beautiful light blue eyes.”

Chris hums, his hand trailing up and down your arm. “Yeah… but she has your lips. And your nose.” He leans down, tilting his head to study her. “And your little chin. And your cheeks.”

You laugh sleepily, pressing a kiss to Aria’s soft hair. “She’s perfect.”

Chris sighs, completely in awe. “Yeah, she really is.”

An hour later and you’ve fallen asleep, exhaustion finally pulling you under, but Chris stays awake. He sits there, just watching you breathe, his heart swelling at the sight of you curled up beside him, completely worn out from giving birth to the most precious thing in the world.

Carefully, he lifts Aria from your arms, cradling her to his chest. She’s so tiny, so fragile, her breaths warm against his skin.

Slowly, he stands, rocking her gently as he walks back and forth across the room. His fingers ghost over her little ones, his lips brushing against the top of her head.

And then, in the softest, most reverent whisper, he murmurs:

“I’m gonna love you forever now.”

And with that, his whole world is complete.

a/n: dad!chris is literally my favorite thing EVER😭😭😭

tags: @mattsobvimyfav @bernardsbendystraws @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 @user1smvtysturniolo @briisturniolo @sturniololuvz @hesvoid34 @butterflytsblog @mommymomm @mattsbunnyxx @blushsturns @i8kth @annalisesturnioloxo @kenziesturniolo54 @ribread03 @sturnl0ve @grace-sturniolo12 @sophsturns @mattsturnfx @lilyloveschris @milo-the-dog @riggysworld @scrumptiouskoalabasement @tenaciousearthquakeperson @sturnlovematt22 @seros-girl @sofsturnz689 @sturniololuvz @eeyoresturnz

[revelboo]

I'd totally crash out if I find out my apartment and belongings are taken away, Prowl better do something. Take the Reader back

They’re talking it out. Sort of

Stand Too Close Pt 17

Prowl x Reader

• Hates that you’re sulking like a sparkling and he hates even more that it bothers him. Refusing to speak to him as he drives you back to the Ark. Back home. And you’re unresisting when he lets you out, transforms and picks you up to carry to his habsuite. Subjecting him to new levels of petty he hadn’t even imagined possible. Normally, your temper lights through him, fueling his own, but right now he just feels exhausted. Like he’d failed you. “I was trying to do the right thing,” he growls as he lets himself into his habsuite and you huff at him.

• Jaw working with the effort it’s taking to give him the silent treatment, you tip your head to glare up at him. Unable to stay silent. “Did I ask you to take me home?” You mutter and his servos flex against you. Like he’s thinking about crushing you in his grip. Instead he releases you on his desk so suddenly you stumble and he goes to sit on his berth. And glares at you, those blue optics icy. Cold and indifferent.

• “Several times. You kept complaining that you wanted to go home,” he snarls and his door wings flare when you roll your eyes at him. You’ve been a broken record demanding to go home, loudly telling him about how he’s ruined your life. It’s your favorite barb to use to try and wound him. So why would he question it?

• “Have I said it recently? No,” you snap, voice rising and angry. Wanting to scream at him. Folding your arms across your chest as his mouth falls open. Because he’s not blaming his stupidity on you. Yeah, you’d wanted to go home, but then you’d gotten to know the jerk. His temper sparking your own, someone willing to argue with you, to snap back without getting their feelings hurt and cutting strings so rare. So much fun. And he went and ruined it.

• Staring at you as you glare at him, apparently dead serious, he slumps backwards on his berth. Drapes an arm across his face as the insane urge to laugh lifts through him. You’d wanted to stay with him? Isn’t sure what to make of it or the way it makes him feel. Hears you mutter that he’s an idiot and he can’t really argue. Had done what he thought was best for you, freed you, but it had never occurred to him that you might have changed your mind. That you didn’t want to leave. Had thought the sex was all you wanted from him. So what do you want? “Primus, I hate you,” he growls.

• Stiffening at his words, you cast about for something to throw at him. Intending to bean the jerk. And finding nothing, you scowl and find him watching you. Those optics icy as they lock with your eyes. Lying there on his back with his legs hanging over the edge, head turned to stare at you. Hating that you find him attractive even now and wanting to maintain that fury. “I hate that I couldn’t stand the idea of giving you up. Hate when you defy me, those fragging eyes staring at me. But most of all? I hate that I need you. That I love you,” he mutters, arm falling back across his face to hide his optics. ‘You fucking idiot,’ you breathe, heart racing, afraid and clinging to the anger, because it’s easier than dealing with that. ‘Who confesses like that?!’

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[darlingdaisyfarm]

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚 ˖° a day at the beach with the Pines twins headcanons 

author note: okay, this is kinda a “what if au” where Stan never got kicked out of home (Filbrick I hate you), meaning he and Ford stayed together in new jersey and grew there too

u can imagine Stan with his mullet and twins being like… i bet you seen those edited screenshots of them where they are young and look like cousins of Mabel and Dipper? IDK HOW TO EXPLAIN I’m so sorry

Stan x reader x Ford, nsfw? (mostly it’s just wholesome and intimate but there’s mentions of sex still)

✧ Stan’s got you perched on his shoulders for a fight in the water and he’s talking shit the entire time, calling Ford “the human string bean” and yelling, “ya better hold on, sweetheart, ‘cause i ain’t lettin’ this nerd win!” spoiler: Ford wins

✧ the three of you build a sandcastle, no, no really. because Stan and Ford argue over everything in the process. Ford wants it to have “structural integrity,” while Stan insists on making it look “badass.” somehow, it ends up being both, a tower with a moat and little seaweed flags that Stan claims are “pirate-approved!!!” you’re the judge, of course

✧ Stan steals your sun hat. just straight-up snatches it off your head and plops it on his, smirking at you. “whaddya think, doll? does it suit me?” and honestly it kinda does, but you’re not gonna tell him that. Ford’s the one who eventually grabs it back, muttering about “immature antics” while carefully placing it back on your head

✧ imagine playing with Ford’s hair as you lay next to him on the beach, getting your fingers tangled in his soft strands, the ocean breeze making it swirl a little. you’re leaning closer to his face next thing he does is pressing soft kisses to your wrist. Ford’s eyes are beautiful, so when he glances up at you, he looks like he’s asking for permission to take that next step. like he can’t wait to kiss you, but he’s waiting for you to make the first move

✧ sharing the towel with Stan and Ford after you’ve all been in the water. sand sticking to your skin, that salty taste all over your lips. Stan just drops his towel on top of yours, pulling you in close so you’re trapped between them. “ain’t no way I’m lettin’ ya get cold, pretty,” Stan’s hands are sliding up your legs, getting close to the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms. Ford’s fingers caress your skin, too, both of them deciding who gets to take you first. god, you could melt between them. it’s totally not because of the sun

✧ they challenge you to a volleyball match, and oh god, it’s a disaster. because Stan’s so competitive, diving for every ball and yelling, “yer gonna hafta do better than that, sixer!” while Ford tries to play by the actual rules. sadly, it ends with Stanley smacking ball right into Ford’s face with “oops”

✧ Ford’s got sunscreen smeared across his nose because he applied it so meticulously he missed the most obvious spot. Stan, being a little shit, doesn’t say a word until you point it out and that makes him die at his brother’s embarrassed reaction. Ford just says, “at least i won’t look like a lobster.”

✧ Stan teaches you how to skip stones. but “teaches” is a strong word because he mostly just shows off, throwing perfect skips and smirking at you every time yours plops straight into the water. “ain’t no shame in bein’ bad at it, sweetheart. not everyone can be as talented as me.” Ford, of course, chimes in with, “it’s all about the angle of release,” and then he decides to demonstrate, making it look annoyingly easy

✧ they both get weirdly protective when some random guy starts chatting you up. guess who’s first to speak and says “don’tcha got somewhere else to be, buddy?” ??? 

✧ IDK WHY BUT I JUST SEE IT HAPPENING. hear me out. Stan buys you ice cream from a cart on the boardwalk, but the bastard purposely gets himself the messiest one he can find, idk, like a triple scoop with chocolate drizzle and sprinkles AND GUESS WHAT? it’s melting faster than he can eat it, dripping all over his hands and chest. HAH SUCKER (sorry i love him sm) and if you’ll look at him, his chest especially, thinking he won’t notice, believe me he will, “whatcha lookin’ at, doll? ya wanna lick it off me or somethin’?”

✧ Ford’s way more methodical with his treat, carefully choosing something sensible like a popsicle. he tries to eat it while reading, holding his book with one hand and the other balancing the melting stick. but he’s a silly guy who doesn’t know what summer is, so his popsicle drips onto the page and Stan immediately makes fun of him for it 

✧ more bout ice cream thing: it becomes like some kind of foreplay. Stan insists on buying you the biggest cone they have, all drippy and sweet, just so he can watch you try to eat it before it melts. “careful, baby,” as he messily licks a stray drop off your wrist. Ford doesn’t stop himself from leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, tasting the sweetness. by the time you’re done, the three of you are a mess of sugar and salt and heat

✧ at one point, Stan flops onto your towel, shaking sand everywhere. “hope ya don’t mind sharin’ with yer favorite guy,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. however Ford tries to protest, pointing out that there are plenty of other towels, but his brother just smirks and says, “don’t be jealous, sixer. there’s room for you too.” and that’s how you three end up all squeezed together in a ridiculous pile

✧ Ford collects seashells. of course he does. hes a cutie. he’s walking along the shore, muttering to himself about “the fascinating variety of mollusk species” while carefully placing his finds into a small bag. Stan tries to look cool in front of you so he mocks his twin, calling it “nerd treasure,” or “typical nerds hobbies”, but later you catch him sneaking one of Ford’s shells into his pocket :)

✧ you challenge ford to a sand sculpting contest and he takes it so seriously because he’s sketching out blueprints in the sand, muttering about “load-bearing structures” while you’re just piling up sand with your hands. Stan joins your team, of course, and together you make the stupidest creation ever. Ford’s castle is a masterpiece, all detailed and structured, but when you ask the kids nearby to judge, they pick yours because it “looks funny!” 

✧ Stan’s sunglasses break because he sits on them and instead of admitting defeat, he just steals Ford’s

✧ it starts innocent, like most things do. Ford’s helping you tie the strings of your bikini top after a swim. but he’s not as composed and cool as he seems. Stan, being nearby, catches the whole thing. “aw, sixer, don’t be that nervous. want me to show ya how it’s done?”

✧ Stan’s teaching you how to body surf, him standing waist-deep in the water, his chest glistening from salt water and all golden from the sun. “so you just have to let the wave carry ya, toots,” he grins but he doesn’t let you go far, placing his big hands on your hips before squeezing your ass  

✧ they’ve set up a beach blanket, which is big enough for all three of you, and somehow you’ve ended up pinned between them. as always. not like you complaining though. Stan’s lying back, laying his arm around your shoulders. but Ford is more intimate, he’s talking about something you can’t even focus on because his hand is on your thigh as he brushes his fingers against the skin just beneath your bikini bottom. and then you both hear: “ya gotta share, sixer. can’t hog her all to yerself.”

✧ they both look at you like they’d devour you right there if they could

✧ Stan likes to tease, but he’s downright filthy when he gets you alone in the water. the sunlight makes your skin glisten beautifully and he can’t keep his hands off you. “ain’t nobody around, cmon,” he whispers in your ear as his fingers sneak beneath your bikini bottoms. “lemme feel ya, darlin’.” the saltwater does nothing to cool the burn as his fingers press in slowly and your body trembles, while his free hand holds you steady against him, his cock hard against your ass

✧ Ford acts all gentlemanly at first, adjusting your sun hat when the wind threatens to blow it off, complimenting how stunning you look with the ocean behind you. but you just have to tease him, so you lean into him and whisper something sweet and a little filthy in his ear. his reaction is immediate when he pulls you into the shade of a lifeguard tower, slipping his hand under your bikini as he kisses you and grinds his hips against you

✧ Stan cant help himself, he likes to watch your lips wrapped around the straw of your drink. it drives him wild. guess why

✧ Ford’s chest a little pink from the sunburn he’ll complain about later, but right now, he’s distracted by the way Stan’s fingers are trailing up your thigh as he applies sunscreen on you. he spreads the slick lotion higher, closer to where your thighs meet. Ford glares, but he doesn’t stop him; instead, he leans down and kisses your shoulder, saying something about needing to check for missed spots

✧ uh. . . imagine sneaking off to one of those little wooden beach huts which are meant for changing clothes, but it barely fits all three of you. but don’t be sad, the cramped space only makes things hotter!

✧ you’re dripping wet from a late afternoon swim and your bikini clings to your skin what makes Stan whistle and Ford fumble with his towel. the sun is setting behind you, turning everything in this golden, honey-like colour and you look like something out of a dream for both twins. “y-you’ll catch a cold,” Ford says as he wraps the towel around your shoulders. “nah, she’s burnin’ up already, don’t u see,” Stan is already behind you as he kisses your neck and the towel falls to the sand

✧ there’s something so funny but intimate about the way they take turns rubbing sunscreen onto your skin, even when you protest you’re fine on your own

[mothandpidgeon]

Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 2

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old cursed witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), alcohol, jealousy, angst, slow burn, yearning, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, love triangle (quadrangle?), Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 3.4k

a/n: Thank you to everyone that read part 1!! I'm so pleased that you're enjoying it so far! I really would've liked to let this part simmer a little longer but I'm holding myself to this publishing schedule. It's time to yeet this into the world. I'd love to know what you think. Your comments and reblogs give me so much joy!

Thank you @lowlights for the beta and help with witchy stuff. Thank you @moonlitbirdie @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre for listening to me bitch about this and supporting me always.

“Don’t you look nice,” Aunt Margot says. 

You’re putting the finishing touches on your make up in the Page’s office. Usually you’d go back upstairs but you don’t feel like hearing it from Ezra.  

“Thanks. I have a date,” you say, packing your mascara in your purse. 

“Oh,” she replies, not hiding her disappointment in the slightest. 

You hadn’t intended to see Connor again but when he texted you, you couldn’t think of a good reason not to. He invited you to his place to check out his vinyl collection which sounds like an insufferable version of Netflix and Chill but you have no plans to listen to a single record. You just want to fuck in his bed and avoid any drama with Ezra. 

“Well I hope you’ll put as much effort in for the equinox,” she says. She flips the sign in the door from open to closed then snaps her fingers to turn off the overhead lights. 

You and Margot host the coven for the equinox each year which already means extra preparations in addition to work at the bookshop. 

“Why would I do that?” you ask. You don’t wear make up for moon rituals, don’t wear much of anything at all. 

“Esme is bringing River,” she says with a casual shrug. 

“No” you groan. 

“He’s visiting from Ireland,” she tells you. 

The last time you saw Esme’s grandson you were both in high school. River was built like a string bean, his upper lip dusted with the saddest mustache— if you could even call it that. He reeked of some badly brewed potion that was supposed to attract lovers. You still gagged when you smelled licorice root. 

“Good for him,” you say. “Please do not set me up with River.”

“I’m not a matchmaker, dear. I’m just trying to expand your sexual horizons,” Margot replies. 

Suddenly, Connor’s vinyls don’t sound so bad after all. 

—

Ezra pads through crystals and altar bells. Everything’s been laid out on Aunt Margot’s paisley scarves— scrying bowls and athame blades and jars of rain water all waiting to be charged by the moon of the autumn equinox. 

It’s just after midnight and the witches of your coven are gathered in a small clearing far enough into the woods that stray mortals won’t stumble upon them. The air smells fresh and cold like mountain spring water. A bonfire crackles, layered with herbs and pine needles. 

The waning moon feels heavy and close like it might just fall out of the sky and nick Ezra’s ear. It makes him feel uneasy. Then again, it’s hard to enjoy these rituals when he can’t participate the way he once did. 

Ezra watches you offer mulled wine to Esme and River, steaming cups scented with cinnamon balanced on an antique silver tray. You look beautiful in your simple white dress. It glows in the moonlight and he can see your body silhouetted beneath the fabric of its long skirt by the fire. 

He’s never cared much for Esme but, then again, he doesn’t have many kind words for any of the Elders even if the ones that cursed him are long dead. Even if he deserved that curse. She wears her long hair coiled on top of her head, a jade hair pin perched in its nest the same way her familiar, a tired old owl, watches from the branch of one of the trees. 

Ezra’s attention isn’t with Esme tonight. He’s keeping a close eye on her grandson. 

“He totally sucks. Please don’t leave me alone with him,” you’d implored. 

Ezra would be wary of him whether or not you’d asked. River is nothing like how you’ve remembered him to Ezra. He must’ve done a lot of growing up since your last encounter. Tall and lean with thick waves of auburn hair. He’s the kind of witch that even Ezra would have taken to bed when he was human. 

He sees the way River looks at you, watches him turn the charm on as he smiles. River’s eyes travel down your body and Ezra knows exactly what he sees. Waves of hot jealousy consume Ezra from nose to tail. For a moment, he worries he’ll get another thousand years added on to his sentence. 

After some small talk, Esme wanders away and that's Ezra’s cue. He slinks up between you and River, rubbing up against your legs to let you know he’s ready to bail you out. 

River swallows his drink with a chuckle. 

“That tastes just how I remember it. Me and Moss used to sneak glasses of Ariadne’s mulled wine when we were thirteen,” he explains. 

“Me too. Although I’m pretty sure Margot knew,” you say with a laugh. 

“Little mage, you asked me to fetch you when the oils were ready,” Ezra says. 

“Oh,” you say, throwing a self conscious smile at River. “I’ll go in a minute, Ez.”

“Margot could use your assistance,” Ezra adds. 

“Why don’t you go help her and I’ll be there soon,” you suggest.

Ezra can’t help but glare up at River. 

“Would that I had opposable thumbs,” he responds. 

You laugh. River doesn’t. You crouch down and glide your hand down Ezra’s spine.

“It’s okay, Ez. I’m good,” you tell him and you wink at him.

His blood turns molten as you turn back to River and continue your conversation. He wants to hiss and claw at him, draw blood. It feels like you’re slipping through his fingers not that he ever held a claim. Not that he even has fingers anymore. He’s completely powerless, standing at your feet like the dumb animal he is.

Rather than watch you moony over River, Ezra turns away and slinks off to the edge of the gathering to sulk. The fire’s warmth doesn’t quite reach and he presses back his ears to stave off autumn’s chill. He can’t run off into the woods the way he’d like to, not without raising questions from the other witches, make you look like you can’t control your familiar.

He can’t stop his eyes from wandering back to you. Your head thrown back in laughter, your hand on River’s forearm. Each moment of your joy is like a knife in his heart.

Ezra’s eventually relegated to the circle where the familiars commiserate. River’s is a jet black bird named Rhea who turns her beak up at him. He’s not one of them, not really. He was human himself with a familiar of his own but that’s not the only reason why they scorn him. They all know that he’s the worst kind of witch. 

There are many reasons why a witch might be turned into a cat but there’s only one crime that was punished with 1000 years— murder. And not just any murder. Ezra desecrated the life of another witch and, no matter how loyally he serves you, he’ll always have that stain. 

The rituals are done, the chanting. The embers from the fire float up through the trees towards the fat moon. Then the dancing begins. It’s erratic and joyful, Ezra can remember the ecstasy of it in his bones. Esme lets down her white hair and one by one the witches disrobe. 

He hears your laughter as you spin, shoulders shrugging with the pulse of the magic that swirls around the bonfire. 

He knows he shouldn’t look at you like that. Not you. Not here. You’re not putting on a show, you’re doing your magic. But the way your body moves against the glow of the fire is its own enchantment. He could worship you like the moon. 

The spell is broken just as quickly. River’s right beside you, bare skin radiant, muscles rippling with his own rhythm. His fingers tangle with yours and Ezra feels acid in his throat. 

The whole night becomes an assault on his senses. The sound of chanting rises, the old words frantic and savage. Amber and patchouli mix with the woodsmoke to choke him. Grotesque shadows fall over the faces of the witches like a carnival of horrors. And then there’s you— incandescent and naked and whispering something in River’s ear that has him grinning. Ezra’s hair stands on end.

“Come dance with me!” you giggle as you leave the circle of merriment. Your teeth are stained purple, drunk on wine and magic. 

“I’m quite content here,” Ezra lies. 

“Are you having fun?” You ask but you don’t wait for his answer. “River is…wow. He did not look like that when we were kids.”

You pick Ezra up and whirl around in a circle. He smells the incense of your skin, the alcohol on your breath. 

“You’re going to get your wish. I’m finally going to fuck a proper witch!” you say. 

You toss Ezra in the air and catch him. The bile has come so far up his throat it’s an absolutely nauseating sensation. 

“Enough!” Ezra hisses. He swats at you with his claws bared. 

You yelp and drop him. Before he even hits the ground, he feels it— a searing hot pain that makes his back arch. You’re defending yourself with your powers like a reflex. He lets out a yowl and just as quickly it passes.

Ezra staggers and looks up to find you with tears in your eyes. He’s never seen you looking so hurt, betrayed. Your jaw quivers. Ezra landed on his feet but he feels upside down. He’s realizing what he’s just done, that he tried to hurt you because he’s pathetic. Jealous. 

“Ez,” you say, your voice strangled. 

Like a coward, he takes off, ignoring you as you call after him. 

—

It’s the sound of the cat flap that wakes you sometime after sunrise. You’re sprawled out on your bed, head aching, eyes swollen. You’re still wearing your white dress, you threw it on before going after Ezra but it was no use. He was as black as the shadows in the forest and had slipped away under some bushes.

You abandoned the equinox celebration and went home in hopes he’d be there. You waited. Alone with your guilt and anxiety. 

I’m sorry. Please come home. You were never very good at telepathy but you tried to reach out to him with your thoughts. 

The sound that he made echoed through your mind as you paced the floor. Strangled, terrified. You tried to stop yourself from picturing him out there in the dark shaking with pain. 

You hadn’t meant to hurt him. It was involuntary. As soon as his claw grazed your skin, your powers flared. Maybe if you hadn’t been drunk you could’ve controlled it. It happened so quickly you still can’t be sure of how strong it hit him. 

Even if it was just a momentary shock, you saw just how much damage that moment did. His hair standing on end, his tail rod straight. But what really crushed you was the look in his eye. 

Suddenly you were just as horrible as every other witch that he’d served. You’d used your powers to punish him, to harm him. Every promise you’d ever made to him had broken in that instant. 

You see Ezra’s slim form dart to your doorway. In a flash, he slips under the bed and your heart sinks into your ankles. 

“Ez,” you say, your voice ragged from the night’s festivities. 

He doesn’t answer. You press your eyes shut and swallow hard then crawl to the edge of your mattress. Your stomach lurches as you look over the edge. On top of everything else there’s a hangover churning in your gut. You guess you deserve that, too. 

“Ezra, are you ok?” you ask. Whatever words of atonement you pieced together before you cried yourself to sleep have dissolved. 

He’s in the furthest corner beneath the bed, tucked against the wall with his tail wrapped tight around his body. You think you might burst into tears again seeing him cowering away from you. 

“I hope I didn’t make you fret,” he says. 

You want to scoop him into your arms and hold him as tight as you can but it feels like you’ve lost that privilege. 

“I’m so sorry, Ez,” you say, climbing down to the floor. “I shouldn’t have done that. I'm sick over it.”

“You were well within your rights. You’re my master and I struck you,” he says. “I’m the one that should beg forgiveness.”

To hear him call you his master makes you feel even worse than before. There’s no amount of tuna belly that will make this right.

“No. It was my fault. And I promise I’ll never use my powers on you again. Ever,” you say. 

His gold eyes shift away. 

“Keep your apologies,” he says. “And I see I’ve kept you from your new paramour. Another act to add to my contrition.” 

“I don’t care about that.” If you hadn’t been so caught up in the prospect of taking River to bed, none of this would’ve happened. 

“Nonsense, little mage. You’re a witch. Be with other witches,” Ezra says.  

–

River’s in the bookshop when you arrive, standing opposite Aunt Margot. When you couldn’t convince Ezra to come out from under the bed, you decided to give him space. Maybe you could distract yourself re-alphabetizing the cookbooks. You were hoping for some quiet but you’re confronted by the very attractive witch you’d been flirting shamelessly with the night before.

You know you look a mess, your face still feels puffy. River, on the other hand, looks like the definition of a sight for sore eyes. Freshly showered and dressed in a well pressed shirt that’s rolled up to the elbows, the sun is streaming in the front window outlining his still-damp hair like he’s Prince Charming himself.

“There you are!” Margot calls. 

You smooth your hand across your top nervously as she appraises you. You threw on a more than slightly wrinkled shirt that was languishing on the floor of your bedroom, too preoccupied to put together a real outfit.

“Looks like we had too much of Ariadne’s little potion,” she says. 

“I have a tonic that’s great for that,” River says with a smile. “But coffee’s faster.” 

He hands you a steaming paper cup from the cafe down the street. He and Margot have their own perched on the counter. You take a sip and are surprised to find that it’s your regular order.

”Are you clairvoyant, too?” You ask.

River blushes. “Nah. Margot told me how you take your coffee,” he chuckles.

It's so thoughtful and you’re not feeling very deserving. You swallow down a lump in your throat.

“I wanted to go foraging around here but I really need a local,” he says. 

“That sounds fun,” you say half heartedly in an attempt to demure. You’re not really up for a good time but it feels like a real asshole move to turn River down considering he brought you coffee after you ditched him at the bonfire. Margot is beaming at the register.

“Doesn’t it?” she asks. “Why don’t I get you a basket?”

—

River carries the basket now overflowing with mushrooms and wild herbs. You’re deep in the woods, branches crunching beneath your shoes. Nature’s sounds echo around you, starlings and chipmunks, the constant whoosh of the breeze through the turning leaves. 

This path is overgrown but you know it well. You spent your childhood getting lost in these woods. They have their own magic. 

Your guilt overshadows the date. If it is a date. River seems to think it is if the way the back of his hand keeps brushing against yours is any sign. It’s hard to enjoy it especially when your mind keeps drifting off. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re only half-listening as he tells you just how mystical the vibes are at Stonehenge. 

You stop at a stream, sitting on a fallen tree that’s overgrown with moss. It’s one of your favorite spots. The water sparkles where the sunlight spills though the branches, peacefully trickling over rocks. You pick up one of the smooth stones and trace its wet surface with your thumb. 

You’ve sat in this very spot before feeling just as shitty. Heartbroken then, too, trying to figure out if you could call it a break up when you hadn’t actually been anything official. She hadn’t wanted anything complicated and you swore your feelings wouldn’t get involved. Unfortunately they had their own plans.

Ezra found you there, sulking by the stream, wondering if anyone would think you were worth breaking their own rules for. 

It struck you how quiet he was. There were no anecdotes about what the witch scene was like in 1924 or tips for mouse hunting, indoor versus outdoor. He just padded into the water and nudged a little stone towards your feet. It was just big enough to fit in your palm and it was cool against your skin as you held it there. 

“A thing of beauty,” he said and he head butted your shins affectionately. 

It was. Round from years, maybe decades under the water’s friction. A dull gray cut through the middle by a wedge of some crystalline mineral like shards of broken glass. You recall exactly what it looks like because it still sits on your night stand. Each time you see it you’re reminded of how Ezra slumped down beside you, his warm body weight like a cozy blanket, a faint purr reverberating through him. 

“You’ve got a big heart, little mage,” he said. 

You choke up at the memory, unsure if Ezra would ever think that again. You certainly wouldn’t say it about yourself today. 

“Either you’re really hungover or something’s bothering you,” River says gently. 

You laugh tearfully and he rubs a circle on your back. You try to shake your head but River doesn’t give it up, looking at you with a soft concern.

“I really fucked things up with Ezra last night,” you admit. Telling him what a cruel witch you are might be a huge turn off but the feeling of his palm through your shirt makes you feel at ease.

“Ezra?” he asks.

“My familiar,” you remind him.

“Oh.”

“He scratched me and —”

“He hurt you?” he asks, face painted with righteous indignation. 

“No. He barely got me. I totally overreacted,” you say. “I used my powers on him. It was just a reflex, you know? But…I just feel awful.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he tells you with a relieved chuckle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

If that’s true then why do you hate yourself?

“If Rhea was out of line I’d do the same,” he goes on.

You wince at the thought.

“You’d hurt her?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I’ve never had to. She knows who’s boss.”

You’ve always considered Ezra a partner. Of course, there are plenty of witches that think of their familiars as nothing more than servants. It’s an old school way of seeing it. You hadn’t expected River to use words that remind you of the way your grandmother used to talk.

“Maybe it’s different,” you say, trying to give him the opportunity to walk it back. Ezra’s not like Rhea. Maybe you’d feel the same way River does if your familiar hadn’t once been as human as you are. Still, it doesn’t feel right.

“You’re a funny little witch,” he says with a grin.

“What does that mean?” you ask. 

“Crying over your familiar. It’s sweet.” He says it as if it’s a compliment but the condescension makes you frown in disgust.

“If you want to make it up to him, why don’t you find him a lady cat that can make him feel good,” he adds with a laugh.

“Is that what you’re into?” you ask with venom.

“What? That was a joke,” River says.

“I don’t think it’s funny. You know, just because Ezra’s a familiar, it doesn’t mean he should be treated like shit. And he’s not a cat. He’s a human,” you tell him.

“He’s a witch killer,” River spits back. “So I’m sorry if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him.”

Your stomach turns. It’s the truth. Ezra’s served as a familiar in your family for centuries, his history has never been hidden from you and he’s never shied away from it.

But his punishment has never made sense to you. A thousand years, so many lifetimes, watching his friends and family die as he toiled in servitude for witches as backwards as River. It’s cruel, that’s why the Elders changed the laws years ago. And yet Ezra’s remained a cat, a familiar, disdained. 

Suddenly, the anger you’ve been tormenting yourself with turns outwards and you think your powers could set fire to the dry leaves at your feet. It’s all so unfair. The Elders turned him and witches like River scorn him and none of them feel a lick of shame. The back of your neck heats with a protective rage.

“He’s my friend,” you choke. “And you’re a fucking asshole.”

And you leave River speechless in the middle of the woods.  

🐈‍⬛

Part 3

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs appreciated! My inbox is always open.

[lupine-trees]

hallowed

[ boys being self-sacrificial & savior-coded, doing penance, etc. what can i say, the religious themes got to me. for the @drarrymicrofic october prompt: halo ]

word count: ~452 | rating: t | cw: reference to canon-typical neglect, implied violence, blood

_ _ _

Harry finds himself remembering less and less of the Dursleys these days.

(Not that there was much to begin with.

Cupboard, spiders, pots, pans, the sharp clap of a palm, dust raining down from stomping on the stairs, hiding hastily in thorny shrubbery, bread crusts, smashed fingers, the distant sound of laugh tracks distorted from the television.

Less and less.)

Church lingers— Easter, especially. Not that Harry was particularly into, well, all of that, but still. He got to go. Got to wear a jumper that almost fit, and shiny shoes, even though they pinched his toes. Got to eat— ham and potatoes and green beans and carrot cake, and made himself eat slowly, careful.

The stained glass remains, in his mind.

Green like bottles, soft reds like wild roses, the yellow of a halogen bulb. Saltwater blue. Cream, and ochre, and a color like clay. Light would cast through, leaving color streaked on the carpets, the pews.

In the windows, the people looked sad. The angels, too. All upturned eyes and prayer-clasped hands.

The haloes caught his eye. Golden and round, a point of definition in a shifting kaleidoscope. Steady.

Anyway, it’s like that. The cold & the crack of apparition & the sound of shiny shoes on cobbles.

“Christ,” Draco hisses, dropping to his knees beside him in a blur of Healer green.

Harry wants to smile, wants to say, You should see the other guy, but his words feel far away and his throat feels thick, and a sad sort of gurgle comes out in place of any semblance of a sentence.

“Shut up,” Draco snarls, shirt sleeves torn up to his elbows, hands pressed to, oh, yes, the gaping hole in Harry’s middle. He can feel the web of spells curling out from Draco’s fingertips, knitting over his stomach, stringing him back together.

And of course there’s the light.

There’s a hole in the roof behind Draco’s head, and daylight is making every effort to pour through it, slicing through the heavy dust. It’s illuminating.

It’s ridiculous, really, that his hair can look like that. Halo, Harry thinks, and “Light,” he burbles, his fingers (blood-stained) sliding up through strands of silver-blond.

“Don’t,” Draco mutters, eyes frantic, sweat at his furrowed brow, “go towards any fucking light, so help me, Merlin.”

And Harry laughs then, a rasping sound, fingers tangled in his hair, and Draco, flushed, pushes down harshly on his abdomen, and then Harry’s coughing, and Draco, “Sorry, I’m sorry,” easing, gentling.

“S’okay,” Harry manages around the bubble in his throat. His eyes are heavy, but Draco’s hair is soft, so soft, and what a shame to miss it. He’ll stay awake a little longer.

A little longer.

[evenawatermark]

Bucky Discovers the 21st Century Pt. 1: Food

The food in the forties was, shall we say...lacking (especially during WWII because VINIGER CAKE was a real thing they would make)

so when bucky found out he could try basically any cuisine he wanted whenever he wanted, he made it his mission to try something new every week

he started with Mexican food

a little taco truck down the street from his apartment that had string lights hanging everywhere, black fold-out tables/chairs, and cheerful music blasting from the truck speakers

he looked at the small menu and immediately knew he wouldn't be able to make a decision, so he just told them to give him one of every street taco they knew how to make, along with one of every sauce they had. he settled on a pineapple Jarritos for a drink

he could not believe what he was tasting.

This was a boy who was raised on SPAM and economic hardship and now he had been introduced to a whole new world

it was spicier than anything he was used to but somehow he loved it, the meat was just salty enough, the vegetables tasted fresh, and the Jarritos he picked up on a whim was one of the best drinks he had ever had (fuck alcohol, where had this been all his life?)

he didn't know beans could taste this goddamn good. whenever he thought of beans he thought of the flavorless, slimey, usually cold soup he would have to eat when there was nothing else in the house, but these were warm, soft, and good

he finished everything they gave him and immediately went back to order dessert

the cooks were in disbelief that he finished everything on his own, but after Bucky sang his praises to them and promised he would be back again, they offered him a couple churros on the house, which he gladly took and ate while walking home

when he entered his apartment, he immediately flopped down on his bed, sighing contentedly before closing his eyes

feeling well fed and happy, he proceeded to have the best sleep he had in a while

the next week was Japanese

he chose a sushi bar that was a much farther walk than the taco truck had been

he was slightly skeptical going in, after looking at pictures of sushi online he thought it looked a little plain, but Steve had said this place was worth it, and had even taken the time to write Bucky a list of what he should get (spicy tuna roll, salmon and shrimp sashimi, tuna and yellowtail nigiri, a rainbow roll, and a California roll)

he sat down and was relieved to notice that he was not the only one there alone, in fact, most people looked to be alone. he never liked going to sit down restaurants because of the pitying looks he would get for not having anyone with him, but no one bat an eye here

maybe Japanese food would be to his taste after all

he ordered everything on Steve's list, and the waitress recommended he start with a Miso Soup, Bucky agreed despite not knowing what that was (he had learned by now to always listen to a waitress' recommendation)

the soup was very salty, and the tofu was a strange texture, but Bucky enjoyed the seaweed and he liked drinking the broth afterward, he made a mental note: I do not like tofu

when his sushi came out, Bucky discovered he was right: sushi was plain, but in a way he really loved

it was fresh, and light. not too heavy but just filling enough to where he didn't overear

the soy sauce added just enough flavor that he could still taste the fish, and the spicy mayo added the perfect level of spice that wasn't overwhelming, just a pleasant tingle on his tongue

he paid his bill (way more expensive than the taco truck) and enjoyed the walk home, feeling full but not overstuffed

when he got home, he went through the motions of his nightly routine, which somehow didn't feel as much like a chore tonight, and he went to sleep feeling calmer than normal

the week after was Indian

this restaurant had been recommended by Tony, who apparently came here so often they knew him by name even before he was known as Iron Man because he told Bucky "if you tell them I sent you, you might get a discount"

Bucky would rather die than admit Tony Stark sent him anywhere

but he walked into the restaurant hopeful because despite everything, Tony was known to have good taste

Bucky opened the door and was immediately hit with the strongest smell of spices he had ever experienced, he smelled cumin, bay leaves, sinful amounts of chili powder, and some he couldn't even identify

he was also hit with quite a lot of noise

the cooks were shouting at each other in hindi, there was a small boy clearly being told to finish his homework in a corner booth, and the cashier was yelling a greeting at Bucky

he approached the counter and was honest with the cashier (a teenage girl with long hair tied back in a loose braid) that he really didn't know what to get--he had never had indian food

the cashier seemed amused by this but began asking him what his preferences were, "chicken, goat, lamb, vegetarian?"

before Bucky could answer, he was cut off by one of the cooks shouting something he could tell was an insult at the other

the cashier apologized "it's my dad and his brother, they've owned the place together since I was a baby but they still fight like children"

Bucky smiled and told her he preferred chicken, she asked him how spicy he wanted it and he told her "hot"

she raised her eyebrows and asked him if he was sure. confused, he told her of course he was sure

he paid for the food and sat at a random table while he waited, after a few minutes the cashier walked up to him with a steaming cup in her hand

"have some chai while you wait, it's just black tea with milk but it's my grandmother's special recipe, you'll love it"

Bucky gratefully accepted the cup, surprised at level of hospitality he was getting

he took a sip and immediately fell in love, the tea he grew up drinking was not nearly this rich. the milk made it smooth going down his throat, the cardamom floating in the cup made it smell amazing, and the blend of spices added the perfect amount of flavor

he could see why Tony liked this place

eventually his food came (Chicken Tikka Masala, garlic naan, and mango lassi) and he was amazed at the vibrant color of the meat and the intense smell of all the spices

Bucky, directed by the cashier, used the naan to break off a piece of chicken, made sure to coat the meat in masala, and took his first bite

he immediately felt like he had been slapped in the face

he fought back a cough, his eyes watering. clearly he had underestimated what "hot" meant here

despite this, he couldn't get enough of the flavor of the meat, the richness of sauce, the softness of the naan, and the sweetness of the lassi (which provided much needed relief from the spice)

everything worked together so perfectly, it was intense but beautiful

he finished his whole plate with wet eyes, but he felt full in the best way possible.

he waved goodbye to the cashier, telling her to give his compliments to her dad and uncle and that he would absolutely be back

the week after that was Louisiana

Sam had caught wind of Bucky's culinary adventures and asked him if he had ever had cajun food, when Bucky said he hadn't Sam informed the people on his block

and thus began a two-day long cook off where everyone made their best recipes and gave them to Bucky to try

there was so much food even Bucky was unsure if he could eat it all, and it all had so much salt he was unsure his heart could take it even with the serum

the gumbo was unlike anything he had ever had, there was so many different flavors and textures happening in one little bowl it was almost overwhelming, but he adored every bit

the jambalaya nearly had him in tears it was so good

again, so much happening on such a small plate, teetering on too much but damn if it didn't taste incredible

and of course he had beignets, which were small bites of heaven he could not get enough of, he ate so many Sam had to remind him there were other dishes he had to try

everyone was so eager for him to tell them what he thought, and they were all urging him to pick a favorite, which he told them he couldn't possibly decide

it was Sarah's crawfish boil, which he tried to tell her in private but she immediately bragged to Sam, who had also made a crawfish boil

he refused to speak to Bucky for several days after

Bucky stayed in Louisiana for another week after the cook-off and mentions in passing--almost to no one--how impressive it was that everyone had their own signature dish that they had perfected throughout their life, and how he would love to do that someday

Sam and Sarah immediately started fighting over who would teach Bucky how to cook, and so began the next step in his food journey

i haven't written anything in forever, but I definitely want this to be a series even if I'm the only one interested. I'm thinking of doing bucky discovering modern music next but if you have any suggestions let me know!

[twlgholts]

what comes after, p. parker

chapter three, petty crimes

— peter parker x f. reader

a/n: been trying to keep up with all the mcu movies and series but there are just so many i cant omg. currently missing the marvel era 2016-2020, u will be missed

word count: 4.7k

warnings: angst, insinuation of mental health, underage alcohol usage, suggestiveness

prev. masterlist! next.

Caffeine was never something Peter relied on. He didn’t need it. While his classmates clung to morning coffee like it was air, lining up in crowded shops with their messy buns and half-zipped backpacks, Peter had always run on something stronger: stress, guilt, adrenaline. And, of course, radioactive spider venom. His body practically hummed at all hours—alert, restless, coiled like a spring. He didn’t need a stimulant, not more than he already had coursing through his blood.

Eventually, he started drinking it, despite the hypocrisy, but not because it helped.

At first, the bitter taste was something he had to choke down, grimacing through each sip like it was a dare. But he liked having something warm in his hands. Something that made him feel grounded and still human.

He used to go to Peter Pan Donut & Pastry—not because it had good coffee (it didn’t), but because MJ worked there. Because Ned would camp out in the back with his cracked laptop and contagious energy. The coffee was just the excuse, a three dollar alibi for a routine that made him feel like life hadn’t completely spun off its axis. Even if the beans were stale and the owner was the kind of man who scraped old grounds back into the grinder like no one would notice, he still bought.

Then his friends left for MIT, but Peter kept going anyway.

Maybe out of habit or because the place still smelled like powdered sugar, comfort, and a linger of Ned’s B.O. Or maybe because even when everything else in his life had shifted, the coffee stayed the same. A predictable, bold, bitter taste, warm in his palms when everything else felt cold.

Eventually, though, he gave up the trek. The shop wasn’t close to campus or his apartment. It wasn’t even convenient with the slow and borderline rude customer service. Without MJ behind the counter and Ned hogging the WiFi, it wasn’t the same. It felt empty in a way he couldn’t quite explain and rendered the trip useless without them.

So he found a new spot that was closer to where he lived and where he learned. It was a lot louder with longer lines, but it was less tied to a version of himself that didn’t exist anymore.

The Rustic Bean was four minutes from campus and had just enough charm to feel intentional without trying too hard. Brick walls, decent lighting, a train stop nearby. Cash-only on Wednesdays. It was the kind of place where no one looked twice at him if he came in alone, where he could disappear without meaning to, and study in his favorite corner by the window after classes.

Peter liked it more than he thought he would.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the warm hum of early morning caffeine addicts. It was more packed than usual—eight a.m. rush hour. Laptops open on nearly every table, headphones tucked beneath knit beanies, muffled indie music playing over the speakers like a gentle apology for how tired everyone looked.

He checked his phone instinctively, thumbing the screen. No messages. Not that he expected any since he didn’t really have anyone left to text anymore—not anyone who’d respond. Except Harry, who only ever texted in random pictures, acronyms, and the occasional all-lowercase rant about everything and nothing in particular.

Peter shoved the phone back into his pocket and stepped into line, blinking the sleep from his eyes. His hoodie string was damp at the knots from habitually chewing on it on the train, with him only stopping when he got a whiff of the hoodie. He didn’t have much time to do his laundry. Or sleep much. Or breathe.

He let the soft murmur of the café settle around him, tried to feel present in it. The scent of espresso and baked goods, the clink of cups against saucers, high-pitched milk steamer screaming like a banshee. The assortment of random noises helped keep his brain busy, his melancholy thoughts at bay.

It didn’t take long for the line to inch forward. The barista at the register gave him a half-smile—the kind you give to someone you recognize, but don’t know well enough to joke with. Still, there was something oddly comforting in that tiny bit of familiarity.

“Tall black coffee, no room for cream,” Peter said softly. “For Peter.”

She nodded, scribbled it onto the side of the cup, and took his crumpled bills without complaint. He dug into his battered wallet for exact change, mumbling a quiet thanks when she handed over the receipt.

Then he moved to the side—by the fogged-up window—and waited.

Outside, the streets were starting to crowd. Coats pulled tighter. Coffee cups clutched with two hands. Everyone moving too fast, too loud, too in sync with a world Peter didn’t quite feel part of anymore. He watched the people more than the weather. Watched them laugh, check watches, jaywalk between buses. It wasn’t creepy… or at least he hoped it wasn’t. He just found it calming in a way. Watching other people live their lives and being able to pretend, for a second, like he could belong to one of them. It helped to remember that life kept going and other people had stories, schedules, and faces not full of grief.

The barista called out the drink without a name—just "tall black." Peter stepped forward automatically. But so did someone else.

Your hand reached the cup first.

You were half-asleep and bundled in an oversized wool sweater, sleeves swallowed past your knuckles. Your lip gloss caught the light—a soft, peachy sheen—and Peter caught himself noticing that before anything else. Then your fingers curled around the cup like it was a lifeline.

You lifted it, blinked slowly, and brought it to your mouth.

He froze.

Your eyes met his over the lid, over the steam rising between you. Then your gaze dropped to the black marker scrawled on the cup: Peter.

You froze too.

A tiny wince. Then: "Oh my god. This isn’t mine, is it?"

Peter shook his head, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, amused rather than annoyed.

You pulled the cup away like it had burned you. "I’m so sorry. I seriously—I wasn’t paying attention. I just—I feel like a thief."

He blinked, still smiling warmly. “It’s fine. Really. You can keep it.”

Your eyes flicked to the barista, who was already sliding another identical cup onto the counter, calling out, "Tall black." This time, the name on the cup was yours, neatly written in the same black marker.

Peter grabbed it, grinning.

"We got the same thing," he offered, with a tiny shrug. "So technically, it’s not even theft. It’s more like... misassigned coffee custody?"

That made you laugh—just a little—which pulled something up in his chest.

Still, you looked mortified. "No, but I mean—your name’s on it. That’s, like, irrefutable evidence. I literally drank your coffee. My lip gloss is on your lid. More evidence."

Peter’s smile widened as he glanced at the cup in his hands, with your name clearly written on it. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve had stolen.”

You blinked. "Oh?"

He took a sip, half-hiding behind the cup but grinning. “Backpack. Bike seat. Identity, once. The coffee doesn’t even crack top three.”

You stared at him. Then giggled again—full and easy, your shoulders shaking. Peter felt it in his ribs, smiling even more now.

"I still feel like I owe you something," you said. "Maybe a new coffee. Or... a croissant? Bribe you into forgiveness?"

"You really don’t. I’m just glad it wasn’t, like... a double peppermint soy thing with five pumps."

"Wow," you said, pretending to be offended. "Is that what I strike you as? A soy drinker? Honestly, extremely offended and hurt by that assumption."

Peter raised an eyebrow, playing along. "I mean… the sweater was definitely giving off cozy seasonal beverage drinker—someone who probably prefers non-dairy milk. I panicked."

You narrowed your eyes, but you were smiling now—cheeks slightly flushed, either from the heat of the drink or the heat of embarrassment. "Mm. So you're profiling now. Over caffeine. Bold move."

He held up his hands, cup balanced loosely between them. “Guilty. But in my defense, you did steal my coffee.”

“Allegedly.”

“You admitted it.”

“Only because I felt morally compelled!”

Peter chuckled softly, then smiled wider, eyes sparkling. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll just pretend to be you today, and you can be me. That way, everyone wins.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Deal. Just don’t mess up my life too badly.”

Before Peter could figure out what to say next, a familiar voice chimed in behind him���casual, teasing.

“A crime happened before I even got here? Couldn’t you guys have waited?”

Peter turned, already recognizing the voice—but there he was: Harry in all his charming glory, scarf trailing dramatically behind him like he'd stepped out of a magazine instead of a coffee shop. Sunglasses still on, despite being indoors and it being the middle of September. He slung an arm over Peter’s shoulder like it was second nature.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Seriously, Haz? Who let you in here—fashion week or campus security?”

Peter looked between you. Haz?

“We’re here every Monday, Wednesday, Friday before class for the three C’s,” Harry informs you, flashing a grin. “Coffee, croissants, and chats. It’s kind of our thing.”

You raised a brow, still smiling. "So I’m crashing your date?"

Harry gasped dramatically. "She admits it."

Peter blinked. "It’s not—it’s not a date."

“It’s a situationship,” Harry says, deadpan. “We’ve had coffee together more consistently than I’ve been to class.”

You take a slow sip from your cup. “Sounds healthy.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s the most stable relationship I’ve got.”

The barista slid a bag toward the pickup counter.

Harry pointed. "That better be my chocolate croissant. And it better be toasted extra."

You rolled your eyes. "You order like you’re eight."

"Eight-year-olds understand the finer things in life."

Peter stayed quiet, sipping his coffee, quietly entertained by your banter with Harry but still wondering how you two knew each other—though he didn’t press for answers.

Once Harry had his pastry in hand, the three of you stepped outside, the wind tugging at jackets and scarf ends.

The walk toward campus fell into an easy rhythm, a comfortable mix of conversation and quiet. You chatted about overpriced textbooks; Harry grumbled about a professor still using overhead projectors. Peter chipped in with the occasional comment—until your eyes landed on the cup in his hands.

“Seriously though,” you said, “thanks for not making a big deal out of that—or yelling at me or something. I got yelled at here last week by some old guy, so honestly, if you’d yelled, I probably wouldn’t have come back. Two strikes and I’m out.”

Peter shrugged, glancing down at the cup with your name on it. “All good. Crazy coincidence we order the same thing. Though, I’ve only ever seen old people order plain black coffee.”

“Profiling me again, huh? What does that make you, then?” You smiled slightly. “Guess you’ll have to go through the day as me.”

“And you can be me. Fair trade.”

The biology building came into view, and you slowed.

“Alright, this is me,” you said, stepping toward the building. Then, softer, “Take care of my identity. I’ll come find you if I find out you're ruining my reputation, Parker Peter.”

Peter grinned. “Noted. I’ll do my best to behave and save the evil scheming for Harry.”

You gave a small wave before heading inside.

Peter watched you go, a genuine smile lingering.

Harry shoved the last bit of his croissant in his mouth. "You’re grinning."

"What?"

"Just saying. Gonna be a fun semester."

Peter didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop smiling either.

His day flew by. After the morning—when he finally saw you again for the first time in four days (not that he was counting… though, he definitely was)—you stayed on his mind. During lectures, throughout the ten-minute breaks he usually spent half-asleep in the back of the library. Even now, sitting in Orgo lab, he couldn’t stop replaying the way your eye widened like a deer caught in headlights when you realized you’d grabbed the wrong drink.

You treated him like a normal person. Like someone worth talking to. Not like another ghost on the sidewalk. Not like a face in the crowd.

So, yeah. You were on his mind.

Peter stared ahead blankly, eyes unfocused on a slightly discolored brick just above the whiteboard. He didn’t hear the TA reviewing their objectives, didn’t notice the clatter of glassware around him. He was busy daydreaming—somewhere between hypothetical conversations with you and wondering if you’d recognize him in a crowd at another party—when a hand waved aggressively in front of his face.

“Hello? Parker?” Harry Osborn’s voice broke through, dripping with faux outrage. “Why do you keep zoning out on me, man? I’m the one taking notes right now. That’s absurdly, unusually, out of character for me in this class.”

Peter blinked back to the present. “Sorry. I’ve been... thinking.”

Harry narrowed his eyes dramatically. “And clearly not about anything academic. You haven’t written a single word. Meanwhile, I—me, Harry Osborn—have actual notes.”

Peter squinted at his friend’s notebook. It was messier than a toddler’s crayon attempt, but, surprisingly, legible. “You’re actually paying attention?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I contain multitudes.”

Peter rolled his eyes and dragged the notebook closer. “Let me copy this before your pen explodes or something.”

As he jotted down bullet points about their task—performing a dehydration to yield a mixture of alkene products—Harry leaned in with that shit-eating grin Peter had come to associate with impending nonsense.

“So…” he began, casually spinning a glass stirring rod between his fingers. “Does this, uh, distraction have anything to do with a certain coffee thief from this morning?”

Peter paused mid-sentence, cheeks tinting pink. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.” Harry shrugged, unfazed. “She’s cute. You’re clearly enamored with her. It’s basic math.”

Peter looked down at the reaction schematic in front of him, willing his brain to reengage with chemistry. “How do you know her?”

“We went to the same school before college. And we were in a band together.”

That made Peter’s head snap up. “A band?”

Harry looked mildly sheepish. “Don’t start. It was a phase. I had a rebellious era—wanted to be cool, play garage shows, wear eyeliner. She played guitar and we needed vocals. She was good, actually. Still mad at me for forcing her to join, though.”

Peter snorted. “That’s weirdly endearing.”

“Don’t bring it up around her though. She’ll pretend she doesn’t know what you’re talking about and then kill me later.”

Peter set down his pen and reached for a clean test tube. “Okay. We’re doing an acid-catalyzed dehydration today, right?”

“Yup. Professor wants us to heat some 2-methyl whatever with phosphoric acid and then collect the product by simple distillation.” Harry handed over the reagent bottle with mock seriousness. “Big day for alkenes.”

Peter chuckled and began assembling the distillation apparatus—clamps, condenser, receiver flask. “You remembered all that?”

“I pay attention when the TA threatens us with quiz points.”

“Fair.”

Harry adjusted the tubing while Peter started adding the alcohol to the flask. “So. Back to you and mystery girl. You guys seemed pretty cozy this morning. Had your little coffee swap meet. Ogled each other. That’s practically first base.”

Peter gave him a look. “I was not ogling her. Plus, it wasn't like that.”

Harry smirked. “No? You didn’t walk her home from my party too?”

Peter’s hand faltered for a second before resuming the careful transfer of liquid. “Her friend was blackout. I just made sure they got back safe.”

“And then you walked away into the fog, cape fluttering behind you.”

“I’m not Batman.”

“No, you’re worse. You’re humble.” Harry sat back, arms crossed.

Peter glanced over, curious. “Why does she call you Haz, anyway?”

Harry smirked. “Legacy nickname. It’s kind of stuck. You’re already behind.”

Peter huffed. “Short for what? Hazard? Fitting.”

Harry raised his hands in mock offense. “Guilty. But, for the record, I’m not competition. I’m just a charismatic guy who once played drums in the same band as her. She and I are friends. I swear.”

“You did.” Harry leaned forward, more serious now. “Look, man. If you’re into her, just say so. You’re Peter freaking Parker. You’re smart, you’re a gentleman. Chicks swoon for things like that. You’re definitely boyfriend material."

Peter rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re so weirdly detailed and supportive, it’s almost like you’re the one into me. Don’t worry, Osborn—I’ll let you down easy even if you're not my type.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s your type then?”

Peter shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t turn dating advice into a TED talk.”

“I’m your hype man—that’s clause two in the friendship contract. Did you miss that memo? Now, grab the boiling chips, and let’s go make some questionable hydrocarbons.”

When they finally logged their last data point and cleared their station, the classroom was still a half-finished mess of bunsen burners, overheard complaints, and lab coats stained with mystery substances. Peter and Harry were the first ones packed up, as usual.

Harry slung his backpack over one shoulder and yawned like he hadn’t just spent the last hour dangerously close to open flame.

“You working today?” he asked, stretching until his button-up rode up slightly and then tugging it back down.

“No, not today,” Peter replied, adjusting the strap of his own bag. “They finally hired some new people. Which, in theory, should be a good thing.”

Harry raised a brow. “Lemme guess. You hate them already.”

“I don’t hate him,” Peter lied. “He’s this new high school kid who told me I looked like a substitute teacher during his first shift.”

Harry snorted. “Was he wrong though?”

Peter gave him a side-eye. “He also asked if I knew how to use TikTok and then called me ‘sir’ when I didn’t answer fast enough.”

Harry wheezed. “Oh no.”

“I’m eighteen,” Peter said flatly. “I’m not ancient.”

“Maybe it’s your meek aura,” Harry teased. “Very ‘mild-mannered civics teacher’ vibes sometimes.”

Peter gave him a light shove, but his grin betrayed him.

As they reached the quad, Harry glanced sideways. “Alright. Since you’re free, come over to mine. We can chill, maybe order in some shitty Chinese food. Watch something dumb. You pick.”

Peter nodded. “Sure.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “...Or—and hear me out—I could invite a few more people. Have a casual afternoon. You’ve met, like, three people on campus total, and I’m not trying to let you slip into full hermit mode.”

“In the span of one month, I’ve had more social interaction than probably my entire high school experience,” Peter said. “All thanks to your relentless matchmaking.”

Harry smirked. “And you’re welcome.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “You’re up to something.”

“Always,” Harry said easily. “But in this case, it’s for your benefit. I was thinking Gwen might come. And maybe her roommate.”

Peter gave him a look. “You mean…?”

Harry didn’t even blink. “Yup.”

Peter groaned. “Wouldn’t that be kind of weird? Like—too much of a coincidence? Twice in one day?”

Harry shrugged. “Not if you don’t make it weird.”

“You sure she wouldn’t think I’m plotting on her? Or stalking?”

“She won’t,” Harry said. “Trust me. She’s not that kind of person. And besides, if you don’t want to talk to her, you don’t have to. But something tells me you really, really do.”

Peter didn’t say anything.

Harry slung his arm around his shoulder like a sitcom older brother. “Listen, you’re interested in her. She seems into you too. You’re both painfully nice, emotionally repressed, and vaguely awkward. I’m just here to expedite fate.”

Peter let out a quiet groan. “You sound like a wedding planner.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Harry said. “So? You in?”

Peter hesitated. Then sighed. “If you really want.”

Harry beamed, already leading them toward the stairwell. “Good. We’ll head to mine, yeah? The couch at my place still remembers the imprint of your ass from last time. It misses you.”

“You’re banned from talking for five minutes.”

“Okay, Mom.” He grinned. “Now hurry up before I get hangry. I’m feeling a tantrum coming soon.”

Peter didn’t expect to be spending his Wednesday night drinking.

But that’s what comes with being friends with Harry Osborn.

There was something inevitable about it—like gravity. One moment Peter was walking out of lab with a backpack full of half-finished lab reports and crushed snack wrappers, and the next, he was sitting on the floor of Harry’s living room with a lukewarm seltzer in hand, pretending to understand the rules of a drinking game he’d already lost three times.

Harry was draped across the couch like he owned the whole building (which, knowing him, wasn’t entirely impossible), laughing too hard at his own joke. Across from him, a silver-haired girl—Felicia, Peter had caught—shot back with dry one-liners that cut sharper than her eyeliner.

Gwen had shown up with Felicia, and much to Peter's dismay, without you since your class ran late. She was in rare form—barefoot, glossy-lipped, halfway through her second spiked lemonade. At some point, she’d declared a dance-off, stolen Harry’s scarf and was now wearing it like a feather boa, mixing drinks behind the counter with zero clue what she was doing. Brian—blonde, broad-shouldered, and someone Peter had met once before—just watched with quiet amusement, sipping something out of a red cup like this was all perfectly normal.

Peter mostly observed, sipped his drink, and let the noise fill the quiet parts of his brain. He hadn’t realized he was waiting for something until it happened.

The door opened.

And there you were.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Harry had mentioned you would still come, but there was something about the timing. The way you stepped inside with your coat slung over one arm, hair slightly wind-tousled, cheeks frozen from the cold. You looked up and smiled—effortless, unbothered.

And just like that, Peter forgot the rules of the game all over again.

“Hey,” you announced your presence, closing the door behind you.

Gwen immediately shrieked, “Finally!” and ran over to pull you in like you hadn’t seen each other in years.

Peter tried not to look for too long—or pretend his pulse didn’t quicken just slightly. You disappeared into the crowd of now familiar faces and scattered laughter, with Gwen dragging you toward the kitchen like a hurricane. For a while, you blended into the background: talking, laughing, letting someone press a cup into your hand.

He figured that would be it, just sharing the same space, trading the occasional glance across the chaos. Maybe a quick hey, a polite smile, and then back to pretending he hadn’t been thinking about Saturday night.

Later that night, long after the sun had slipped away, he found you standing alone on the balcony—your cup nearly empty, your back resting lightly against the railing. Behind you, the city stretched out in a blur of static lights and slow motion, your hair lifting gently in the breeze.

He paused in the doorway. You didn’t notice him at first. Or maybe you did and just didn’t say anything.

Then, without turning, your voice cut softly through the space between you. “Déjà vu?”

Peter stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. “Kinda feels like Saturday.”

You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Less sticky, though. And less Gwen trying to convince everyone she invented feminism.”

He let out a breath of laughter, joining you at the railing. “She was on a mission.”

“She always is,” you said warmly, your eyes flicking to the window as the music swelled inside. Gwen’s laugh spilled through the glass for a moment before fading again. Out here, the wind hummed low, streetlights cast soft gold onto the pavement below. The night didn’t close in—it stretched open.

You looked at him again. “You didn’t think I’d actually show, did you?”

He blinked, caught off guard by your tone—playful, curious. “What? No. I mean... I wasn’t sure.”

“Mm,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “Well, I didn’t think you’d be here either.”

He shrugged, smiling a little. “Harry can be convincing.”

“Tell me about it. He texted me six times. I think one of them was just a picture of Gwen holding a paper towel roll like a mic.”

Peter laughed. “Honestly? That would’ve convinced me too.”

You studied him for a moment, then asked, “So... Parker Peter. I don't remember you being this quiet.”

He shrugged, eyes a little hazy. “I’m not quiet. I’m just... mildly impaired.”

You laughed, bumping his shoulder. “Good. Makes it easier for you to say something incriminating.”

“I’m always thinking about something. Possibly incriminating—but these lips are staying sealed.” He glanced at you, then down at his hands.

You tilted your head, sipping from your cup filled with a random concoction of alcohol and mixers. “Oh yeah? What was it this time? Or do I have to guess?”

He hesitated. Not like he didn’t have an answer—more like he wasn’t sure if it was the right one to say out loud.

“...Honestly? Just thinking it’s kind of nice out here.”

You looked over, brow raised. “That’s what you were brooding about? The weather?”

Peter laughed under his breath, scratching at the edge of his cup. “No, not just that. I meant it’s quiet. And I don’t know. You’re—” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

You leaned a little closer, elbow grazing the railing—casual but not accidental. “I’m what?”

He glanced at you, then away, then back again. Like he couldn’t quite help it. “You’re easy to talk to.”

“Maybe I’m just better than most people.” You smiled but didn’t tease him for it.

Peter huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

There was a brief lull—comfortable, not awkward. The kind where the quiet didn’t need to be filled. Still, you spoke first.

“You don’t really do this, do you?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Socializing. Talking to girls on balconies. You know—the whole college thing.”

Peter leaned forward on his elbows, eyes drifting to the street below. “Wow, you’re good. Not really my scene. I usually bail before the second round of drinks. Or pretend I have some impossible assignment due.”

“But you stayed.” You looked at him, then tapped your nail lightly against the rim of your cup. “Even after your coffee got stolen.”

He smiled again, a little crooked this time. “Yeah, well. Maybe that part wasn’t so bad.”

You let the silence hang for a moment, then said, soft but teasing, “You realize you’re flirting with me, right?”

Peter choked on a laugh, surprised by how direct you were about it—but also how okay it felt. “…Was I?”

You shrugged, eyes warm. “Kinda. But like, the polite, hesitant type. Like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to. Very endearing, though.”

Peter looked down at his hands, then out at the skyline. He didn’t say anything right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. “I think I just forgot what it feels like. Liking someone. Or wanting to.”

You didn’t flinch or ask questions he didn’t want to answer. You just stood there, looking at him like maybe that made sense.

“Well,” you said, nudging his arm gently, “if you ever remember… I’m usually a good guess.”

Peter looked at you then—really looked—and this time, he didn’t look away with a smile. “Noted.”

From inside, the sliding door creaked open. A gust of warm air and laughter spilled out, followed by Harry’s voice yelling something unintelligible about Gwen and the blender. Felicia’s voice cut through the party’s static, bright and lively, while somewhere inside, Brian was probably trying—and failing—to keep the peace.

You sighed, smiling. “They’re fine. I think?”

And you stayed like that—side by side. Not quite touching. Not quite leaving.

But here, on the edge of it all, it was still.

Peter could finally breathe.

[peachsayshi]

deadass started reading ‘the way you love me’ after seeing the news abt gojo and i ended up pulling an all-nighter on it 🧍‍♀️ i wasnt intending on smut I just happened upon it bc of the ‘gojo satoru needs a hug’ tag on ao3 but now im a little bit obsessed and i just wanted to pass along a hug of support to a fellow gojo luvr<3 and also ask if u could maybe write something bittersweet with him bc im still grieving immensely.. can be canon compliant or an au or a lil fix-it blurb i just need to feel Something JSJSJD …..💔💔

➳  minors / ageless / blank blogs dni /this blog is 20+ for follows

⥽ notes: nonniee!! ahhh, first off I'm sending you such a big hug after reading the leaks (because it's what we all deserve right now).I love this string bean so much :c he's the reason why I started writing fanfics again :c thank you so much for taking the time to read my gojo fic! I really appreciate the feedback & support xo here's a little bittersweet blurb xo

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tags: angst/fluff; canon doesn't exist here; in which gojo wins but at a cost; reader has a little anxiety; in which you are both healing together; mentions gojo as a dad; manga spoilers

the image of him on the ground, tattered up like a torn up doll, has your body springing upright from your mattress. your legs go numb as your throat tightens with a discomfort that has you struggling to catch your breath from witnessing the soul of your lover descending into an unknown abyss where you couldn’t follow.

why did he look so real?

the visual sends tremors down your spine, making your heart bang heavily in your chest as your ears ring. you instantly reach for him; your hand desperately seeking out his warmth, but instead your are met with the cold touch of your pillow.

the space beside you is empty, and your heart whispers a low, and petrified: no.

you kick off your bedsheets to stand on your two feet and even though the abrupt gesture makes you a little lightheaded, you catch your balance as you swiftly walk out of your bedroom.

it’s just a dream…

one quick turn to the kitchen is where you find him.

you reach your arm around to pinch your skin just to make sure that you are awake...

...that everything around is what is real.

gojo angles his neck towards you, his gaze softening at the sight of you and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

"I thought you were asleep," he addresses, the gentle tone of his voice prompting you to march right up to him.

the front of his brows pinch with concern when you reach for his tee and bury your nose into his chest to breathe in the cozy scent of spice and citrus.

a scent that always smells of coming home, of safety, of love...

hot tears prick your eyes; it was just a bad dream, you remind yourself, just a bad dream.

you tilt your chin up, sighing with ease when you meet those familiar irises, all the while thinking that he's still as breathtaking as ever.

you love that he's letting his hair grow out, the snowy length just grazing the base of his neck while the shorter, front layers frame his face nicely.

it's cute seeing him experiment with different looks in this very new process of self discovery - a stage which he was robbed from entirely in his youth.

his once striking, prominent eyes are now soft and muted, a hint of grey glazing over the sparkling blue. the tear in his right pupil reminds of you of that fateful night three years ago, when the weight of the world hung heavily on the broad shoulders of the man before you.

his perfect hands return the gesture of your touch as they seek out your waist, and the simple contact makes your lashes flutter with relief.

he may no longer be the strongest jujutsu sorcerer, the possessor of six eyes, the untouchable with an infinity that garnered his protection...but he is still forever your satoru.

the last three years had you counting every single blessing, with the roots of your happiness blooming all over your home. it's in the gold band that sits comfortably around your ring finger, in every single photograph which has been thoughtfully framed and the bundle of joy sleeping quietly in her bed just down the hall.

yet, despite all of is, you can't shake off the vile cursed king who haunts you like a ghost, especially when you think about the true cost of that battle. if things had taken a turn for the worse then the last three years wouldn't even exist, and everything around you would have been a simple fabrication-

"hey," gojo squeezes your waist to grab your attention, a worried pout forming on his pretty pink lips, "why do you look so upset, angel?"

you swallow the hard lump that's been stuck in your throat since you've woken up. "I had a really bad dream," you proceed to explain, but your voice wavers instantly as a single tear trickles down your cheek, "I had a dream that I...that I lost you..."

your husband arches his brow, but you feel him relax against your touch as a cheeky grin lights up his face. "but I'm right here" he teases with a playful tone that instantly triggers you to feign annoyance.

"Ugh, obviously, satoru..." you scold, gripping your digits against the material of his shirt.

you try to pull away from him, but he simply secures his arms behind your lower back to keep you looped into his frame.

you don't deny the comfort of his embrace, and instead fold by circling your own limbs around his waist as you rest your cheek against his chest.

"I meant losing you for good, as in...never seeing you again..."

"ahh, I see..." your husband acknowledges.

"it scared me, satoru. it really did," you vent with a tiny sniffle. “I thought you were really gone for a moment…”

he draws small, soothing circles with his index finer on your lower back, allowing you to hold onto him for as long as you need while you softly let out your small sobs as the quiet settles around you.

“I can promise you one thing..."

"what's that?"

he releases you for only a moment to cup your cheeks. his face is full of love, showered with devotion that helps wash away your distress. he carefully wipes the rogue tears that fall from your beautiful eyes, before arching forward to tap the tip of his nose against yours.

"you're not getting rid of me that easily" he smiles tenderly and lightly pecks your lips.

his words are laced with confidence, dripping with a strong level of assurance that only satoru gojo can deliver.

it’s lighthearted but full of meaning, because the last time he said that sentence was right before walking into battle.

you curl your fingers around his wrist, parting your mouth this time when he searches for a second kiss. your ears burn when he firms his hold on your jaw, a low flame igniting in your belly as he glides his tongue across yours and releases a satisfied hum in the process.

the kiss is a little extra sweet tonight, like you're savoring the saccharine syrup of the ripest candied berries-

"hmph, 'toru?" you mumble into the kiss, your mind slowly leaving the shrouds of darkness as you rest your forehead comfortably against his. "were you…were you eating the treats that I got for 'ume?"

"what?" he dramatically scoffs in disbelief, "no..."

"satoru..." you reprimand.

"you really think I snuck out here just to eat izumi's candy?"

a tiny giggle escapes you, "you taste like I'm biting into sugar granules..."

"that's cause I'm made of only good things, sweetheart" he smiles as he nuzzles his nose against yours.

for whatever reason that answer brings you immense comfort. despite how much of him has actually changed, you're happy to know that satoru is still himself in many, many other ways.

"I now see where our daughter gets her exceptionally cute charm from," you concede with a roll of your eyes.

"mhmm," satoru agrees with a level of pride that makes your heart swell.

you know just how much that little girl means to him.

he straightens his back, his hand still cradling your face as he calmly strokes his thumb back and forth over your cheek. "feeling a bit better?"

you exhale, "yeah, a little-"

"you want to head back to bed?"

you nod your head, tilting it only slightly for you to kiss the inside of his palm.

“c’mon, let’s get you tucked in”

you’re not quick to let him go just yet, and satoru has to fight back from smiling like an idiot when you lock your arms around his waist.

he stays entangled, draping his own across your shoulder as he leads you back into the bedroom.

you don’t have to tell him where the source of your pain stems from.

he knows it all too well himself.

as a matter of fact, it’s now ingrained at the very core of satoru's soul because even he can’t deny the severity of what happened.

that night stripped him of everything he's ever known, of everything he’s ever believed himself to be…

but he doesn't care about the loss. he doesn’t mull over the depths of his sacrifice when the exchange of his divinity for his mortality meant the reward of living out the rest of his life with his one true love by his side.

it’s a decision he would have made a thousand times over.

[sanders1665]

Quantum entanglement and crocks.

The professor’s muttering again,

something about quantum entanglement,

his words bouncing like rubber balls

off the scratched-up tabletop.

He looks like Beaker, sounds like Mr. Bean,

gesticulating wildly,

his coffee forgotten and cold.

I nod like I care—

but really,

I’m thinking about those god-awful crocks.

Leopard print fur lining,

like a bad joke the cat found funny.

Out in the breezeway,

it’s got one cornered,

teeth sunk deep like it’s caught

the biggest rodent in Florida.

I should rescue it—

or let nature take its course.

Inside, she’s at the counter,

devouring that vegetarian sushi again.

Avocado, cucumber,

wrapped tight like some health cult's manifesto.

Her face—Christ,

you’d think she’d hit nirvana

in that first bite.

The rice glistens, smug,

like it knows it’s fooling someone.

I’m pretty sure some itamae in Kyoto

just keeled over in shame.

But she’s happy,

and the cat’s still gnawing on that crock.

So I let it all be.

I think of the absurdity—

her, the crocks, the cat, the sushi—

and I smile,

because life’s got this way of being

one big, beautiful mess.

Then I glance at the professor,

his hands now weaving invisible strings in the air.

He’d probably say something like:

the crocks, the cat, the sushi, her ecstasy—

they’re all connected,

particles in a dance across time,

leopard print entangled with avocado bliss.

I stifle a laugh,

because maybe he’s right.

Maybe chaos has a rhythm,

and I’m just lucky enough to hear it.

[cadere-art]

What’s one food/drink in your world that sounds amazing

Do they have any musical instruments, if so is it based off of any really world stuff?

Tahen cultures have all sorts of taboo around fire. This is taken to an extreme in Ranai, where open fires are completely forbidden and one must own a special permit to tend a cooking fire. As a result, Ranai cuisine is renowned for it's wealth of raw, pickled, and otherwise marinated foods. Bcause Ranai's territory is an archipelago where fish and seafood is the main source of protein, makwa, acid-cooked fish akin to our world's ceviche, is a staple. Real-life ceviche being delicious, it is only logical that fictional ceviche would also be*.

Bird-fish makwa is an ancient traditional meal of the archipelago. It has three main ingredients: gruel of uciwici, an oat-like, distinctively purple grain rich in anthocyanins, dried and salted kelp, and shrimp and crustacean meat marinated in sumac vinegar. Eggs, herbs, and tart fruits are sometimes added as toppings. Bird-fish makwa most salient tastes are tartness from the sumac vinegar with salt and umami from the seafood and kelp, on a base note of mild and nutty sweetness reminiscient of brown rice from the mashed uciwici. The name of this recipe is a mistranslation of the meal's name from Wetki to Ranaite Tahen.

Jimeleu makwa is a classic ceviche which puportedly originates from the town of Jimeleu, where the soils and climate are conducive to the growth of citrus trees. Jimeleu ceviche consists of diced white fish acid-cooked in lime juice with horseradish, white beans, and cold-cooked uciwici grains. The marinade is usually clear, with a green tinge from the lime and horseradish. Common variants add cold fish broth or cream of green peas to water the ceviche into a soup. Jimeleu makwa is sour and spicy, and variants with cream of green peas have a distinctive sweetness.

Cici-Uli makwa is reminiscient of tataki or carpaccio. A large, white-meat fish is cut into filets which are marinated in a mixture of sumac vinegar, oil, and seasonings (including, but not limited to, salt, horseradish, and tart fruits akin to pincherries). The marinated filet is then cut into very thin slices and served with crunchy seeds and sliced sweet onion. Only the external edge of the fish has cooked: the main flavor of Cici-Uli makwa is that of the raw fish itself. This type of makwa requires very fresh fish.

*Note that I have not tried to make these The Most Palatable Possible - especially the first one!

---

The answer to the second question is a bit less interesting. In short: yes, they do have music instruments! However, I am profoundly not musically inclined and this (as well as sports) is a thing where I show my biases as an individual: I have done roughly 0 musical worldbuilding, and it is unlikely that I will ever do more than the bare minimum (when I remember that the world should, to feel alive, have some music). About Ranaites, I can say that they have a variety of instruments, especially winds and percussions. Bamboo is an important material for their woodwinds and percussion instruments. A large shell is used as a traditional wind instrument. I imagine they have some sort of relatively simple string instrument, and a slightly more complex one with better acoustic imported by members of the Oumdashen diaspora. Ranaites have inherited a taste for passive music such as windchimes from the archipelago's original inhabitants, the Wetki. Shell windchimes are a popular fixture of gardens throughout the archipelago.

[lil-elle]

idea from loml @chiiyuuvv !! (Sorry it took so long to get to this pookie)

Truth or Dare

group: xikers

pair: seeun x fem!reader

genre: fluff, crushes, shyness, best friends to lovers (yknow me 🥰)

word count: 3.2k

content: drinking, kisses ‼️

a/n: TYSM POOKS FOR THIS AWESOME IDEA IM GIGGLING SM

Seeun dragged you by your wrist through the front door as you rolled your eyes. 

“C'mon, you'll have fun!” He insisted, but you just weren't the type to enjoy parties, you only ever went because he loved them and you were such a sucker for that wide, gummy smile of his.

You followed behind him like a small obedient dog as he chatted with his friends, people you'd never even seen before. You felt silly following him like this and almost hiding behind the broadness of his back, but you were much too afraid of straying off on your own in a house full of strangers.

You were busy zoned out, counting the tiles on the floor, when Seeun pressed something cold to your cheek: a beer can. You quickly took it from him and analysed the label.

“Woah, I didn't know you actually drank at these things.” You mumbled, spinning the can around in your hand.

“What, do you think we just sit in a circle holding hands or something??” He chuckled teasingly, making your face flare up in embarrassment.

“Of course not!” You quickly defended, popping the can open.

“Have you ever even drank before?” He smirked, cracking his own can open and taking a swig like he did this everyday.

“Pffft, h-have I- pshhhh- o-of course I have.” You waved your hand at him dismissively, avoiding his eyes despite the fact you were certain he could see through your lie. Without another thought, you lifted the icy can to your lips and took a sip, your face screwing up at the sour taste of the alcohol on your tongue. You swallowed after some struggle and smiled at him crookedly.

“See? Easy..”

He chuckled, taking another sip of his drink before grasping your hand and pulling you with him.

“Where are we going?” He looked back at you with a smile as he pulled you through the house into a bedroom where most of the friends of his you recognised from earlier in the night were gathered.

“I said we don't sit in a circle holding hands, but we do sit in a circle and play truth or dare!” He tugged you so you were sitting next to him in the circle, the sudden multitude of eyes on you making you shrink back and you timidly took another strained swig from your can.

One of his friends suddenly started speaking to the rest of the group in a confident voice.

“Okay, classic truth or dare, house rules: when someone asks you truth or dare, you pick one, and you do whatever they say. If you refuse, we get to all like- uh- point and laugh at you or something. Got it?” 

The group nodded their heads and began chattering quietly before he spoke up again.

“Okay who's going first?” Seeun's hand shot up before he even finished speaking and a few faces around the room chuckled at his enthusiasm. You felt a smile creep onto your face as well, charmed by how much he seemed to be enjoying himself. That was until he slowly turned to you with a smirk on his face. “Oh this motherfu-”

“Y/n! Truth or dare?” You gritted your teeth, making your disdain for him obvious on your face, and spoke up with the most confident voice you could muster.

“...Truth.”

“Lame!” Someone called out, followed by a few chuckles, but you kept your eyes on Seeun and ignored the embarrassed heat crawling up your neck.

“Hmmm…What do you really think of the beer?”

Your eye twitched and you promised yourself that you'd beat up this nutrient deficient string bean as soon as you got him alone next.

“....It sucks. Like it tastes like piss genuinely. But…it kinda makes being here easier, so…” You lifted the can and took this biggest gulp you could, Seeun smiling as you sighed with a twinge of regret for doing that.

“Preach!” You heard someone from across the room yell, making you smile shyly.

“Your turn now, shorty.” Seeun ruffled your hair and you swiped his hand away before scanning the room and quickly realising you had no idea who to pick, not knowing any of the people sitting around you apart from Seeun. Your eyes bounced from person to person, inevitably being drawn to the confident boy that introduced the game. You pointed a shaky finger at him.

“T-Truth or dare?”

He chuckled and set his own drink down before leaning back on his hands.

“Dare.” He said the word without hesitation and you panicked again as you wracked your brain for a dare to give that wouldn't make you sound lame (again). You nervously swirled your drink in your hand, just that action giving you an idea.

“...I-I dare you…to chug the rest of your drink right now.” You felt slightly proud as his eyebrows raised and his lip quirked up in a smirk. He sat back up straight before lifting the can to his mouth and throwing the rest of it back with a few hard bobs of his adams apple and various cheers and playful yells from the group. His eyes met yours again as he dropped his can, crushing it in his hand before tossing it behind him in a dramatic display. You quickly looked away, overwhelmed by the eye contact, and your eyes met Seeun's face, eyebrows tight in a frown and eyes almost boring holes into the boy you just dared. You lifted your hand to tap him on the shoulder, your attention being stolen away by the continuation of the game before you could make contact.

You continued nursing your beer as the game went on, Seeun nudging your shoulder to make jokes into your ear every-so-often. You couldn't tell if it was the buzz of the alcohol or Seeun's light-hearted presence making you feel so comfortable, but you were starting to enjoy yourself, laughing and chatting with the group like you belonged there as much as they did. That was until the attention was flipped back onto you and Seeun for the first time in a good 10 minutes.

“Seeun,” the boy started, “truth or dare?” 

Seeun leaned forward playfully.

“Dare.” 

The boy smiled and finished off his drink, crushing the can, before continuing.

“So…we've all noticed how close the two of you are,” he pointed, finger moving between you and Seeun, “don't think we haven't.” 

Your face flushed red and you shrunk back slightly before you felt Seeun's large hand rest on your back reassuringly.

“...And what about it?” Seeun responded with a confident tone, earning a multitude of teasing coos from around the room which only made you blush harder.

“Well!” He clapped his hands together as he continued. “Your dare…is to give her your phone…and let her go through it.” 

Your eyes snapped up to Seeun's face upon hearing those words, expecting Seeun to pull his phone out of his pocket without hesitation, only to watch as the colour drained from his face for the first time that night. A few seconds passed, then a minute, as Seeun's hands lay frozen at his sides.

“So…you're not gonna do it? This is the dare that's gonna break you?” The boy teased as a few other people chuckled. Seeun took a deep breath in before seeming to snap back into his usual confident persona.

“Of course not.” He smiled, grabbing his phone from his pocket and almost tossing it to you. Your eyes stayed glued on his face, frowning at the way he was almost refusing to make eye contact with you. You couldn't help but feel how wrong this whole situation was, feel how not like himself Seeun was acting. You clutched the phone to your chest in an attempt to push down your nervousness before putting on your best smirk and speaking up in a stutter.

“I-I think I'll look through it later…when me and Seeun are…alone…” 

You slipped the phone into your pocket and sighed with relief on the inside when you heard the teasing comments from the group, although embarrassing, reassured you that they hadn't caught onto your act. You caught Seeun glancing at you, a very small amount of blush on his face before the both of you turned away in unison, earning more cooing and teasing.

The night went on as usual and the group was beginning to get more rowdy and tipsy, you and Seeun included as you somehow managed to get down a whole beer and start on another one. 

By the time the two of you left the house you were giggling to each other about nothing in particular and just yapping about random things as he walked you home. The cold night air was refreshing on your flushed cheeks and the short walk to your house passed by in a flash. Eventually, you were pulling your front door open and attempting to pull him inside with you, insisting that you “had to have a sleepover with your bestie”.

He easily slipped out of your grasp and stepped back, chuckling.

“I have to go home,” he poked you lightly on the forehead, “and you need rest.” You pouted and leaned dramatically against the door frame.

“But but but- are you even sober enough to get home?” You questioned, just trying to find any excuse to get him to stay longer. He chuckled again and you were too hazy to notice the redness in his ears.

“I'm fine.” He smiled and you couldn't deny that he had a much better alcohol tolerance than you.

“Okayyy…,” you sighed, lifting your hand weakly to wave, “bye bye…”

The last thing you saw was his crooked smile as you shut the door, luckily remembering to lock it in your dizzy state, before scrambling to your bedroom and flopping onto the bed. As soon as your face hit the softness of your pillow, you were out like a light, shoes on and everything, but that wasn't something you cared about as you drifted into a dream filled sleep.

You were suddenly pulled from your sleep by an obnoxious alarm coming from the phone in your pocket, yanking it out in your half asleep state and slamming your finger on snooze before tossing the phone next to you and rolling over. It took you a few seconds, but you suddenly registered that… “Wait, I don't set alarms.”

You sat up, blinking against the sun shining ruthlessly into your window, curtains wide open and failing to protect you. You grasped the phone and pulled it up to your sleepy face, turning it around in your hands for a few moments before the memory of the dare crashed back into your head. 

“Oh.” You tapped on the screen and analysed the pic on his lockscreen: what seemed to be him and one of his friends you recognised last night posing together and making silly faces, both of them with drinks in their hands. You smiled to yourself and instinctively swiped up to unlock the phone, quickly met with the realisation that he has a password because why wouldn't he?? You thought for a moment before chuckling to yourself and jokingly typing in your own name, the click of the phone unlocking stopping you dead in your tracks. You sat up straight, looking down at the phone with a serious and slightly confused expression before you finally processed what his home screen was…it was a picture of you. A candid photo of you laughing taken most likely by him when you weren't paying attention. A photo that you didn't even know existed. Your heart suddenly sped up and you felt a small amount of heat enter your cheeks but you took a breath in and reassured yourself that it was normal for someone to have a picture of their best friend as their phone background.

You timidly swiped again, bringing up all the apps he had open and giggled, quickly realising why he always complained about his phone dying really fast. You scrolled mindlessly through the multitude of random apps before a text conversation with Hyunwoo, a mutual friend of the two of you, caught your eye. Quickly tapping on it and bringing it up, your heart started to pound at the idea of going through his private messages and you felt slightly guilty, especially because you were defeating the whole purpose of the reason you kept it with you. Despite your guilty feelings, your finger scrolled up like it had a mind of his own, all the way up to the beginning of the conversation Seeun had with Hyunwoo right before the party yesterday:

H: So do you have a plan?

S: Uhhhh. 

S: No.

H: Dumbass

S: STFU!?? IM TRYING MY BEST?!?!

H: Alright well keep trying ‘your best’

H: Meanwhile she's gonna go and fall for someone else before you can even confess

You blinked frantically like you couldn't believe your eyes. Confess?? Like, confess confess?? You started scrolling faster, eyes scanning over every word at twice the speed.

S: You're harsh man

H: If I wasn't you wouldn't even be considering confessing now would you

S: …

H: Yeah okay

H: Did you at least invite her to that party?

S: Yeah

S: I'm on the way to her's now to pick her up

H: This is the perfect opportunity! Confess tonight!

S: CRAZY

H: Just try man

H: For my sanity

S: 💀

S: No promises

Your eyes stayed stuck on those last two words as the gears in your head went into overdrive, your whole face burning red at the thought of Seeun having a crush on you. Even more so at the thought that there was a chance of him confessing last night and you had no idea. You quickly found yourself with your nose buried in his phone, scrolling through all of his messages without remorse, too busy dazed and confused over the situation you're in to feel guilt.

It didn't take you long to find your own messages with him, feeling a pang in your chest at the hearts he had put around your contact name.

The more you searched, the more you found, and the more real it all felt. A folder in his gallery dedicated to pictures of you. Instagram open specifically on your profile. A stupid buzzfeed article on different ways to ask out a crush that was clearly directed towards 14 year olds. All those symptoms pointed to one diagnosis of a boy in incredibly deep (and only a little bit pathetic) unrequited love. With you. Except that love wasn't actually so unrequited.

Your head was spinning trying to process everything happening when a sudden bang on your window made you almost fling the phone across the room. You lifted your head only to meet eyes with the exact man making your mind all jumbled up standing outside your window. Your blush only got worse upon seeing him in that plain but charming grey hoodie of his and you were certain there was no way you were hiding your feelings from him now.

Carefully, you lifted yourself from the bed and circled around it to the window, sliding it open and being met with the cold and fresh morning air.

“I'm glad you're awake.” He started with a smile, already making you melt with just 4 words. “Sorry for the startle,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “there was no way I could knock on your door without waking your parents so I had to improvise.” He stared at you for a moment as you stayed silent before his gaze fell to his phone caught in your death grip. He sighed and a look of relief covered his face as he leaned against the window frame.

“Thank God you have it. I remembered giving it to you but I can barely trust this brain of mine when it's not under the influence, y’know?” He joked but something seemed off about his demeanour, like he was nervous or hiding something, just like how he was acting before handing you his phone last night. Although, now you know why. 

His eyes travelled back up to yours as he spoke.

“You okay?” 

You felt your face only heat up more, a change he obviously noticed as he finally began slipping from his denial and started realising what you must've seen. A pink hue entered his cheeks and he spoke up again with a noticeably shakier voice.

“H-how much…did you see…?”

You finally found your own voice to respond to him.

“...Hyunwoo…he…was helping you…” Before you could even finish, Seeun folded his arms on the windowsill and buried his face in them.

“Fuck…” He mumbled, his soft hair falling over his now bright hot ears.

“A-and your wallpaper…a-and my name in your contacts…a-and your gallery-” You suddenly started spilling to him everything you'd seen, watching breathlessly as he sunk further into the plushness of his hoodie sleeves. He sighed again and lifted his head, the state of his face and the splotchy redness that covered it making your heart pound.

“Well whatever…” he mumbled before pulling himself through the window, forcing you backwards to make space for him. Once he was in he steadied himself before leaning back against the window frame awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with you the whole time. 

“Y/n.” The suddenness of his voice made your breath catch and you looked up at him, clutching the phone to your chest.

“I really like you…will you be my girlfriend?” He continued avoiding your eyes and spoke in a flat voice. It felt less like he was confessing and more like he was admitting and accepting defeat. Your fingers tightened around his phone and you mustered every ounce of courage you had to speak up in a tiny voice.

“...yes…” His eyes widened instantly, making you feel a strange sense of excitement and pride.

“Did…you just-” He finally turned to you and met your eyes, his red cheeks somehow growing redder. 

“-say yes…?”

You could barely hold back your excitement as you nodded, smiling and watching as his expression twisted from confusion to shock to disbelief to pure joy. You almost dropped the phone as he scooped you up into his arms, giggling so happily with an expression of such unfiltered happiness you'd never seen on him before. He spun you around a few times as the two of you giggled together before he finally settled down and hugged you close to him.

“...You mean it?” He asked in a quiet voice with a slight tinge of disbelief still present.

“Seeun…can I be your girlfrie-” your words were cut off as his lips suddenly pressed to yours. You were almost convinced your heart would explode in your chest as he kissed you in a way that felt like it would never end. He pulled away just enough but still keeping his lips only a few inches from yours, allowing you to catch your breath.

“Sorry…” he muttered with a smile telling you he wasn't really sorry at all. But you didn't care, not one bit, as a hysterical fit of giggles burst from your throat.

Thank God he forced you to that party.

-

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

TAGLIST:

@chocoeon @hyunukitty @ihyeokzu @cake1box @chiiyuuvv @shortnstupid @dogyunslover

[queenjunothegreat]

*(comes skidding into the room ten minutes late)* I HAVE MY VALENTINES DAY FIC, PLEASE DON'T MARK ME ABSENT!!!!

Ahem. Moving on. I have for you all a fluffy little cuddle sesh with touch starved Leo and two teenage boys who are very obviously head over heels for each other being PAINFULLY awkward. It's a sorta prequel thing to And ease thy soul with slumber bright, so you KNOW I had to cash in on being a pretentious bitch and use another Dunbar poem. Enjoy!

May I present my Valentine's Day fic: As the bird flies home to its welcome nest

Jason snorted. “I can’t believe you two wanted me to watch that. I still don't understand why the car just flew away at the end.” “It’s dramatic and from the 70's. Don't think about it too hard,” Leo dismissed. “And I wasn't talking about the movie. I was talking about our little bro cuddle sesh.” Jason winced and shrunk into himself. “Sorry. I know it's weird. I won’t do it next time.” A wave of panic unlike anything Leo had ever felt before washed over him, making his blood run cold. “No! That's not– I'm not, like, mad or whatever. I was just thinking about it.” “Okay,” Jason said slowly“And what were you thinking about it?” “I dunno,” Leo admitted, fiddling with his fingers. “I didn't, uh, hate it or anything. I just was wondering why, I guess?” “Why what?” Leo cleared his throat. “Why you, um. Why you did it.” “I dunno,” Jason said, just as awkwardly as Leo. “I just like it.” *** Leo was normal, okay? Well, not really, but he'd been a lot more normal before Jason went and decided that casual cuddling was going to be A Thing they did sometimes, and now Leo can't think about anything but reliving that experience.

It had been two nights – sixty-one hours – since Piper had bullied him away from working on the Argo II. She had insisted he needed a break, and Leo had insisted that he’d only take a break if they used the time to educate Jason on his wildly lacking culture, so they'd agreed to force Jason to watch Grease because Piper was a sucker for musicals and, more specifically, the Pink Ladies. (It was also Leo’s mom's favorite movie, and he hadn’t seen it since he was eight, but this was supposed to be a No Bummer Zone, so he kept that bit of information to himself.) Piper had stolen one of the bean bag chairs Drew used for Aphrodite Cabin movie nights, so she was perched happily on the floor, which left the make-shift futon Leo had fashioned out of two of the empty bunks for him and Jason to share. Leo hadn't minded, obviously, but he was… surprised when Jason decided to sit right next to him. There had been mere inches between them, or, well, there had until Jason decided to sling his arm over Leo's shoulders and tug him in to close that tiny gap that had been the last bastion for Leo’s sanity. Leo didn’t say a word for the rest of the movie, his brain far too fried to string together words. Jason and Piper probably noticed his odd behavior, but they were both nice enough to not say anything. 

It started out small. An absolutely meaningless gesture that anyone but Leo would have forgotten about. But Leo didn't forget. He played it over and over again in his mind until he thought he was going to go insane. 

Since then, Leo hadn't been able to focus on anything but that golden 110 minute dream of being tucked into Jason’s side, and it was really starting to stress him out because he didn't know why he was so fixated on it. It wasn’t like he’d never had a hug before. Sure, he’d gone an unfortunately long time without one following his mom’s death, but he’d had Piper at Wilderness. And, yeah, maybe she wasn't the most touchy-feely person on the planet, but she gave him hugs and squeezed his hand, and they’d even shared a bed on more than one occasion. 

But that was different. All those times with Piper had felt like they were desperately clinging to each other in the middle of a storm, buoying themselves and dragging the other's head above the waves. He loved Piper, and he'd needed that contact with her. They were each other's only life line, and the only thing that kept Leo in one piece, but it was different than what Jason had offered him with that one meaningless gesture. With Jason, that same storm was still there, but he felt like someone had dragged him under cover. Like someone was holding him safe and secure until the storm had passed. It was strange to not feel like he was drowning, and that lack of fear scared him in a way that made his heart race. 

He was working on the Argo II, like he was supposed to, and thinking about Jason, which he wasn't supposed to, while Jason made himself at home in the little nest he'd found. Jason was weirdly good at finding all of Leo’s little sleeping nooks, not that he knew what they were, and he happily made himself right at home in them. Normally, any time someone stumbled upon Leo’s hidden beds, he’d panic and move it immediately, but there was something about the sight of Jason cozied up in Leo’s pillows and blankets and flipping through a book on military history that put Leo’s mind at ease. 

That's not to say it wasn’t distracting as hell, though.

Leo huffed out a sigh of frustration and stood up from his drafting table, blueprints for the exploding watermelon ballista abandoned. Instead, he slunk over to Jason’s side. He'd been very proud of this nook when he'd found it. It was tucked between some of the older drafting tables that nobody but him bothered to use, and it was positioned in such a way that you couldn't see it unless you approached it head-on. If he curled up in his little nest and stayed absolutely quiet, it would probably take days for anyone (other than Jason and Piper) to find him.

Jason wasn't concerned with staying hidden, though. In fact, he seemed determined to make sure Leo was keenly aware of his presence at all times, based on the way he shifted around and hummed softly and even read aloud passages he though Leo might find interesting. When he noticed Leo crouched at the entrance to the nest, he beamed. “Hey, Leo.”

“Well, don't you look comfy?” Leo quipped, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Very,” Jason confirmed, stretching like a dog that had just been woken up from a nap. “What’s up?”

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah? About what?”

Leo considered lying. He had probably a million things he was expected to be thinking about, and a million more that Jason would believe. But he didn’t want to lie. “About movie night.”

Jason snorted. “I can’t believe you two wanted me to watch that. I still don't understand why the car just flew away at the end.”

“It’s dramatic and from the 70's. Don't think about it too hard,” Leo dismissed. “And I wasn't talking about the movie. I was talking about our little bro cuddle sesh.”

Jason winced and shrunk into himself, which was a kind of funny sight, seeing as the dude was built like a brick shed. “Sorry. I know it's  weird. I didn’t mean to, like, hold you captive or whatever. I won’t do it next time.”

A wave of panic unlike anything Leo had ever felt before washed over him, making his blood run cold. “No! That's not– I'm not, like, mad or whatever. I was just thinking about it.”

“Okay,” Jason said slowly, drawing out the word. He closed his book to show he was giving Leo his full attention. “And what were you thinking about it?”

“I dunno,” Leo admitted, fiddling with his fingers. “I didn't, uh, hate it or anything. I just was wondering why, I guess?”

“Why what?”

Leo cleared his throat. “Why you, um. Why you did it.”

“I dunno,” Jason said, just as awkwardly as Leo. “I just like it.”

“Like what?”

Jason’s face was scarlet at this point. “Um, just being near you? I just saw you sitting next to me and thought,  ‘Hey, look. There's Leo. Let's get as close to him as possible!’ And you didn’t, like, complain or anything, so I thought it was fine. Sorry if it wasn't.” 

“No, it was, um, definitely fine.” Leo cleared his throat, and he was pretty sure that his hair was about to go up in flames if it wasn't already. “You can do it basically whenever.”

Jason looked at him hard, like he was looking for a lie in Leo’s face. “And what would you say if I asked for it now?”

“Yes!” Leo blurted out. He clapped his hands over his mouth but he was eons too late to keep the word trapped, so all he could do was damage control and try to salvage what remained of his shattered ego. “I mean, uh, yeah. If you want to, that is. It's whatever.”

Jason's eyes sparkled with amusement at Leo’s pathetic attempts at nonchalance, but he didn’t make fun. He never made fun. Instead, he opened his arms for a hug and arched an eyebrow in challenge. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?” Leo’s gut instinct screamed to dive bomb the nest and burrow so close to Jason that they fused at the atomic level, but hesitance beat it back. Jason apparently picked up on that hesitance because he gave Leo a soft, encouraging smile. “I'm not pressuring you or anything, okay? You can back out whenever you want, just tell me and we'll stop.”

Leo scoffed. “You're not taking my virginity, Superman. Chillax.”

Jason turned cherry red and sputtered, and normally Leo would tease him about his delicate sensibilities, but he had other things on his mind. So instead, he slowly crawled in next to Jason, every muscle tensed and every nerve on high alert. He felt like an overwound spring, like he would explode with one wrong move. Jason didn't make a wrong move because of course he didn't because Jason, apparently, couldn’t do anything wrong. He just laid perfectly still and let Leo approach him like the neurotic little weirdo he was. His blue eyes gleamed with unrestrained delight like he was about to get a lifetime's worth of Christmas presents instead of a hug.

Leo wanted to lay down with plenty of space between him and Jason, but his nests were designed with just him in mind, not him and his behemoth of a best friend, so personal space was a myth, and not one of the myths that tried to kill them every other Tuesday. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about it, but Jason was obviously pleased with the whole situation despite the fact that his cuddle buddy was impersonating a two by four. Leo figured that probably wasn't super fair to Jason, seeing as the whole cuddle session was Leo's idea in the first place, so he took a deep, calming breath and rolled over so his front was pressed in close to Jason’s side. Jason stayed absolutely still for a moment to see what Leo would do before his big hand started stroking up and down Leo’s back with a deep, soothing pressure.

They both laid in absolute silence for a moment before Jason's quiet voice washed over them. “Leo?”

“Mm?”

“You're shaking.” Leo didn't have a response that wasn't snappish and defensive and just plain mean, so he kept his mouth shut and pressed his face harder into Jason’s chest. “I'm gonna try something. If you don’t like it, lemme know and we'll stop.”

“You're never beating the deflowering allegations at this point,” Leo quipped. Jason bit him softly on the cheek as a reprimand, but he was still laughing, so Leo figured he wasn't really in trouble. “Alright, Superman. Hit me with whatever you've got cooking in that pretty little noggin of yours.”

“Okay,” Jason agreed easily. “But you've gotta tell me if you don’t like it. Promise?”

“Promise.”

Jason nodded, and then, for several seconds, nothing happened. They just laid there next to each other in that same somewhat tense silence from before. Leo was about to ask what, exactly, Jason’s grand plan was, but then he surged into action.

With the same precision, speed, and strength he used to take down monsters, Jason rolled over and wrapped his arms around Leo. He pulled Leo so tight to his chest that it almost hurt, and rolled them both so that Leo was flat on his back and Jason was laying on top of him, using his big gigantor body to cover Leo from his neck all the way down to his toes. Jason was heavy, and Leo could feel his weight pressing him down into the nest with pressure that made his head spin, but Jason had braced himself so that Leo could take in deep, heaving gasps, completely unrestricted. 

“Is this okay?” Jason asked softly, his breath fanning over Leo’s neck and ear. Leo wasn’t sure if his voice was actually pitched down an octave or if he was just losing his mind, but holy shit he could feel the way each and every syllable vibrated from Jason's chest directly into his own. Unfortunately, Leo was so caught up in his musings that he kind of forgot to respond to Jason’s direct question. “Leo? Answer me.”

Leo wanted to whimper at the sound of his name coming from Jason's mouth. He'd always been largely ambivalent towards his name, but somehow Jason's deep gentle voice made those three letters sound like a heavenly chorus. He took a deep breath and tried to center his thoughts, not wanting to say something embarrassing like “I would sell my soul for two more minutes of this.” Instead, he said something somehow more embarrassing.

“Please do that again.”

Leo desperately wanted to cringe out of existence, but Jason just looked at him with that gentle, open curiosity. “Do what, exactly?”

“The, um,” Leo swallowed heavily, trying to ignore his own humiliation. Still. In for a penny, in for a pound. “The talking?”

“Talking?”

“Yeah. I can, um–” Leo focused very hard on not bursting into flame– “feel it? Your chest, like, vibrates and stuff.”

“Oh.” Jason blushed, and they were so close Leo could feel the heat radiating off of him. “Okay, let me try something.”

Jason took a deep breath and started making a low rumbling sound from deep in his lungs, and Leo melted into a puddle of goo. It took a moment for everything to click, but Leo soon realized that Jason was growling, just like he had in that cave with Lycaon and his evil wolf pack. It made Leo feel a little better about being a neurotic little weirdo because at least Jason was a semi-feral little weirdo to balance him out. More importantly, though, it made vibrations rattle through Leo all the way down to the atoms of his bone marrow. 

“Holy shit,” Leo squeaked. “Did you just fucking growl at me?”

“Um. If I say yes, are you gonna make fun of me?”

 “Dude! human people are not supposed to be able to do that!”

Jason’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he stared down at him. “To be fair I'm only half human.”

“Yeah, and the other half is god not dog. G-O-D, not D-O-G. I know you've got dyslexia, but this is kindergarten stuff, man.”

Jason laughed at him, and somehow that was even better than the growling. “I'll try and keep that in mind.” Then he looked a little shy. “Did you, um, like it? I figured that would do the whole vibrations thing more than just talking would.”

“It was, uh, it was fine,” Leo lied. Honestly, it was more than fine. Probably too much more than fine because Leo thought he might burst into tears and or flames if Jason tried it again. “But you don't have to do anything special. You can just… talk.”

“Oh, okay. That works.” Jason smiled at him. “I like talking to you.”

Okay, scratch that. Leo was going to burst into tears amd or flames with or without the growling. “Uh, yeah. Same, dude. I like talking to you, too.”

Jason looked very pleased about that and even a little surprised like Leo’s incredibly embarrassing crush wasn’t Camp Half-Blood’s worst kept secret. His eyes traced over Leo’s face for a moment before his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Leo?”

“Yeah, Supes?”

“Are you okay?”

Leo’s gut instinct to deflect and tell a stupid, unfunny joke and lie through his teeth reared its ugly head, but he bit it back. Instead, he pursed his lips and darted his gaze away from Jason’s bright blue eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you kinda look like you're about to puke.”

That actually startled a laugh out of Leo, but he still couldn't meet Jason's eye. “Well, I kinda feel like I’m about to puke, so that makes sense.”

“Oh. Is… that a good thing?”

“Believe it or not, yeah, it kinda is.” Jason made a little questioning noise, and Leo let out an embarrassed huff. “I’m just… a little overwhelmed, dude. I'm not exactly used to this kinda stuff.” To be fair, Leo was pretty sure that a perfectly well-adjusted person with a completely normal relationship with physical affection would have been at least a little overwhelmed by Jason’s whole… Jason-ness. An apparently touch-starved little trauma junkie like him didn't stand a chance.

“But it's a good overwhelmed, right?” Jason asked seriously. 

Leo's cheeks were probably scarlet, but he still looked up at Jason and grinned. “Yeah, Jace. It's a very good overwhelmed.”

Jason just did that thing he did sometimes where he smiled at Leo like the sun shone out of his ass, then he reached up and pinched one of Leo's curls, presumably smothering a little fire that had sparked to life. “Yeah? I'm glad.”

Leo decided that he’d had quite enough of being observed for the moment, so he tucked his chin and burrowed his face down in the miniscule space between his and Jason's chests, leaving only his hair exposed. This did mean that he was practically breathing in Jason, but at least he could keep what remained of his shattered dignity like this. Jason hummed softly and hugged Leo just a little tighter. 

After a while, Leo spoke, his voice tiny and muffled from where he was still hidden away. “Jace?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we, um. Do this again?”

Jason paused for a moment, and if Leo hadn't been so thoroughly pinned under 230 pounds of solid Roman demigod muscle, he probably would have bolted, but he was pretty well and good stuck. Jason pulled back just enough to nuzzle at Leo’s face until their foreheads were pressed together. He smiled so gently Leo thought for sure he was gonna cry. “I'd like that. It'd make me really happy.”

Leo let out a breathless giggle. “Okay, cool. Consider yourself cuddle-buddied, then, dude.”

Jason’s eyes shone like stars, and he bumped their noses together. “Whenever you want, I’ll be ready, yeah? I've always got you.”

“Yeah,” Leo breathed around the heart in his throat. “You've always got me.”

[child0feden]

I WANT LOVE

ivar “ zephyrous ” enger x reader

- general dating headcanons for ivar!

still have a lot of other requests in the works! just trying very hard to not burn myself out and taking it slowly which seems to be working <3

- requested by anon | view my metal masterlists here and here

reading music recommendations: i want love by akira yamaoka - burial by ghost bath

- i can kind of see ivar being quite selfless when he is in a relationship with you!

✩ he just wants you to always be really happy with him, he cannot ever bare the thought of you being unhappy or unsatisfied with him at all…

- ivar is always looking to please you and he seems like quite a bit of a goofball at times so whenever you are feeling a little down? he is always doing his best to make you feel at least a little better by cracking some silly jokes, even making jokes at his own expense and making strange faces if they make you perk up a bit and smile at him

✩ you know that one jacket he had? the purple, kind of vapourware windbreaker one?

- yeah, he lets you wear that jacket all the time! even when it is not that cold out and you have not even asked him for it, he just really likes seeing you wear his things! even if his clothes are not particularly oversized on you at all

✩ because lets be honest, i think we all know he is not the biggest nor the most built man in the world…

- as handsome and beautiful as this man is, we have all seen his arms…

✩ the man is a twig! but this is not me body shaming him, not at all, i am just making an observation that he was very string bean built and did not have the most muscles at all

- this is something i can see him actually being kind of insecure about when he is in a relationship with you!

✩ ivar kind of really wishes he was able to pick you bridal style or give you piggy backs when you are drunk or your feet just kind of hurt…

- but unfortunately he just kind of cannot manage to do that, no matter how skinny you are too, he just does not have the arm strength to hold up the weight of another human being

✩ but that is not to say he has not at least tried! most likely when he is half drunk or something, he has come up to you from behind and attempted to pick you up bridal style to carry you off into a room or something but literally right after slipping his arms under your knees and pulling you up, he is drunkenly tumbling right over you and crashing into the ground, taking you right down with him as you both let out drunken giggles

“ ouch… oh, fuck… ‘m sorry, are you okay? fucking dropped you… ” ( you are both just giggling so hard about what just happened, he can barely even get the words out in between his drunken laughter )

- so yes, when he is a little drunk, he is much less insecure about it but when sober? that is when you might have to love up on him quite a bit and tell you it is really not a big deal to you at all and you love him as he is

✩ honestly, from some pictures i have seen of him, some of his shirts look like they could be a size small!

- so if you are actually built a little bit bigger than him, wether it be more muscular, busty, taller, a little chubby or just generally bigger and his shirts fit you tight, hugging your chest and waist, highlighting your form against the soft cotton?

✩ i will not even lie right now, ivar is kind of very much into it… especially when you wear them with nothing but underwear… he thinks you look crazy hot with his shirt hugging your body, with his shirt showing off your body, he cannot get enough of the sight of your hard nipples pressing against the fabric as the hem of the shirt continuously rides up to just above your belly button and completely reveals your underwear to him… the amount of times you have rode him in your shared bed whilst keeping just his t-shirt on your body as he uses his hands to push it upwards and reveal your tits, the amount of times he has groped your tits through the thin fabric as they bounce along with your movements atop his hard cock is heinous and a lot of his shirts that he lets you wear cannot be worn outside of your apartment now due to some questionable stains that are on them…

- i am not exactly sure why i think this but i feel like ivar is very fragile and soft, i feel like he is kind of insecure about a whole lot of things

✩ he needs a lot of reassurance and comfort kisses from you, please just tell him you love him and tell him how talented you think he is!

- it is one of the reasons he enjoys playing his guitar around you so much, because he gets real and genuine praise from you and that just makes his heart flutter, that just makes his pale face redden with a heated blush

✩ seriously, ivar absolutely loves when you praise his guitar playing! he will often sit on the edge of the bed as he plays whilst you sit just behind him with your head resting on his shoulder or you will stand in the doorway watching! he cannot look up at you though, he gets so red and shy when he sees the look of obvious love and admiration in your eyes… if you give a quiet applause afterwards? he is so smiley and so bashful! always pulling you into him by your hand before placing a soft yet deep kiss on your lips, mumbling against your lips…

“ thank you… for listening to me play, love you so much, you know that? you mean so much to me ” ( no but you really do, i feel like within the first week of meeting you or dating you, ivar just knew you were the one for him, he knew you were are his eternal love )

- when ivar goes through some real issues with alcohol, you would probably be one of the few things that really helps him pull through to the other side, you are what really helps him escape the downward spiral

✩ most likely, it is not even for himself! he could not care any less about his health and whatever at the time but he cares about you and he loves you so much! if you ever threatened to end things with him due to not being able to just watch as he destroys himself, it slaps him with reality really fast… it is seeing you be so upset and so distraught at his drinking problems that really makes him want to quit and he does, if only for you…

- whenever he comes home from band practice or whatever else with darkthrone, sometimes he is just so incredibly tired and worn down, just wanting to do nothing more than collapse right into your comforting arms and sleep with you

✩ often times he will rant to you about how he feels just a bit left out from darkthrone, please just stroke his hair and let him get it out! some easy loving and genuine reassurance from you always makes him feel better, you always make him feel better about things

- just before drifting off to sleep in your arms, he will usually mumble some kind of little apology into your chest, as if he needs to apologise for anything

“ sorry… know it’s not a big deal… thanks… for listening, and loving me, i mean… ” ( he really is just such a sweet guy who needs some intense loving )

✩ when ivar wakes up, still nestled comfortably in your arms, he always lets out the quietest yet loudest sigh of relief… he is just so beyond scared that one day you will get tired of him being whiny and always so upset after band practice, he is just so beyond scared that one day he will wake up and you will have packed up and left him for good…

- he will not ever tell you about these fears though, never! ivar will just lay back down and fall back to sleep on your chest, savouring the intense feeling of love and peace he feels as he lays in your arms, just in case

✩ i do not know, maybe i am really wrong but i just feel like he would have a major fear of losing you! you are the best thing to ever have come into his life and he cannot even begin to imagine waking up in the morning without you being beside him

- speaking of him being nestled in your arms, ivar is such a little cuddle bug! but i actually cannot see him being the big spoon, he seems like a major little spoon to me!

✩ he just likes laying against your chest as you stroke his hair too, he nearly purrs like a cat when you gently scratch his scalp, brush his long hair back out of his face and kiss his head

- ivar is not a huge morning guy, if it was up to him, he would stay cuddled up in bed with you all damn day, just talking and sharing kisses, maybe even getting a little down and dirty if you feel up to it <3

[nolthespoon]

Here's some stuff I wrote for my ELA project!

Ketchup with water

It tastes surprisingly oily, despite being made of ketchup and water. The ketchup has a strange and heavy sweetness. The sour flavourings added should’ve helped to counter the sweetness, but that just made it taste sweeter in comparison to the strong sour flavours. The water diluted the texture to a weirdly thick yet also thin soup. The neutrality of the water just made it have the taste of chalk, which made it taste confusing.

Glue

When you bite into the glue stick, the texture is like a banana but without the fibers and little yellow strings that get caught in your teeth. It tastes like how people describe vanilla to be: plain. Usually, vanilla ice cream is mildly sweet with a fragrant flower taste, that’s the vanilla, but people always describe it as sweet. You could also describe the glue as a banana with the fruity taste gone. It also has a faint smell of chemicals, which makes sense. Not the pool water chlorine kind of chemical taste, but the taste of licorice. It’s a really light taste that you can only sense if you think hard enough.

Snake bile

A dark green liquid that goes from a dark green at the bottom to a sickly light green. Dark green sediments settle at the bottom, like sand. The first drink tastes like pure bitter, the kind of bitter you would only get from letting cold pills dissolve in your mouth. After the initial acrid taste, it becomes strangely sweet and a bit sour. Think of drinking coffee and tasting the fragrance of roasted beans beneath the bitter taste, now replace the taste of beans with the taste of slightly sour white sugar.

Sticky note

Has no taste. The texture is exactly how you would expect paper to be, like paper. It dissolves fast in your mouth and leaves behind little hardened lumps of paper, which you have to swallow yourself.