#but i was ready to cry right there because really I wanted to do the painting program but chickened out a couple months before applying

[douche-canoe-regatta]

I work in retail. I have for well over a decade - different jobs, different environments.

In that entire time, I have had fewer than 5 bad customer experiences. really.

turns out most people (emphasis on MOST) aren't being shitty because they think it's fun. They're going through something and masking as best they can, but when they hit a barrier (product broke/isn't returnable, cost increases, came too late to receive a service, etc) it might be the straw that broke their back. Or they really needed that $10 back, and now they're panicking.

Every single time I encounter someone like this, I don't assume I'M the problem. I assume they're dealing with their own issues and don't know how to express or manage them - they feel misunderstood, cheated, or judged. They're ready to go to war with a business because they don't know any other way to be heard.

But I'm up to listen. I'm here to help.

"I know this policy is frustrating, I'm frustrated too. Let's work together and see what we can do for you." (person accepts that I'm on their side and it's me and them against the company/policy)

"wow, that sounds really stressful. I've been there before, I totally get where you're coming from" (I recognize and identify with their feelings)

THEN I give them options, so many they sometimes get bamboozled into agreeing with me. example:

"I can't return this product because it's damaged. I'm so sorry! Unfortunately I will get into Big Trouble if I tried - actually, I just looked and the system won't even allow me to. Maybe this way...nope! Argh, this sucks! I hate it! I totally get it! I've been there too - isn't it annoying? Well now what you CAN do is go right through the original company - here's their customer service email, I just looked it up for you - and here, I'll even reprint your receipt in case you need it. Oh, and if they won't do that - well, if you put a little glue/tape/stitches right here, it will be good as new. Here's a different store you can buy X product from that might work better for you. I'm sorry this happened, I really do understand. I just want to help. I want to help you."

The results? Well, I've had people cry. I've had customers share with me their mom just died or they're really financially strapped or they were simply having a terrible day. I've seen people deflate like a sad balloon when their anger is met with a listening ear and desire to help. I have had many, many people stomp through a door on the brink of a tantrum and leave with a laugh. I have had 2 separate people come back later and APOLOGIZE for treating me poorly.

in my experience (again, broadly speaking) a significant amount of staff abuse comes from customers who are just constantly getting fucked by capitalism. They come in guns a-blazin' because they're used to fighting with corporations who will bilk you at the drop of a hat, and they expect the same rude, uncaring refusal everywhere they go. These people probably don't have much control over their lives, at least in some capacity. It's honestly really sad - being in their brain must be miserable.

this applies to everyone but coffee shop customers. y'all need to stop using your caffeine addiction as an excuse to be an asshole. chug half a diet coke before you walk out the door or something, that 16 year old behind the counter is doing their best. smdh

People are so much more sad, and desparate, and lonely than you think. I have had three incidents in the last four months were a technician I was working with was being either dangerously unfocused (we work with high voltage), or just flat out angry with their coworkers, and every time when I just pulled them aside to say hey, this isn't you, you're nice, and you're competent, so something must be up - what can I do to help - they have responded by bursting into tears. One guy was struggling to get his wife moved into a care home, one guy just got served divorce papers, and the other hadn't slept a wink the night before because his daughter had the pukes.

I haven't spent my whole life responding to people being rude, or stupid, or dangerous with knee jerk compassion. It's a new habit. The first time I did that as the lead for my lab, it was because the guy genuinely was so good natured that I knew something had to be off. But the other two times were just me going, alright, lets see if it always goes this well, and so far, it has. I'm almost 30, and I just figured out that the #1 reason people are shitty are because they are going through shit.

I don't think you have, like, a moral obligation to respond to people being jerks with knee jerk compassion. But it has made my life so much easier the last four months that I would recommend trying. For your own sake. Please.

(I'll step off my soapbox now. Enjoy your Sunday.)

[illdiealonelyguy]

In Need of Repair

Summary: You've been feeling down, chest heavy and not exactly sure why you're so somber. Spencer comes home from a case and helps you find comfort again.

Genre: hurt/comfort , fluff.

Word count: 1k

The silence ringing through the apartment had you drowning in all the little sounds. The tiresome buzzing from the fridge which stopped and started like it was running out of breath. The hubbub of voices from the television that you had left on. But your eyes had now taken on a watery haze, so all the shapes appeared undefined and confusing. 

You shifted further into your spot on the sofa, a blanket getting tangled around your frame in the process, when you heard the sound of a key fussing in the lock of the front door. Spencer was home.

As the door swung open and Spencer shuffled in with a soft smile on his face, your own face burned with embarrassment as you peered towards him. Finally locking eyes with you, his easy-going expression morphed into one of soft concern, eyebrows drawing inward and mouth twisting slightly. 

Spencer hastily lifted his bag from around his body and discarded it on the nearest chair before striding towards the sofa, kneeling down beside where you lay.

“Angel?” He questioned gently as he reached to place one of his hands on the blanket which swallowed your body, “What’s wrong?”. His thumb stroked back and forth in a soothing pattern as your throat tried to search for the right words to describe how you were feeling. Even you didn’t really know anymore. 

“I…” you started, words catching behind a heaviness in your throat that signified, horrifyingly, that you were going to cry. The will to not do so betrayed you as you shook your head frantically, face twisting with sorrow. Spencer was quick to react, wrapping his arms around you as he shuffled even further forward, allowing you to bury yourself in his chest. 

“I’ve got you,” He whispered repetedly into your hair as a sort of quiet mantra - and a promise. 

You stayed like that for a while, Spencer holding you patiently as your tears eventually began to subside into quiet sniffles and your breathing calmed.

You pulled away from his grasp slowly, wiping your wet face with your hands. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Spencer questioned quietly, taking both of your hands. It was grounding. His warmth allowed you to calm the storm inside of you with something tangible, something real. Like him.

Shaking your head meekly in reply, Spencer nodded in understanding. 

“We can talk when you’re ready,” he stated carefully, “But I want you to understand that I am here for you. I care. So much.”

“I know,”  you replied with a shaky smile, “Thank you.”

Spencer gave you a quick kiss on the cheek, making you smile just that little bit wider in a bashful way, before standing up. “Do you want tea?” he asked. As you nodded in reply, he turned towards the kitchen.

“Wait,” you called as you grabbed his arm, “I’m coming with you.” 

“Okay honey.” 

Spencer took both of your hands before pulling you up off the sofa. Still holding one of your hands, he led the way to the kitchen.

He looked safe and cozy, you thought as you admired his slightly disheveled look. His dark grey cardigan was creased slightly round the sleeves where he must have rolled them up earlier in the day. The collar of his dark purple shirt underneath was undone by two buttons instead of one, tie hanging low. He must have adjusted it like that on the jet in order to get comfortable. 

Once the kettle boiled, the sound of metal hitting ceramic clinked as he stirred both mugs of tea. 

It was endearing, being able to be there when he got home from a case, see him simply live and get on with various domestic routines. 

“Will you let me read to you? I ask, because being read to has significant calming effects on the brain. Not only will my reading to you give you a distraction, but the act of simply listening to me will lower your heart rate and even prepare your body for sleep.”

“That sounds really nice, Spencer.”

“Bedroom?” he questioned.

When you nodded, he carried both of your mugs into the bedroom and settled each one onto your respective bedside tables.

He began changing into his pajamas, which consisted of a white t-shirt and blue-green plaid bottoms.

“Spencer?”

“Hmm?” He replied, struggling to find the hole in his t-shirt to put his head through. You huffed a small laugh before asking: 

“Could I wear one of your sweaters while you read to me?”

Finally pulling the t-shirt over his head and down his body, he looked over at you and smiled.

“Of course you can, angel.”

Opening a draw, he pulled out an old Cal-Tech sweater. Walking over to you, he pulled it over your head, helping you thread your arms through the sleeves.

After kissing the top of your head, he pulled back the covers on the bed and settled on it, patting the space beside him, signifying that you should join him.

As you crawled in beside him, he reached towards his bedside table for a worn book, pages yellowing with age. You glanced at the front cover - Northern Lights by Philip Pullman. 

“I think you’ll enjoy this one” He mumbled as you curled comfortably into his side.

“What’s it about?” you inquired.

“You’ll see.” he answered, amused by your curiosity. You weren't usually that bothered about what he read to you, and enjoyed anything, as long as it was Spencer reading it to you.

The sound of pages turning calmed you as Spencer began reading. 

“Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening Hall, taking care to keep to one side…”

After a couple of pages, your eyes grew heavy as the remains of your tea grew cold and discarded. You melted further and further into Spencer’s side, while his voice continued like faraway music, lulling you into a state of utter calm. Everything felt softer, more plush. 

Before you drifted off completely, you found enough energy to slur something almost undecipherable to Spencer. 

“Thank you.”

“Of course, my angel.” He whispered as he closed the book, placing it back on the bedside table. He laid down beside you, wrapping his arms around you securely before drifting off himself. 

[dewfaerie]

simon riley x reader You're a friend's girlfriend. Off limits. But he can't help it. tw: undetailed depiction of violence (not against reader)

part 2 (you can find part 1 here)

The call comes a little before midnight.

Simon doesn't have your number, but the moment his phone lights up in his dark bedroom, vibrating against the oak wood of his nightstand, he knows. Before reaching for his phone, he knows, a gut feeling, a killer instinct. It's like he anticipated it. In fact, he's been waiting for it, every nerve in his body thrumming with anticipation for months, anger brewing in his guts like a pot left on a stove for long.

"Simon," is the first thing you say and he exhales through his nose, eyes closing at the sound of his own name. It still takes him by surprise how smitten he is, so adoring and a little bit stupid in his love.

"Are you hurt?" He has to know. He needs to know. "Did he hurt you?" But, to someone like Simon, hurt is the last line. He needs to know if the bastard even- "touch you?"

You let out a shaky breath and everything in him coils like a snake. And then you start crying, and he assumes the worst. Because he's a solider, he's seen the horrors. Because he's a human, and he's capable of terrible, terrible things, so he knows. He knows a man is capable of terrible, terrible things. Still, with all the darkness he witnessed and he, himself, bled into this world, he fails to understand how someone can see you, the light a halo around your head, and sharpen their edges to hurt you.

"Darling, please," he murmurs, so desperate, so furious-not at you, never at you- the muscles of his jaw aching, the tendons on his neck rods he'll gladly pull apart from his skin and execute your useless boyfriend, your asshole boss, anyone really, vampire style. "Please talk to me."

"No, he didn't," you say, the words jumping over soft sobs and softer hiccups.

The relief that settles over Simon is heavy, but comforting, the kind of comfort painkillers offer when he comes back from a mission all bloody and aching. So it's temporary, too, because you're crying, and, no matter the reason, it's that deep to him. He'll eliminate anything and everything that makes you flinch, uncomfortable- let alone downright upset, crying. The perfect soldier in him is ready to load the gun, go hunting.

"He followed me home," you murmur into the phone, each word punctuated with a sniffle, with a terrified stutter of his heart. "Sean. I left him a couple of weeks ago and the last few days, he's been sending me some…weird messages. It was harmless at first-"

Simon's already up, tugging on a shirt, reaching for the gun he keeps under his pillow, moving like a ghost through the hallways of his apartment. His movements are methodical, practiced: mask on, gun tucked into the strap around his thigh, the soldier in him stretching awake, pushing against his skin, angrier and bigger than Simon felt before. He's lacing his boots as you offer more information, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.

"-begging me to come back. Then I blocked him and he got angry. Started contacting me from a different phone number every time I blocked him. He then started showing up outside my workplace, sometimes outside my new apartment. I called the cops several times but he leaves before they arrive so they stopped taking me seriously."

He's out the door, in his car. "Bastards," he mutters. "Send me your address, darling."

You pause. "You're coming over?"

He's already out of the parking lot. Nothing you say will be convincing enough for him to do a U turn and go back home, slide under comfortable bed sheets and pretend to sleep, pretend that your safety isn't an itch he can't scratch until he's physically close to you, as much as you'd allow him to be. So if you don't want him in your apartment, he'll camp outside of it, be the scary dog that'll chase away your creepy ex boyfriend.

"I just want to make sure you're safe."

"It's just…he's outside my door right now, and I don't want you to get hurt."

Simon's hold tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles turning as white as the white of his eyes. "Don't worry, I'll be careful." He's easily twice your ex boyfriend's size, in every way possible, so he's not the least bit worried. He's used to knife stabs, and bullet wounds, and fighting, and cleaning the blood off his clothes, off his cuts, off his hands.

"I don't know what he's capable of," you say.

And you don't know what Simon himself is capable of, the things these hands that yearn to protect you had committed. They're never fully clean, never fully innocent, the blood finds home between tender flesh and nail. But, even if he can't bring himself to touch you for fear the blood would seep into your skin, he'll dig these same hands into tender flesh- a flesh far more tender than his, but not any less innocent- and pull apart, sinew by sinew, at a man starving for your pain.

"Everything's going to be okay," he says. Probably not for your lousy ex boyfriend, probably not for Simon, but you will be, and to him, there's little to no difference between you and everything worth the work, the sacrifice. What's a little more blood between tender flesh and nail?

You send him your address. He asks you to stay on the phone, driving twenty miles over the speed limit. It isn't lost on him that he had been driving in the right direction, but he's not delusional enough to consider it a divine guidance. After all, what God would send a demon to your doorsteps?

He's at your doorsteps. Not a demon, but something akin to it, looking every bit the men fathers warn their daughters about. It's intentional, but effortless. How he looks. His face is like that: blank, all hard edges. His frame is like that: wide, all muscles, all scars, tattoos snakes of dark ink wrapping around his biceps, climbing like poison ivy up his neck. His soul is like that: mean, angry, all spite.

Tonight, he intends to plant the fear of God in your ex boyfriend.

When you open the door for him, fear is a hand around your throat; tears are stuck to your lashes, phone clutched in your shaking hand like a lifeline, the screen displaying the ongoing call between you and him, counting down the seconds before he gets to you, before he could whisper to you that everything is going to be okay. Not comfort words, but a promise. Everything will be okay because he will make it okay. He would thrust his hands in the making of the universe and wrap his fingers around timelines to direct life itself in your favor.

For now, he thrusts his hands in his pockets, reigning in the urge to tug you closer, to hug you to him.

"I'm so glad you're here," your breathe out. He feels the weight of your gratitude in the air, settling on his shoulders like morning dew on grass blades, heavy but refreshing, welcomed. "Thank you, Si."

His hands twitch in his pockets. "Of course. No need to thank me. The street is empty. No sign of him in the building either." He scanned the perimeters with the same care, same dedication, same attention to details and awareness of anomalies he would conjure in missions. Perhaps even more. More than a soldier, he felt like a hunting dog, canines bearing at dark alleys, ears perking up at cats rummaging in trash cans.

You exhale softly, shoulders sagging under the weight of relief. "This is so embarrassing," you say with a self-deprecating laugh, stepping aside to let him in.

Simon doesn't even trust the seconds it takes for him to walk past you, doesn't trust the door won't somehow warp and shift into your shitty ex boyfriend. "It's not," he says softly, stepping closer to you, hand finding your lower back, guiding you inside, keeping you in front of him where you'll be safer.

The contact between his palm and your back is almost torture.

He closes the door behind him, locks it. You're watching him, shifting from one leg to the other, still teeming with unresolved anxiety. He understands his presence is not enough to evaporate all the byproduct feelings of being stalked for weeks, but Simon is a soldier, has been for the bigger part of his life, he was not made to comfort.

"Tea?"

He was made to hunt, to kill. But for you, he would twist and bend parts of himself, melt all the sharp edges and pour them into a mold so he's made to comfort, too.

His offer catches you off guard, but you nod anyway, uncertain, curious.

You sit at the kitchen table while he makes tea, asks you about your work, how you like the neighborhood, how you like your new apartment. It's all a distraction tactic. Anything to drive your attention away from the thought that your ex boyfriend is pulling apart at his flesh, desperate to get to you, to hurt you. But Simon is curious about your life, about you. He openly stares when you remember some anecdote about work and laugh, or when you ramble on and on about your neighbors, a finger absentmindedly twirling a lock of your hair, your smile soft and carefree, your earlier fears and anxieties washed away by small talk that Simon usually sucks at but finds is so easy to indulge in when he's interested, starving for any word that comes out of your mouth, any casual recounts that hints at what you like, what you don't like, what makes you smile…

He realises, with a start, this is the most domestic setting he's ever been in. And he doesn't hate it, but it is a bit scary. Simon Riley, codename Ghost, the big boy with a skull mask on his face and murder intent in every blood vessel inside his body, one of the deadliest soldiers, wanted by more criminals than any crime fighting organisation has on record- is intimidated by the idea of being domestic, by the idea of you. And the idea of you is soft. The idea of you is gentle.

The idea of you is surrender. Surrender his armor, surrender to his most violent desires. (Not violent in nature, but violent in intensity).

"You make a good cup," you murmur, lips on the rim of the mug in your hands.

Fuck, he's a goner, he's done for. He hums in reply, takes a sip of his tea to have something to do with his mouth. He's a stranger to compliments.

"Thank you for coming over, Si."

"You don't need to thank me."

"You didn't have to." You're looking at him with so much softness, so much gratitude, it almost undoes him in the middle of your kitchen. "You don't owe me anything. We barely know each other and yet…yet, you drove all the way here in the middle of the night just because I was scared."

It's true. You don't know him that well, and he admits he knows so little about you. But, every time he found himself three knees deep into a mental hole he dug, he thought of how, in your own way, you protected him. His fears were minuscule in comparison to the grand scheme of things, of life, but he will never forget how you tilted your head to the side, mouthed the word kitchen, and led him away from your shitty ex boyfriend and his group of equally shitty friends playing a shooter game where the bullet sounds got under his skin, unearthed a fear that wrapped a cold, bony hand around his throat.

Every time he convinced himself to agree to join one of those dinner and games night your shitty ex boyfriend loved hosting, it was the thought of you that reached over and pulled him out of the quick sands he kept sinking into.

"That's enough reason for me to come," he tells you, his eyes locked with yours. This is him being brave, his heart lurching up his throat and sliding down to his sleeve. "You could be just bored and I'll still come."

He's selfish, so fucking selfish, and he knows that. but god, how bad it hurts when his atoms start ripping at the seams, reaching for you. And he's been so good, so in control of his own desires, keeping his distance, reminding himself you were with someone and now- this is dangerous.

The way you're looking at him is dangerous.

And he can feel his heart trashing in his chest, desperate and hungry, the same way he would feel a bullet wound: physically, achingly. But he tells himself this isn't the right time. He refuses to acknowledge and profess his own feelings in a moment where you're experiencing what must be one of the scariest nights of your life. It would be selfish and, perhaps, a bit manipulative, too. He has some form of power over you now, because you're terrified and relying on him for your safety, and he refuses to abuse that.

"Simon-"

"You don't have to say anything, darling."

"But I-"

A knock. Then another. And another, and another. Each one more aggressive than the last, more desperate, loud enough to be mistaken for gun shots. You flinch, eyes wide, folding into yourself as fear sinks toothpick teeth deep into your skin, touching bones.

Simon is next to you in an instant, kneeling in front of you, large hands swallowing yours in a warm, reassuring hold. "Look at me-" you do, immediately. God, he's a goner, done for. "It's okay. I'm here. I need you to do something for me."

You nod, chin quivering, your breathing shallow, labored.

"Go to your bedroom and put on your headphones for me, yeah?" His voice is gentle, so at odds with the storm of violence and fury brewing in the cavity of his chest. "Play your favourite music until I come back. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

You nod once, twice, blinking back the shimmer in your eyes, trying so hard to stay strong, unshakable. Simon's heart aches at the sight. He helps you up, watches you stumble towards your bedroom, his hands clenching and unclenching, fingers flexing, jaw so tight it hurts.

The knocking stops for a second. Simon closes his eyes, exhales through his nose. He's not bringing forth the soldier, Ghost has always been at the tips of his fingers. He's more so wrapping the dark tendrils around his fist, reigning in the all consuming rage he's been swallowing back for weeks.

The knocking resumes. Simon's eyes snap open, something dark and old, as old as time, hums right under his skin, drooling at the thought of violence, at the promise of hurling all the frustration out of a dislocated jaw into the mouth of the man trying so desperately to hurt you.

The distance between the kitchen and the front door vanishes under his thundering boots. It's all a blur; the sickening crack following a fist connecting with a jaw is too familiar, like a lullaby. Your ex boyfriend immediately falls to the ground, cradling his cheek, spitting blood and curses. Simon is on him like a second skin, punching him into the pristine wooden floor of the building until he stops struggling, then he grabs him by the collar, drags him to the elevator, whistling under his breath like he's a law abiding citizen taking out the trash.

Nobody crosses his path. Simon wouldn't have cared anyway. He hauls your ex boyfriend, who's reeking of alcohol and cheap cologne, into a back alley, presses the bottom of his military boots to his chest until the bastard starts wheezing, and tells him to never come back, never look your way, never contact you again because Simon will kill him with cold blood and colder hands.

"I'll always be around her," Simon says, looking down at the bastard with sharp eyes, sharper jaw, hands wound into tight fists, knuckles raw and red. "Come around again, contact her again, and it'll be the last thing you do. This is my last warning."

[watchmegetobsessed]

LEFT UNSAID (part 4)

A/N: well the warning is kind of a spoiler so im not gonna say anything else 👀 we have one more part of this mini series!

WARNING: sexual content

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

SERIES MASTERPOST| MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

THEN

I’ve been doing well, avoiding falling into my negative spirals lately and maybe that has something to do with Harry. Or maybe not, but the thought is nice.

But letting go of old habits is not that easy and all those triggering moments and topics still lurk, ready to sink their claws into me and pull me down. That’s what happens when, after a particularly shitty day at work when a phone call with my mother takes the wrong turn. 

I love my mother, I really do, but our values and ideology are sometimes polar opposites and can easily clash. I know she doesn’t have ill intentions, but her words cut deeper today than usual. She asks about dating and tells me I’m kind of running out of time to settle down and then comes the part where she tells me maybe I should lose some weight, dress differently, do more to look appealing to men and just like that, I’m falling into my spiral. 

I try to climb out, but I can’t. Not on my own. The thoughts just keep coming; I’m not good enough, I’m not worthy of love, I will never be, I need to change myself if I want someone to love me and so on. 

It never ends. 

I climb into bed, stare at the wall blankly as the thoughts just keep echoing in my mind, but just like a sliver of light, something breaks the pattern.

“You can call me,” Harry’s voice rings in my ears. “Whenever. If things are bad or you feel like you’re losing your mind, I’m here.. Even if it’s 3AM and you just feel off and don’t know why. Call me.”

I reach for my phone and open his contact that I’ve been using very generously ever since our Q&A date, but my thumb lingers over the number hesitantly. The doubts bubble instantly, whether he actually meant it, but I’m able to push past that. 

I’ve been here before, so many times and nothing ever changes. Why don’t I try reaching out just for once? See if it turns things around.

I start the call before I could change my mind, checking the time only after. It’s almost 11 pm and tomorrow is a workday, not ideal. I’m almost about to end the call when he picks up. 

“Sigrid?” 

Just from hearing my name, my full name from him lightens the weight in my chest. 

“Hey. I hope you weren’t sleeping.”

“No, not yet. What’s up?” he asks softly.

I stay quiet, not sure how to start or what to say, but as if he could understand my silence just as clearly as my words, he is the first one to speak up. 

“Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?” He is talking so gently, it feels like a warm hug. 

“I just… I’m not feeling good right now.”

“Did something happen?” I hear him shuffling around and I imagine him pacing in his apartment. 

“No. Not really. It’s… I don’t know how to talk about it.”

“Okay. Tell me what are you feeling right now.”

“Just… Not good. I don’t feel good about myself and where I am, I mean, in life.”

“What made you feel like that?”

He keeps me talking until he finally gets a picture of what’s going on. Gentle and understanding, he listens and waits and asks just the right questions. Slowly, I calm down just enough that my head is not pounding from the urge to cry. 

“Sigrid, I’m gonna ask you to do something, okay?” he asks when we’ve been on the phone for probably over half an hour. 

“Okay.”

“Can you get out of bed?”

I hesitate, but hum in response and climb out of my depression cocoon. 

“Now go to your front door.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, okay?”

I sigh, but follow his instructions, padding through my apartment, walking up to the front door.

“Now what?” I ask curiously.

“Now open it.”

I freeze, because his voice doesn’t only come from the phone but from outside as well. My hand that’s holding my phone drops as I reach for the door and open it and there he is. Standing on my doormat, phone still held to his ear, a soft smile tugging on his lips. 

I can’t stop my lips from quivering and I practically throw myself into his arms as he steps inside. 

“You shouldn’t have come here so late,” I mumble against his shoulder and exhale his scent, secretly hoping he might leave his hoodie for me, because I want to smell him even when he’s not here. 

“But I wanted to,” he simply answers. We stay like that, melted together for a while longer before we let go of each other and Harry closes the door behind him. 

He suggests sitting on the couch, but I want to be back in bed, so we move over to my bedroom. He stops by my bed as I climb back in and I know he is worrying about wearing his outside clothes.

“I don’t mind,” I tell him.

“You sure?”

I nod. He pulls his hoodie over his head, revealing a simple white t-shirt underneath, he folds the hoodie to the back of my chair by my desk and then joins me in bed. We’re not touching, just lying on our sides, facing each other. 

There’s so much I want to tell him, but nothing comes out. Instead, I’m just basking in the feeling of… being chosen. I didn’t ask him to come and he still did, he cares and listens and I feel noticed finally. 

“Do you want to talk some more?” I shake my head.

“No. I mean, yes, but about something else.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know. Something that takes my mind off of all the shitty things.”

Harry thinks to himself for a bit. He blinks slowly and I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes. 

“Alright… did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally entered a salsa competition in Barcelona?”

I blink at him, stunned and curious.

“What? No, you didn’t.” Harry grins.

“Dead serious. I thought I was signing up for a game of beerpong. My Spanish was not great or more like nonexistent and the guy just kept nodding and pointing toward this little stage.”

“Oh my God.” I feel a smile stretching across my face.

“Next thing I know, I’m paired with someone’s abuela who spun me like a damn pro. I was sweating blood in front of a crowd of at least fifty people, all cheering.”

“Please tell me there’s video footage.”

“Unfortunately for me and very fortunately for you, yes. Jeff, my friend who I was with there, has it on his phone.”

I laugh, short and sharp, like I didn’t expect it to come out. It’s the kind of laugh that surprises you because you didn’t think you still had it in you. Harry’s smile softens.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he says. My cheeks warm and I bury my head into the pillow a little more, but I can still see him. 

He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t try to fix anything. Just stays, close but not too close. Present.

After a beat of silence, I ask: “Why did you really come?”

He meets my eyes, no hesitation. 

“Because you called. And because if something feels heavy for you, I want to help carry it. Even if I can’t fix it, I can sit in it with you.”

I blink at him, touched by his words, but my hesitance is still there.

“I don’t always know how to ask.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You could call me in the middle of the night and say ‘I don’t feel like being alone’ and I’ll be there. No questions. You never have to be the one holding all of it by yourself.”

I nod, trying to swallow around the knot in my throat. 

“Okay.”

And we just lie there, close but not touching, like a storm passed through and we’re waiting for the quiet after. I’m tired, emotionally and physically, but I don’t want to sleep just yet. 

“We still have one last question to answer.”

“Do you want to do it now?” he offers and I nod. 

He digs into his backpocket, pulls his phone out and as if it’s the most natural thing ever, he reaches for me and pulls me closer until he is lying on his back, I’m curled by his side, head resting on his gently rising and falling chest. He holds the phone so we both can see the screen, then opens up the list of questions and scrolls to the last one.

“Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how they might handle it,” he reads it out loud and his chest vibrates under my cheek as he speaks. 

The question hovers between us, glowing faintly on the screen. His thumb lingers there, like he’s waiting for me to go first. I take a breath and exhale slowly against his t-shirt. 

“I think…” I start, and already my voice trembles a little, “my problem is that I’m falling for someone.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but I feel the shift, his chest rising just a little more deliberately, like he’s bracing himself.

“And it’s terrifying,” I continue. “Because it’s not just anyone. It’s someone who already means a lot to me. Who I’ve known in ways that I haven’t known anyone.”

My fingers find the hem of his t-shirt, just to have something to hold and I start fidgeting with the fabric. 

“I don’t know how to say it without risking what we already have. Or if I should say it at all.” I pause, pressing my lips together. “What would you do?”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s gentle and careful.

Harry shifts just slightly as I lift my head as well so he can look down at me, his voice comes low and steady, with a hint of something behind it I can’t quite name.

“The kind of connection you’re describing… it doesn’t come around often.” It sounds like his words are not only meant for me, but himself as well. I put my head back to his chest and close my eyes.

“I know. That’s why it’s so scary to face it. I think I never believed I would ever experience it.”

Another silence and I can feel myself drifting off to sleep. 

“It is scary, yeah,” I hear him and it’s the last thing that echoes in my mind before I’m knocked out. 

When I wake up in the morning, I still feel emotionally tired, but also lighter than usually after a breakdown like last night’s. I bury my face deeper into my pillow, not entirely ready to start the day, but then I remember what else happened last night, that Harry came over, that we lied in bed and I indirectly told him I’m falling for him. 

I blink my eyes open, expecting him to be right there next to me, but the mattress is empty where he laid last night. I sit up, rub my eyes and look around. His hoodie is gone from the chair as well. Walking out of the bedroom I’m still hoping to find him maybe on the couch or in the kitchen, but he is gone. 

He left without a word.

A sinking feeling spreads in my chest, like something is wrong. At first I just carry on with my morning. I’m working from home so I set up my laptop and read through my emails with a coffee, but I can’t really focus. It’s almost noon when I decide to send Harry a text.

Thanks for yesterday. When did you leave?

I get back to my work, but keep an eye on my phone, eagerly waiting for a response that comes about an hour later.

Glad I could help. I had some things to take care of so I left around six.

It’s a simple text, nothing outstanding, but it feels off. It’s not how he usually texts me. 

The thought keeps eating me away for the rest of the workday. I can barely focus during meetings, I move very slow with tasks I do everyday. When I can finally turn my laptop off I decide I need to do something.

So I head over to Harry’s place so we could talk in person. 

When I reach his block I slow my steps down, suddenly unsure if it was a good idea to come here without letting him know. I cross the street and stop by a shop that’s across his building and I pace a little, trying to convince myself to just do it. 

I’m just about to step off the curb, to cross the street and buzz his flat, when I freeze, because I spot him. 

He’s stepping out of his building, but not alone. There’s a girl beside him and from my social media deep dive I did earlier, I recognize Taylor, his ex. Her hand brushes his arm as they walk, casual, familiar, Taylor is telling him something and he listens intently, with undivided attention. I know it because he’s been listening to me like that the past two weeks. 

It’s like someone just poured a bucket of ice cold water over me. The air leaves my lungs in a rush and all I can do is stand there like an idiot, heart pounding around in my chest.

I take a step back instinctively, ducking behind a rack of postcards outside the shop. I don’t know why I hide, maybe because I don’t want him to see the look on my face. Maybe because I don’t want to find out what would happen if he saw me. 

I watch them walk down the street, opposite the direction of where I’m standing. Right before they turn on the corner, I catch as Harry places a hand to the small of her back, gently pushing her forward as they pass a couple on the pavement, a small, casual move but in this scene it feels like a knife in my heart. Then they disappear from my sight. 

I don’t know where they’re going. I don’t know why they are together. I don’t want to know. All I know is the ache in my stomach and chest, raw and sudden and stupid and so fucking furiating. Because I let myself believe that something shifted last night. That what I said meant something to him. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. Either way, I can’t stand here like this, so I turn and walk in the opposite direction, my hands shaking as I stuff them into my pockets.

I don’t cry. Not yet. I just walk fast and try not to think about how warm he felt last night, or how he looked at me when I opened the door and found him standing there. I hold it all back until I’m home, but once the front door is closed behind me, it all bursts out of me. 

I smack my back against the door, slide down to the floor and let it all out. I cry and sob and cry some more and when I think I’m done I start again. I have no idea how much time passes by, at one point I climb onto the couch so I’m not sitting on the cold tiled floor. It’s dark outside by the time I calm down. I lie there on the couch in the dim light of my living room, surrounded by the quiet hum of nothing, and I stare at the ceiling like it might offer answers. But it doesn’t, it just stares back, blank, just how I feel. 

My phone’s on the coffee table, it’s been silent since the last text from Harry. Not a Hey, not a Can we talk, not even a goddamn meme. He is not thinking about me at all while I’m wrecking myself over him. 

I reach for my phone and stare at his name in my recents. My thumb hovers over the screen, and for a second, I hesitate, but then I end up calling.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. 

“Hey,” Harry answers on the fourth ring, casual and calm, like he doesn’t feel the weight of me unraveling on the other end.

“Are you back together with Taylor?” I ask, skipping the greetings. There’s a beat of silence on his end.

“What? Why?”

“I saw you with her today, coming out of your place.” 

Another pause. “Sigrid–”

“Don’t. Just don’t pretend that didn’t happen. I saw you,” I repeat. 

“We ran into each other,” he says quietly. “We were just grabbing lunch. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” I laugh bitterly. “You left my bed this morning without a word. I told you–God! I told you I was falling for you, and you disappeared!”

“I didn’t disappear,” he says, but he sounds less sure now. “I just… I needed time and space to think.”

“Right. And Taylor’s the kind of space you needed?”

There’s a long silence, way longer than what I can bear and then he sighs.

“I think we got carried away,” he says, voice tight like it hurts him to say it. “I’m not ready for this. I thought I was, but I’m not.”

That’s another bucket of ice water, right in my face. Along with a knife in my chest.

I sit up, gripping the edge of the couch cushion.

“You don’t get to tell someone they matter and then decide they don’t.”

“I never said you don’t matter–”

“You didn’t have to,” I snap, my throat burning. “You said it with every choice you made today. You said it when you walked away this morning. When you didn’t call. When you showed up beside her like last night didn’t happen.”

His breath is shallow on the other end. I hear the shift of his footsteps, maybe he is pacing.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you did!”

He doesn’t respond.Not right away. Just the sound of silence stretching between us, I’m staring at the floor as if he would materialize there if I concentrate hard enough. A tear rolls down my cheek and my vision blurs.

“I care about you,” he finally says, softer now.

I press my lips together and nod, even though he can’t see me. 

“Okay.”

“Sigrid–”

“No,” I whisper. “I think that’s all I needed to hear.”

And I end the call. I sit there, the quiet louder than ever, and this time when I cry, it’s different. Not because of what could’ve been. But because I finally see what won’t be.

NOW

I wake up because I feel hot. Not my entire body, just the backside of it and my waist all around. My eyes are still closed, my dream that I woke from still lingers in my mind. I remember Harry and the pullout, that it crashed and he–

That wasn’t a dream. That’s what happened. The couch gave up and I invited him to sleep in the bed beside me. 

Suddenly, I feel like I’m in my bedroom in the morning after he came over and calmed me down. My heart starts pounding, a flashback of what it was like to find him gone sinking its claws into me. I’m shaken up, my breathing fastens and my skin burns, but then I feel something tightening around my waist and I realize what it is. An arm.

Harry’s arm.

A moment passes and another and I realize that he is lying behind me, curled up against my back, an arm hooked around my waist to keep me close. I instantly relax and melt into his hold as he shifts behind me too so I know he’s awake. 

But he doesn’t change the position and neither do I. Instead, I push further back against him. 

My lips part when I feel his erection pressing against my ass. He exhales sharply at my movement, his breath hitting my shoulder and a moment later he nuzzles his nose against it. 

Somewhere, deep down I know this is not right. I know that I shouldn’t do it, but the warning voice quickly dissolves when I feel his palm flat against my lower stomach, putting a gentle pressure on me before his fingers start inching lower. When they reach the elastic of my sleep shorts he stops, waiting, asking for permission. 

I buckle my hip, pushing myself against his erection as my answer and that’s all he needs. 

His hand slips under the fabric of my shorts and then cups me, his warm touch melting against my even more heated core. I can’t help the moan that slips out of my mouth.

“Fuck, Sigrid,” Harry groans behind me and my whole body pulses from the way he just used my full name again. 

Two of his fingers find my clit and start drawing circles, I can’t stop myself from grinding against his touch which has my ass rubbing against his cock too. I feel his lips against my shoulder, placing gentle kisses on my heated skin and I let my head roll back to his shoulder. With one hand I grab his wrist, but I don't intend to stop him, I just need something to hold onto as his fingers keep working me, my other hand reaches back and tangles into his hair, tugging on his locks whenever he hits a special spot. 

If I heard the pornographic moan that slips past my lips once he slides two fingers inside me, I would have definitely been ashamed, but I cannot care about that, not when I can feel my orgasm building and I have Harry grinding against me and he just keeps whispering my name, like he is begging. And maybe he is, begging for mercy, for relief, for more. 

His face is pressed against mine and I turn my head, our lips almost touch, but he only reaches my cheek, kissing it softly while his fingers show me no mercy.

“Harry, I’m–Uh!” I can’t even form words, my eyes shut closed, mouth hangs open.

“So perfect.” Harry whispers against my shoulder, pressing another, open-mouthed kiss to the exposed skin. “Come on, Sigrid, let it go for me.”

That’s all I need. I come, hard, gasping for air, the waves of my pleasure wash over me and I’m so gone like never before. I’m sweating and pulsing and as my orgasm slowly fades I become very aware of Harry’s hand between my legs, his fingers still lazily moving between my slick folds. He is peppering my shoulder with kisses again and once I can breathe normally, I realize that his erection is still pressed against me. 

My instinct is to do something about that, preferably something similar to what he just did to me, but right then, there’s a knock on the door and I snap back to reality.

The one where I’m finally aware of the fact that Harry just made me come and I was about to return the favor.

Fuck. Fucking fuck!

“Ziggy?” I hear Jade’s voice coming from outside. “You up?” 

I jerk up, sit on my heels, eyes wide and my heart is about to jump right out of my chest. My eyes fall to Harry, who is still lying, now on his back and his hard-on is very obvious.

“Yeah?” I call out, my voice way squeakier than I intended.

“Can you be done with breakfast in twenty? The makeup artist just arrived so we could start getting ready earlier.”

“Sure! No problem!”

“Great!” A short pause, then she speaks again. “Harry?”

“Yes, Jade?” he answers, his face seemingly blank as he stares at the ceiling but I can tell he is annoyed. Jade doesn’t answer right away.

“Nothing. Just wanted to know if you’re there.”

I hear her walk away and I’m certain she has the biggest shit-eating grin on her face, because she just got confirmation that we did in fact share the bed. She surely noticed our voices came from the same spot, this is a win for her. 

But I’m too busy panicking to worry about Jade’s master plan. I have a way bigger problem to deal with. 

Harry sits up, leans on one hand and reaches out for me with the other, but I jump out of the bed, probably looking quite dishevelled. 

“This, um… I can’t right now.”

“Sigrid–”

“No. This was… It shouldn’t have happened. Fuck.”

Before he could get another word out I rush into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, locking it. I hear him get out of bed and walk over to the door and I’m afraid he might try to talk through it, so I quickly strip and get in the shower, tuning out any voices that could come from outside. 

I stand under cold water for way longer than my body would like it, but I think I just need it. As if I could wash what just happened away. My skin is numb. Not from the cold, but from everything building inside meI don’t know if I want to cry or scream or just rewind the past twenty minutes and stop myself before I let it all get so… messy.

What the hell was I thinking?

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the tiled wall. My fingers are trembling a little, either from the temperature or the adrenaline. His touch is still fresh on my skin, I can feel his fingers on my waist, my stomach and between my legs and don’t even get me started on how I’m practically burning where his lips kissed me. 

I have no idea how long I stand there, but I turn off the water abruptly, almost violently, like I need to cut myself off before I start spiraling. I wrap myself in a towel, avoiding my reflection as I step out into the steamy room. I brace for the awkwardness, for him waiting outside, asking if I’m okay, or worse, pretending like none of it happened.

But when I open the bathroom door, the room is empty.

The bed is still unmade, a reminder of what happened there not long ago. 

I ignore the ache in my chest, after all, this just saves me the conversation I didn’t want to have. But still, there is a tiny little something that’s disappointed he disappeared. 

I swallow it down quickly, get dressed and start the day. It’s gonna be a busy one. Because we have a wedding to have and I also have to deal with the mess I made myself.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[lusmeitli]

Measure for measure (Bucky x female reader)

Summary: Bucky is like a ticking time bomb during the fitting of his latest Avengers suit. But it’s not his past that has him so riled up. One shot.

Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader

Warnings: Mentions of prosthetic, piss poor sewing references, implied smut, reader trying to be nice but being a bit of a tease, fluff-ish, bit of steam.

A/N: I did a little tidy up and found this sat in my folder, gathering cobwebs. (Probably for a reason…) It’s just meant to be a little fluff. I’m acutely aware that I don’t do Bucky any justice regarding character portrayal, nor Steve, Natasha or Sam. Like I said, it’s just a little ball of floof because tomorrow’s Monday and that’s reason enough.

~~~~~

Natasha’s measurements are top secret.

You know this, because you’re the only person – alive – who is allowed to take her measurements for her Avengers suit.

People have tried to hack into your computer, your phone to get the numbers. They offered you money and, as a last resort, tried to spike your drink to get the info out of you.

It’s amusing, really. How they all underestimate you. Because your lips are sealed.

Natasha’s promise to kill you if word ever gets out is a terrific boost for loyalty. Not that you need it. Of course she delivered her death threat in an incredibly persuasive way, that made your glasses steam up a bit and almost made you want to try out batting for the other team. You now know why she’s so deadly.

She likes her suits to be ‘nice and tight’, so they don’t bother her when she’s ‘getting up real close and familiar, busting someone’s nuts’. Her words. You make sure they’re all like a second skin and as long as she’s happy you stay alive. You hope. Unless, of course, she has a wicked sense of humour, but you’d rather not bet on that.

Not a module that was taught for your fashion design degree at university, how to deal with death threats from customers. And you certainly didn’t think this was where you’d end up: at Stark Industries, as the right hand of the Supply Sergeant in the Armory. You tend to tactical gear, uniforms and the Avengers’ suits.

Checking the suits for holes, tears or weak seams, repairing them, taking measurements of staff for new garments is not the job you had envisioned, back when you were designing your first fashion line on your granddad’s kitchen floor with an old table cloth.

Of course you didn’t know better, you were six, after all. The dream that kept you going through your school and university years was to see your designs on the runways at the Paris and London fashion week and that your clothes would make people and the planet happy alike.

And then, somewhere along the line, you realised that though you had the talent, skill and drive, there were people out there who had all that AND were in the right place at the right time. You were simply not one of them. 

So whilst this is a far cry from the sustainable haute couture you dreamt of, the job is challenging and fascinating. The fabrics you work with are state of the art, some of them developed by the very Tony Stark. His best work, indisputably, are the Avenger suits and, of course, the Iron man suits. Not that you’ve ever seen those though. Not exactly fabric based, those suits.

Whilst your boss, the Supply Sergeant, works closely with Stark, you’re several floors below, in what can only be described as a massive windowless haberdashery.

There are several other people working here, some sewing, others getting orders ready for missions or new starters. You’re involved in all tasks and the running of the workshop.

On today’s to-do list is taking the measurements of some of the Avengers – Steve Rogers put them all on different diets and work out plans, something about improving physical health, you just skimmed the email. Consequently, there’s now more muscle mass to accommodate in the suits. Nanotech fabrics don’t ‘accommodate’, hence the re-fit.

Having their measurements taken is not something everyone feels particularly comfortable with. Standing still and having someone run a tape along your body – understandable, really. But exact measurements are essential to ensure a good, comfortable fit. You try to make it quick and as uninvasive as possible.

There’s only one tiny issue as you look at the list of Avengers. Right there, at 5.45pm.

It’s six foot tall and called Bucky Barnes.

The problem is not that at every fitting he’s clenching and unclenching his fists each time you (have to) touch him.

Neither is the fact that his breath hitches when you measure his inseam as fast as you accurately can. Which you think is understandable, given his past.

Or that due to his prosthetic arm, his tops are a bit more challenging, so the fitting takes a bit longer.

The problem is that, well, the very first time you laid your measuring tape on him, you had to remind yourself to remain professional. To drag your eyes from his. To not let them run over the toned muscles of his chest, arm, legs. To remind your fingers not to linger. It took a herculean effort on your part to not do exactly that.

Maybe the problem is not that you think Bucky’s insanely attractive and you’re imagining him to father all of your future babies on a daily basis. Which is almost as terrifying as Bucky himself. But, considering the fact that he’s Captain America’s best friend, he also has to be a really decent guy, hidden incredibly well under all the broody silence and grunts you’re getting at each fitting. That or he’s extremely shy, also understandable.

Maybe the real problem is that you have zero sex life.

Some time after the slow fizzling out and amicable breakup of a relationship, your bestie had suggested a one night stand, because “after patiently watching you shrivel up like a prude prune for a goddamn year” she’d had enough. So she dragged you to a bar and you did indeed take a man home.

A co-worker, no less. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Less effort, having something actually interesting to talk about, and the knowledge that Stark Industries runs meticulous security checks on all employees. This knowledge, you figured, would make you more likely to orgasm without having the worry of potentially getting murdered on your mind.

Unfortunately, you found out that rough sex was not for you after all. He left bruises on you that stained your skin for weeks, like badges of shame. You had to wear a scarf for two weeks. In the August heat no less. The lack of oxygen had scared you to death, so the whole experience was less than satisfactory.

The most embarrassing thing was when he woke up the next morning, he took one look at you and muttered something about needing to return a book to the library.

You told him you had to go wash your hair.

Which you actually did do, after you’d scrubbed your body raw in the shower.

Naturally, things were awkward at work, until he was thankfully transferred to a new unit. You swore off casual sex and invested in a vibrator instead.

Kept you happy enough.

Until, of course, Sergeant Barnes entered your life.

He makes you nervous alright. But not because he is an ex-assassin.

Actually, it’s the Cap’s fault. Because Rogers loves his bestie so openly and unconditionally. Steve doesn’t just go round loving anybody like that. Those two share a special kind of bond and it becomes clear on the rare occasions that they attend your studio together that the Captain seems to draw out a totally different side of him.

The first time you heard Bucky laugh it went straight to the nucleus of every cell in your body. 

That was a busy night for your vibrator.

Hence you feel more than nervous about the 5.45pm appointment. But before that you have other customers and your first one is Sam.

You have your mockups, pins, notepad and measuring tape ready when Sam wanders out of the changing room, wearing the new suit.

“It’s good, I love it. But… I don’t know how to say this…,” his rubs his neck, “I’m gonna need a little extra space.”

You push your glasses back up your nose. “Of course. Where?”

He looks like he wants to be somewhere else. “Uh, a little more, um, berth for my… brothers.”

His eyes flit downwards before looking back up, at anything but you.

Ah.

You quickly check your notes to see who took the measurements – not you, thankfully – before apologising. Not the best start and it’s only 8.37am.

*****

You’re alone when Bucky enters. Maybe it is because your staff is scared of him or they clocked off early, you’re not sure.

He looks tired as he grabs the suit off the railing and disappears into the changing room without so much as a word. When he steps out, there’s a buzz around him that makes you gulp.

You walk around him, looking him up and down. He smells delicious and it makes you a little dizzy. He looks absolutely drop dead gorgeous and perfect in it. The black trousers are a great fit; they sit perfectly on his crunchy buttocks and strong thighs, allowing free movement, whilst providing protection and practicality. The leather top is more streamlined, but you’re worried about the fit with his prosthetic. Your eyes drift back down to his legs and your brows furrow.

You drop to your knees, not clocking his sharp intake of breath, and quickly adjust the seam on his left leg. You put a pin in the fabric and sit back on your heels, wiping your clammy palms on your thighs. That’s better.

“Does it feel okay? Can you move alright?” you say, looking up and pushing your glasses back up the bridge of your nose.

His eyes slam shut, his nostrils flare, he licks his lips and clenches and unclenches his fists again.

Oh no. You forgot your golden rule of telling him what was going to happen before you do it. You figured it would help him get over feeling too uncomfortable with you. Only today… you didn’t. How could you?

You scramble to your feet, stepping well out of his personal space.

“Sorry about that, I just noticed your left leg seam was still out, had to tidy it up, didn’t think about warning you,” you babble nervously. “How’s the top? Is it okay with your prosthetic?”

He takes a few deep, calming breaths, before his eyes open. They look dark. He’s probably pissed off with you and rightly so.

He moves his arms, assuming poses you imagine he does when doing superhero things. He rolls his shoulders and cringes. It’s there for less than a second, the discomfort, but you see it.

“Can I check the jacket?” you ask and as soon as he nods you step up to him, your hands inside the garment, on his shoulder. Carefully, you feel around if there’s enough space, or if there is some issue with the seams. You can’t feel anything out of the ordinary.

Bucky’s breathing comes out laboured. Your hands drop immediately. He’s traumatised, of course he reacts like that.

“I’m so sorry, I’m trying to make this as fast as I can for you,” you mumble, horrified and take a step back.

“It’s not the jacket,” he finally grinds out through clenched teeth. He shrugs out of the garment. “Stump’s a bit sore today, is all.”

You swallow dry.

“I could… I could take a look?” you offer nervously, adding: “My brother is an amputee, leg, and I used to help when he had phantom pain or his stump hurt.”

He studies you with those piercing eyes for a long moment, before he moves to take off the prosthetic with a click – and hands it to you.

He would trust you with his artificial arm? You take the arm from him, nervously. 

It’s lighter than you expected. It whirrs and feels warm from his body heat. Carefully, you place it on the table next to you, ensuring it can’t fall off or get dirty. When you turn back to him, he’s pulled the t-shirt he’s wearing up and over his head, showing you his stump.

The breath is nearly knocked out of you. He’s only half undressed and your mouth is literally watering. He’s beautiful. You definitely need to get laid. You fist your hands in the fabric of your trousers so you don’t reach out, because that’s all you want to do. Touch his chest, close your lips around his nipples – they pebble under your gaze – maybe he’s chilly. You want to run your hands over his skin, down his abs, and… is that a happy trail?

You shake your head, willing the images away. Focus!

HYDRA didn’t bother creating a stump with a sock. The metal plates dig deep into his skin, the metal socket where the arm attaches is surrounded by rough scar tissue and skin that is raw red with some blisters. 

“They gave you metal plates instead of a sock?” you ask quietly, finally looking up at him.

His pupils are blown. Must hurt more than he lets on. Eventually, he nods.

“That looks really painful. You know it’s not supposed to be like that, don’t you?”

The look he gives you speaks volumes.

“How on earth are you supposed to keep this clean… Look at all the scar tissue and the irritation on your skin… hang on,” you turn and dig through your shoulder bag that hangs off the back of your chair. “This is the lotion I used for my brother, it’s still good.”

He doesn’t need to know why it’s still in your handbag. You use it every day, its smell comforting you. 

Bucky looks between the bottle and you.

“Do you… do you want me to tell you how to use it?” you offer.

He shakes his head.

“You do it.” His voice sounds grated and then adds: “Please.”

You comply, squeezing some of the cream onto the palm of your hand to warm it up, before you dab your index finger in it and raise your hand slowly. 

“Tell me if it hurts or if you want me to stop.”

He nods curtly. 

Then you step closer to him again, back into his personal space. The warmth of his body, his scent, envelops you, seeps into your every pore. But you press on with the task until your skin touches his. Your heart stutters to a momentary halt upon impact.

Pervert, you scold yourself. You offered to help, so do it!

You work the lotion over his skin, carefully but meticulously and as gently as you can. You step around him, dabbing the cream on his back and work your way back to his front. Bucky’s breaths come out shallow and strained. The air feels electric. A tension is building, you’re not sure when the coil will snap.

The coil being Bucky.

“Nearly done,” you murmur, gently massaging the skin.

Your gaze drifts to your other hand. It’s splayed on Bucky’s chest without you remembering having placed it there. You can feel yourself flush.

And then you hear it, a noise. It comes from Bucky, it sounds choked, muffled, but it bubbles up in his chest and then he – groans.

Your eyes flicker up to him. He’s nearly a foot taller than you, so you have to tilt your head up. His eyes are closed, lips parted, a pained look on his face.

“Goodness, I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?”

As you’re rushing the words out, you pull back. Only for his right hand to shoot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, placing your hand back on his naked chest.

Confusion floods your mind. 

“You didn’t hurt me.” His voice is raspy.

He looks down at you, eyes hooded, nearly black. His hand moves up to the side of your throat, curls into your hair. His thumb strokes over your cheek, before he tilts your head up.

It all happens so fast that you gasp in surprise. His eyes flicker to your mouth for a long moment, before he finds your gaze again.

“You’re driving me crazy. Your little rushed touches. Always so careful not to startle me.” He leans in. “Always so considerate and respectful. Do you know how difficult it is to keep myself under control? To not just…”

He trails off, staring at your lips once more.

“To what?” you ask, breathless.

It takes a moment for him to drag his eyes away and meet your gaze.

“Kiss you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing. 

“You… want to… kiss… me?”

His thumbpad brushes over your bottom lip. “Mmh. Amongst other things. Wanted to for a while now.”

You’re not entirely sure what possesses you. Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own as they curl around the side of his neck and you pull him down, standing on the tip of your toes, pressing a kiss onto his plump, plush lips.

It takes him approximately a quarter of a second to react. He holds your head in place, lips moving against yours, stepping up to you, pushing you backwards until your hip makes contact with the table behind you. He lifts you – with one arm – and places you on the surface, stepping between your legs. 

He takes advantage of your surprised gasp and kisses you deeper, his tongue sliding against yours sensually now. He tastes of carnal sin and freedom. Heat pools in your groin. Your fingers are sliding down to his chest, his skin hot under your touch. You can feel muscles rippling and goosebumps under your exploring fingertips.

His hand slides out of your hair and down your spine, cupping the flesh of your ass. Careful, measured. As if he’s mapping you out. Every dip and curve. Bucky moans into your mouth and you can feel his arousal as he presses closer into you. Then his hand reaches behind you, searching.

You break the kiss, breathing raggedly. “What…?”

“My arm,” he mumbles against your lips, “don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Let me put it on.”

You cup the side of his face and look at him, really look. His hair is messy, lips pink and moist from the kissing, eyes dark and hungry.

“Do you feel uncomfortable without it?”

“A little,” he admits after a beat.

You twist your upper body and carefully pick up his arm, offering it to him. But as he takes it, you place a hand on his. The words tumble out of your mouth before you can think.

“Just so you know… I really don’t mind. I love you either way, with or without your prosthetic.”

You both realise at the same time what you’ve said.

Shit.

Your hand recoils instantly and you slide off the table, mind reeling as you study the – fashionable – hole in your jeans.

Great, why don’t you propose to him right here and now as well! That’ll scare him off for good.

A soft click and a whirr lets you know the prosthetic is in place again. Then you feel two hands on your face, one warm, one cool. 

“Look at me.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it sounds more like a plea than a command.

Your eyes wander up and stop on his chin. The stubble there is past the scratchy stage.

“Properly,” he instructs. 

With a deep inhale you do.

You’re not entirely sure what you see in his eyes. Vulnerability, perhaps.

“You love me?” His voice cracks a little.

The thing is, it’s absolutely true. And not only would you lie and feel terrible if you took your words back, it would also hurt Bucky and, potentially, his perception of his body.

“I love you.” It’s quiet but delivered with genuine conviction.

There’s a long pause.

“Say it again.” He’s asking, not commanding.

“I love you.”

His forehead rests against yours, his thumbs brush over your lips. A featherlight touch.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

You can feel your breath puffing against his fingers. He takes a long, slow breath in, holds it for a beat, then releases it.

“Pack up your things. You’re done with work. You come with me. Now.”

He turns, picks up the discarded t-shirt and pulls it on.

You just about have time to grab the bag off your chair, before he takes your hand and pulls you along with him.

Your heart is beating in your chest with excitement and anticipation as you try to keep up with his long strides out of the armoury and towards the elevator. When he presses the button the doors slide open after a few seconds. There are a few employees in the lift, looking at you funny.

“Scram,” Bucky barks at them and they flee the cabin with a yelp. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he hits the button to the Avenger’s quarters.

“Bucky,” you say and it sounds half reprimanding, half awestruck.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but. He’s backing you into the wall, voice low. “Thought we didn’t need any witnesses whilst I… warm you up.”

His smile is dark as he watches you shiver in anticipation as realisation hits.

“The elevator ride from this floor to yours takes 43 seconds,” you manage.

You know because you don’t like elevators, so you memorised the length of every ride to help you with your anxiety.

He doesn’t question that fact, but bends his head and drinks in your gasp, his breath puffing against the sensitive skin on your neck.

“Excellent. Can warm you up twice then,” he murmurs confidently, before he starts to suck on a spot you never knew you had.

~~fin~~

[douceenvie]

first time w g!p subby megan and reader that’s on the thicker side😛 teasing her if she can handle all that

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ g!p sub!megan x thicker dom!fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: first time, size kink, teasing, reader is a little mean (but sweet <3), reader is plus-size, light praise, cockwarming

megan swears she was ready. she thought she was ready. she’s been daydreaming about this for weeks, letting her imagination run wild every time you kissed her a little too deep or pressed against her with that heavy warmth that always made her weak in the knees. but now that you’re actually on top of her, straddling her hips, grinding slowly like you're trying to drive her out of her mind — she’s not so sure anymore 😵‍💫

because you're thicker than anyone she's ever been with, soft in all the right places, curves that press against her and make her feel small even though she's the one with the cock. and the way you smirk down at her, fingers lazily dragging down her chest, whispering with that low teasing voice, "you sure you can handle all this, baby? you're already shaking and i haven't even sat on it yet..."

god. she thinks she might actually die.

her hands are gripping your hips like she’s scared you’ll disappear, and she’s so hard it’s embarrassing. her cock twitches between your thighs every time you move, painfully hot, already leaking, and you haven’t even really started yet. she tries to nod, to say yes, but it comes out all breathy and broken — “i–i can... i promise i can…”

you hum, not convinced. “hm. i dunno. you’re whining like you’re about to cum just from me grinding on you. you sure you’re not too sensitive for the real thing, princess?”

her face burns. she’s never been this flustered, never had someone talk to her like that — soft but wicked, like you know exactly how to unravel her. and it doesn't help that you keep shifting your weight, letting her cock nudge up against your warmth, trapping it between your plush thighs so she can feel everything — the squeeze, the heat, the weight of your body.

“please,” she whines, hips bucking up desperately. “i–i want it. i want you. please let me…”

and honestly? you love this. love how big and cocky she usually is, but now she's trembling underneath you, begging like she’s about to cry just to be inside. you lean in, lips brushing her ear as you whisper, “then be a good girl for me and don’t cum the second i sit on it. can you do that?”

she nods again, whimpering, totally at your mercy 🥺

[respectfulrebel]

This is so bittersweet 🥲 I’m happy they are finally getting the peace and happiness they both deserve but I’m also really gonna miss following their journey 😭 and I know you said there would be one shots and that’s really comforting cause I’m not ready to say goodbye to them yet 🥹🥹🥹Thank you for such a beautiful, wholesome and satisfying ending, didn’t expect anything less from you 🥺🫶🏻

He narrowed his eyes at you, suspicious. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"I'm not smiling like anything."

"You're definitely smiling like something."

🥺🥺🥺🥺 why are they literally the cutest 😭

You just turned back toward the watering can, waving him off like you hadn't just had the sudden urge to cover him in kisses but ignored it because you had still work to do.

Noooo, don’t fight the urge, that boy deserves to be covered by kisses 🥹🥹🥹🥹

But it felt like you were watching him heal a little more each day.

🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

"Yeah. Because of this," he said simply, pointing at the flowers in front of you. "Because I'm doing it with you."

Can I cry already? 🥹🥹🥹

And of course, Noah had wanted to be your first.

Awwwwwwwww 😭😭😭

Noah had said he wanted stars.

He said it felt fitting, a kind of tribute to that conversation you'd had about fate and stars and how maybe the universe had written the two of you into each other's lives before you even knew it.

Definitely crying now 😭😭

You laughed and told him he didn't even have room left for another tattoo. And in the blink of an eye, Noah had stood, stripped down to his boxers, and pointed at every inch of free skin he still had, grinning like a kid who knew was right.

🥺🥺🥺🥺 this is too cute, I can’t

Just enough to make them his. Just enough to make them yours.

"Fuck, did I hurt you?" you asked immediately, eyes wide.

Noah burst out laughing. "Got you."

🤭🤭🤭🤭

You gave a quiet laugh, still trying to process it. "Terrifying. Amazing. Kind of like I'm gonna pass out but in a good way."

He grinned. "That's exactly how I felt when I met you."

I can’t with all the cuteness 😭😭😭😭

Still, he'd come home some evenings shaking his head, muttering things like "they've got zero attention span" or "I swear one of them tried to bite me today", but then he'd smile, and there'd be a fondness in his voice he didn't bother to hide. "They're funny, though," he'd say. "And I think... I think they're having fun too."

He’s such a dad already 🤭🤭🤭🤭 👀

"I'd rather do private lessons with you."

I’m sure he would 🤭🤭🤭

So you often packed him something to take to the gym, something he could eat during his break. He'd spent too many years not eating the way someone should, and you hated the thought of that happening again.

Why is every second sentence in this chapter making me saaaaaad 😭😭😭😭😭

Sometimes he'd cross the room without a word, burying his face in your shoulder or against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you.

🥹🥹🥹🥹

His fingertips would trace lazy patterns on your skin while he kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the space behind your ear, and you'd wash his hair while you both chuckled about the fact that he was too tall and you couldn't reach his head, working shampoo into the dark curls while he closed his eyes and rested his forehead to your shoulder, letting himself be taken care of.

It’s the “letting himself be taken care of” for me cause 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

At one point, Amber leaned over the table and grinned at Noah. "And look at you! You're not dying anymore."

Have I said that I love Amber already? 😂

"Well," she said, leaning back, "you do seem suspiciously calm for someone who got stabbed."

Noah shrugged. "I garden now."

Vivienne raised her eyebrows. "Right. Clearly very therapeutic."

😂😂😂😂

You couldn't help it, every time you hold his hand, you thought about how often those knuckles have been bruised, broken and bloodied. And maybe that's why you're always so gentle with them now.

Every time he stepped out of the fitting room, he turned to you first.

"How does it look?"

🥺🥺 I just imagine him standing there like 🧍🏻 and giving a little twirl 🥺

He thought it over carefully before buying anything, but you could see it on his face, that he was proud. Not just of how he looked, but of the fact that he could do this now.

He had a job. He could afford to buy his own clothes. And even if he didn't say it out loud, you could tell it was important to him.

So proud of him 😭😭😭

He gave a small grin. "It's... guy stuff."

😭😭😭 why was my first thought “ENGAGEMENT RING???” 😭

But ten minutes later, you felt a presence behind you. When you turned, Noah holding a small bouquet of fresh flowers wrapped in brown paper, just a handful of soft pink and white blooms, some green still clinging to the stems, like they'd just been picked that morning. He held them out to you, a little awkwardly, like he wasn't sure if this kind of thing was allowed or if he was doing it right.

Cause he couldn’t get her flowers when he came back? 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 brb sobbing

He picked up a pack of avocados, weighing them in his palm, next came some jars of pasta sauces, with sun-dried tomato, roasted garlic, creamy truffle, things he would have scoffed at once, either because he couldn't afford them or because he never thought he'd be the kind of person who could casually walk around a store to buy them. He grabbed two, then hesitated and added a third.

Why are those simple everyday things that are getting to me 😭😭😭 he never had thisssss, he never had the chance to do the boring grocery shopping thing and now he does and he’s enjoying it and it’s making me cryyy 😭😭😭

He looked away, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I thought you were cute," he admitted. "And I thought you were too sweet for a place like that. You were just... there, helping a total stranger bleeding in a back alley."

"But mostly," he continued, "I thought there's no way someone like you would stick around. And I hated how much I wanted you to."

You took a small breath. "And that night," you said, even softer now, "when I went to bed with Kole... l imagined that his arm around me was yours. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Not for a second."

😭😭😭😭😭😭

"I mean, it's just a start," he added quickly, almost shyly. "I don't know if therapy will actually help. But I figured l'd try. You were right."

So proud of hiiiimmmm 😭😭😭

He cupped your cheek with one big, tattooed hand. "Will I be anxious? Absolutely. Will I want to bolt the second they say my name? Probably. But I felt like that the first time I ever stepped into the ring, too. The difference is... this time, I'm doing it to help myself. Not hurt myself. So yeah... I'll get through it."

SOBBING

You had a boyfriend who you loved and who loved you. A best friend who made you laugh until your stomach hurt and who Noah found just as funny as you did. A white cat curled up on the couch a few feet away, tail flicking lazily in his sleep. Two kids who never stopped asking when they'd see you again.

I love a happy ending 😭😭😭😭😭😭

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

Pairing: underground fighter! noah x reader

Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.

Series mastelist

It took a few weeks, but you and Noah finally got around to fixing the garden.

One morning, after the last of the old lavender had been pulled up and the soil turned fresh again, you both stood over the empty patch for a moment, just looking.

“What do we plant?” he asked, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans.

You were about to say lavender again, out of habit, but paused. “Maybe something different this time.”

He glanced at you, curious.

You smiled. “We can pick something together.”

So that’s what you did.

You went to a local nursery one Saturday afternoon, hand in hand, and walked the rows of flowers and herbs and little green starter plants. You picked out bright marigolds, purple salvia, some creeping thyme that would spread out soft and low across the ground. Noah pointed to a pot of blue cornflowers, saying he thought they were pretty, so you bought them too.

Now, the sun was overhead, warm but not too harsh, and the air smelled like earth and dirt, but in a good way. You were both kneeling in the garden, hands covered in soil. Alpine was snoozing under a patch of shade, entirely uninterested in your efforts.

You pressed the last salvia plant into the soil and patted the dirt around it. “Okay. That’s it for this side,” you said, brushing the back of your hand across your forehead. “They’ll need water, but otherwise we’re done.”

Noah nodded, shifting back onto his heels and stretching his arms behind him with a quiet grunt. You looked over and smiled to yourself. Then you paused.

He had a smudge of dirt right across the bridge of his nose. A little streak that made him look absurdly boyish, like a kid who’d spent all afternoon playing outside and forgot to check a mirror.

You bit back a laugh.

He caught it immediately. “What?”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, suspicious. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not smiling like anything.”

“You’re definitely smiling like something.”

You just turned back toward the watering can, waving him off like you hadn’t just had the sudden urge to cover him in kisses but ignored it because you had still work to do. “Come on, help me water the marigolds or they’re gonna die before they even get a chance.”

But he didn’t move right away. You heard him stand, step closer, and then his shadow fell across you. You looked up.

He leaned down slightly, brow raised. “Seriously. What?”

You reached up casually and swiped your thumb across his nose, right over the dirt. “You had something.”

His mouth tugged into a crooked smile. “You could’ve just said so.”

You wiped your thumb on your jeans. “But this was more fun.”

He gave a soft, amused huff, then straightened again and turned toward the watering can. You watched him for a second: the relaxed line of his shoulders, the quiet concentration on his face as he watered the base of each plant with care.

You didn’t say anything, but you felt it.

How peaceful it was now.

You didn’t want to say he was completely okay, because you knew Noah still had his low moments, his thoughts, his memories, and nightmares. But it felt like you were watching him heal a little more each day. And you loved that.

And sometimes healing looked like this: soil under his fingernails. A soft smile on his lips. Dirt on his nose. A kiss on the cheek because he looked too pretty planting those flowers.

You stood beside him and reached for the hose, adjusting the spray as you both started watering the garden in slow, even motions.

“Looks better already,” he said after a moment, eyes scanning the rows of little green shoots.

“It does,” you agreed.

He looked at you then. His hand brushed yours where it rested on the nozzle, his fingers warm and a little rough from the work.

“I think I found out I like gardening,” he said.

You turned your head, catching the slight smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah?” you asked, your voice light, teasing.

“Yeah. Because of this,” he said simply, pointing at the flowers in front of you. “Because I’m doing it with you.”

You gave him a playful elbow, "shut up."

He looked at you sideways, a half-smile on his lips, like he knew exactly the effect he still had on you.

Soon, you’d finally finished the last of your lessons with Nick and had to say bye to the fake skin that never complained when you made a mistake. And now, finally, you were cleared to tattoo real skin. Real people.

It was exciting. And terrifying.

And of course, Noah had wanted to be your first.

So that’s how you ended up in the studio, hands washed, gloves on, machine in your grip, standing beside the tattoo chair with Noah stretched out in it, black shirt pushed up his arm, relaxed like he’d done this a hundred times, which, probably, he had.

Nick was beside you, leaning on the edge of the counter, arms crossed but relaxed. Watching closely as you got ready to start. He was supervising, of course, protocol and all that, but he was also teasing Noah in a way that made your chest warm. You liked that they got along. You liked he had friends now.

Nick spoke as you positioned your stool next to Noah, “So. You still coming with me next week? That comic convention thing?”

Noah looked up at him, “Yeah, of course. I love that kinda stuff. Haven't been there in...a while.”

You looked at the skin you were going to tattoo.

Noah had said he wanted stars.

He’d brought it up one night, the two of you curled together in bed. He said it felt fitting, a kind of tribute to that conversation you’d had about fate and stars and how maybe the universe had written the two of you into each other’s lives before you even knew it. That maybe it was written in the stars all along, that you were meant to follow Kole that night, meet Noah at the fight club and that you both wouldn't be able to forget each other since that very first meeting.

It was probably also a way to show you that he didn’t think it was bullshit, like you said when he was about to leave.

You laughed and told him he didn’t even have room left for another tattoo. And in the blink of an eye, Noah had stood, stripped down to his boxers, and pointed at every inch of free skin he still had, grinning like a kid who knew was right.

Eventually, you’d both settled on a small open spot between his shoulder and upper arm, finding enough space for a cluster of six delicate, softly shaded stars. You’d sketched them in a style that matched the black-and-red ink already winding across his chest and arms, with clean lines, gentle gradients, nothing too flashy.

Just enough to make them his. Just enough to make them yours.

You pressed the machine gently against his skin, lining it up for your first pass, when he suddenly hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck, did I hurt you?” you asked immediately, eyes wide.

Noah burst out laughing. “Got you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Nick chuckled from beside you and he kept casually chatting with Noah as you tattoed him.

When you finished, you turned the machine off and set it gently on the tray beside you, then finally wrapped it up.

Your fingers trembled just slightly as you peeled off your gloves and looked up at Noah, all you saw on his face was that soft, stupid smile that you always loved.

He glanced down at the new tattoo and saw six small, delicate stars fading gently into his skin between the scatter of older ink, the placement perfect just beneath his shoulder, catching the light when he moved.

Noah’s fingers brushed the fresh wrap as he sat up. “You killed it,” he said, “Seriously. That’s... perfect.”

You tried to play it cool, but your cheeks were already warm. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re legally obligated to love anything I do.”

“Not legally,” he said, smirking. “But I do.”

Behind you, Nick nodded approvingly as he looked at the wrap and the work underneath it. “Clean lines, good shading, nice flow with the rest of the piece. Damn, rookie.” He raised a brow. “You sure this was your first?”

Your heart did a stupid little skip. “Yeah,” you said, trying not to sound too proud. “First real one.”

Nick clapped a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Then you’re off to a hell of a start.”

You glanced back at Noah, who was already pulling his shirt back down with a grin that said he was going to show it off to every single person he knew, saying his girlfriend made it.

You said bye to Nick and stepped outside.

“So,” Noah said, “how’s it feel? First real piece in the books.”

You gave a quiet laugh, still trying to process it. “Terrifying. Amazing. Kind of like I’m gonna pass out but in a good way.”

He grinned. “That’s exactly how I felt when I met you.”

You bumped your shoulder into him. “Shut up.”

Noah chuckled. “Dinner now?” he asked. “I’m starving. And we need to celebrate your first tattoo."

You laughed softly. “Alright, fine. Let’s celebrate.”

Without missing a beat, Noah took your hand in his, fingers curling around yours naturally. You glanced down for a moment before meeting his eyes again and together, you started walking, toward the nearest restaurant in the area.

It wasn’t long before Noah had started his new job. And, to your quiet relief, he actually liked it.

He said it could be stressful at times: the kids never followed instructions, he claimed, and he insisted he wasn’t good with them. But you knew that wasn’t true. You’d seen him with Miles and Theo, the way he listened to them and let them be loud and silly without ever getting frustrated. He might not have known it, but he was good with kids, he was kind and patient.

Still, he’d come home some evenings shaking his head, muttering things like “they’ve got zero attention span” or “I swear one of them tried to bite me today” , but then he’d smile, and there’d be a fondness in his voice he didn’t bother to hide. “They’re funny, though,” he’d say. “And I think… I think they’re having fun too.”

He also ran a class for adult beginners, which was different, more focused, more serious, but he liked that too. There was a girl in her twenties who’d joined after being attacked by a man on her way home from work, and a man in his forties, who’d signed up after being mugged near his building. With them, Noah focused mostly on self-defense.

You could see the difference it made in him too, he was pround of having a job that could help people and that he enjoyed.

You’d told him, one evening while curled up on the couch together, that one day you were going to stop by the gym while he was working.

“I still have so much to learn from you, you know?” you said with a little smile, tracing the curve of his arm with your fingers.

“I’d rather do private lessons with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you replied. “Then maybe I’ll come by one late evening. After everyone’s gone. I’m sure Matt won’t mind.”

He gave a short laugh, resting his head back against the cushion. “You remember how it ended last time I tried to teach you anything?”

You grinned. “Mhm. Not bad, I’d say. Which is exactly why we should do it again.”

He smirked, “So what is it now? A new tradition? Sparring… then sex?”

You laughed, “Why not? Would you mind?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I love some traditions. Better than Christmas, honestly.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hand as he grinned, proud of himself.

Some evenings, Noah came home late from the gym, with hair damp with sweat, hoodie clinging to his back and a tired expression painted on his face. You’d hear his key in the door, the familiar click, and then the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor.

He started coming home so late sometimes that it was too late for dinner. So you often packed him something to take to the gym, something he could eat during his break. He’d spent too many years not eating the way someone should, and you hated the thought of that happening again. You made him things that were easy to carry and didn’t need reheating: pasta salad with tuna and olives, wraps filled with chicken and veggies, boiled eggs with a side of fruit, rice and beans in a container. And, of course, his sandwiches. You knew he always smiled when he found one with peanut butter and pickles.

He’d told you once that Matt had asked him why he’d chuckled after unwrapping his sandwich during a break.

Noah had just shrugged and said, “It’s my favorite.”

Matt had looked at the sandwich and then kind of nodded, like he didn’t totally get it, but also didn’t think it was the worst thing in the world.

Back at home, he never said much at first. His eyes would find you, warm and tired, and you’d always know that he’d missed you.

Sometimes he’d cross the room without a word, burying his face in your shoulder or against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you.

“I stink,” he’d mumble, pulling back a little, trying to give you warning, even though he knew it never mattered to you.

“I don’t care,” you’d say, because you didn’t.

He’d sigh then. “Come shower with me?”

You always said yes.

The water would be hot and a little too strong at first, spraying off his shoulders and misting the small tiles as he peeled off his clothes. You’d step in behind him, and his body would already be softening from the heat, from your hands moving over his back with quiet care.

He’d always start by holding you, with his arms around your waist, chin resting against your head.

Sometimes, those showers were just soft.

His fingertips would trace lazy patterns on your skin while he kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the space behind your ear, and you'd wash his hair while you both chuckled about the fact that he was too tall and you couldn’t reach his head, working shampoo into the dark curls while he closed his eyes and rested his forehead to your shoulder, letting himself be taken care of.

Other times he looked at you like he’d spent all day missing you and wanting you.

And once the water hit your skin, once he saw your eyes on him, it was like something snapped loose.

He’d press you back against the tiles, lips on yours, fingers digging into your hips, his mouth finding all the places that made you breathless. Your hands would slip into his hair, wet and smelling like your favorite shampoo, tugging him closer.

You didn’t always make it to the bedroom.

But afterward, whether it was slow or fast, quiet or loud, he always held you. Water still running, arms wrapped around your waist, head against your shoulder.

And when you stepped out of the shower, both of you a little dazed and warm and clean, he’d press a kiss to your damp temple and whisper, “Missed you today,” like it wasn’t already written all over him.

One day, you decided to hang out with Amber and Vivienne.

It was a sunny morning when you and Noah met them for breakfast at La Rue, a small café with ivy on the walls and old jazz records playing low through the speakers. The tables were mismatched wood, each with a tiny vase of wildflowers. Someone had left a book on the window sill, a paperback with dog-eared pages.

You and Noah arrived first, choosing a table near the window. He sat beside you, not across, his knee gently bumping yours under the table. He looked around, then gave you a quiet smile.

“I like this place. Feels... calm.”

You nodded. “That’s why I picked it. I thought you’d like it.”

A moment later, Amber walked in, her hand loosely linked with Vivienne’s. Amber was wearing a linen blouse and sunglasses pushed up into her wavy hair, Vivienne had her locs pulled back and hands full of big rings. She smiled as they approached, a small, reserved smile that made her seem even more like someone you wanted to know.

“You beat us,” Amber said as she kissed your cheek.

Vivienne offered a soft “Hi,” before sliding into the chair across from you, introducing herself to Noah.

The four of you ordered coffees and breakfast: croissants, eggs, fruit, things shared across the table like between old friends.

Conversation came easily. Amber liked Noah (and making fun of him), and Vivienne kept making funny comments that always made Noah chuckle.

Noah listened more than he spoke, his hand sometimes brushing against yours or resting near your leg.

At one point, Amber mentioned how she and Vivienne had been spending more time together, and something about her voice changed, just slightly.

You smiled. “So... you’re serious now?”

Amber shrugged, but there was a flush to her cheeks.

“We’re figuring it out,” Vivienne said.

At one point, Amber leaned over the table and grinned at Noah. “And look at you! You’re not dying anymore.”

Vivienne, mid-sip of her coffee, paused. “You were dying?”

Noah gave a small shrug, glancing briefly at you. “Long story.”

Amber chimed in, “They stabbed him.”

Vivienne stared. “They stabbed you?”

Noah scratched his jaw, awkward. “Kind of…”

You groaned, half-laughing. “Guys. Please.”

Amber just smirked and popped a piece of fruit into her mouth like she hadn’t just casually dropped a bomb at brunch. Vivienne blinked a few times, then looked at Noah again, eyes narrowed, curious and amused.

“Well,” she said, leaning back, “you do seem suspiciously calm for someone who got stabbed.”

Noah shrugged. “I garden now.”

Vivienne raised her eyebrows. “Right. Clearly very therapeutic.”

You stifled a laugh, but it slipped out anyway. Noah tried to keep a straight face, lips twitching, then gave in and laughed with you.

Then you all went shopping together, even though Amber and Vivienne kept lagging behind, deep in conversation. You didn’t mind. You were genuinely happy for them.

As you walked through the center of town, you reached for Noah’s hand, first jusy brushing it gently, but he intertwined his fingers with yours without hesitation.

When your hands were like that, you always found yourself softly running your thumb over his knuckles. It just happened.

You couldn’t help it, every time you hold his hand, you thought about how often those knuckles have been bruised, broken and bloodied. And maybe that’s why you’re always so gentle with them now.

Then you all headed into a few clothing stores, drifting in and out of small boutiques tucked between bookshops and bakeries. Noah ended up trying on a few things: simple shirts in soft fabrics, a deep green sweater, a brown jacket that matched the color of his eyes.

Every time he stepped out of the fitting room, he turned to you first.

“How does it look?”

He always waited for your answer, like it actually mattered to him more than what he saw in the mirror. And even when you smiled and nodded, he’d still take his time. He’d look at himself again, turn slightly, tug at a sleeve, frown thoughtfully, then disappear back inside for a few more minutes, only to return with a new maybe.

He thought it over carefully before buying anything, but you could see it on his face, that he was proud. Not just of how he looked, but of the fact that he could do this now.

He had a job. He could afford to buy his own clothes.

And even if he didn’t say it out loud, you could tell it was important to him.

As you walked along the sidewalk, weaving between weekend shoppers and open-air stalls, Noah suddenly slowed his steps and glanced toward a shop a little further down the street, you weren’t even sure which one.

“I’m gonna go grab something real quick,” he said, nodding his head in that direction.

You tilted your head, a little curious. “Alright. I can come with you”

He gave a small grin. “It’s... guy stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “We already have condoms at home.”

He huffed a laugh. “Not that kind of guy stuff.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I’ll just wander around alone like a lost puppy.”

He smiled, pressed a kiss to your temple, and said, “I won’t be long.”

So you let him go, watching him disappear into the little shop with its painted windows and half-broken bell above the door. You wandered nearby with Amber and Vivienne, pretending not to check the time even though part of you was impatient, a little curious, maybe even worried he’d vanished into thin air.

But ten minutes later, you felt a presence behind you. When you turned, Noah holding a small bouquet of fresh flowers wrapped in brown paper, just a handful of soft pink and white blooms, some green still clinging to the stems, like they’d just been picked that morning. He held them out to you, a little awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if this kind of thing was allowed or if he was doing it right.

You blinked, smiling slowly. “Noah…”

“I know we already have a whole garden at home,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, “but I wanted to get these anyway.”

You looked down at them, then back up at him.

He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “I never gave you, you know… those ‘sorry I almost went back to fighting’ bouquet. And now that I have a job and money that’s actually mine… I wanted to. Just because I can. And because you like flowers. And you deserve all the things you like.”

You stepped forward, wrapping one hand around his wrist as you took the flowers with the other.

“Thank you,” you said softly, pulling him down for a kiss. “That's so sweet. Really, thank you.”

When you pulled back, you were still smiling.

“You didn’t have to make an excuse about guy stuff, you know,” you teased softly.

He shrugged. “I panicked.”

You laughed, holding the flowers to your chest. “Well, I love them. And you.”

He leaned in again, his voice low and a little shy. “I love you too.”

And for a moment, on that busy street filled with strangers and noise, it felt like it was just the two of you.

Later, you all stopped by the market to grab some things before heading home.

Noah moved through the aisles with the curiosity of someone discovering the world for the first time.

He picked up a pack of avocados, weighing them in his palm, next came some jars of pasta sauces, with sun-dried tomato, roasted garlic, creamy truffle, things he would have scoffed at once, either because he couldn’t afford them or because he never thought he’d be the kind of person who could casually walk around a store to buy them. He grabbed two, then hesitated and added a third.

You smiled quietly and said nothing, just happy watching him enjoy the simple pleasure of choosing things for himself, with his own money, for a life he was slowly building.

Of course, no shopping trip with Noah would be complete without the classics: a loaf of fresh bread, a jar of pickles, and a big tub of peanut butter.

“Essentials,” he said, holding them up with a straight face.

“Yeah, of course,” you laughed, nudging his side.

In another aisle, you heard Amber and Vivienne a few steps ahead, chatting.

“No, you talk too much,” Vivienne was saying with a smirk, holding a box of herbal tea. “You basically gave me your entire life story before I even rang up your vinyl.”

Amber laughed. “I didn't know what to do, okay? You were hot, and I forgot how to be a functioning human being.”

“You were buying the most basic white girl music ever. I should’ve known you were a disaster.”

“Well, I thought you were so cool. I walked out of that store already trying to figure out how to impress you.”

Vivienne gave her a look. “By coming back three times in one week and asking for albums you knew we didn’t have?”

Amber raised a hand, shameless. “Desperate times.”

Vivienne just shook her head, smiling to herself.

You were grinning as you listened, then you turned to Noah, the question already forming in your mind.

“So… what did you think the first time you saw me?” you asked.

He gave you a sideways glance like he was trying to figure out where this was going. “Seriously?”

“Mhm.”

He looked away, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I thought you were cute,” he admitted. “And I thought you were too sweet for a place like that. You were just… there, helping a total stranger bleeding in a back alley.”

You tilted your head, watching him.

“And I might’ve thought,” he added, voice softer now, “that you were a little unhinged for even talking to me.”

You laughed. “Fair.”

“But mostly,” he continued, “I thought there’s no way someone like you would stick around. And I hated how much I wanted you to.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just reached out and took his hand, your thumb gently stroking over his knuckles, instinctively, always drawn to those scarred places.

“Well,” you murmured, “joke’s on you.”

He smiled at that, “Yeah."

You glanced over at him after a moment, “Aren’t you going to ask what I thought of you when I first saw you?”

“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, playful, “I thought you had really beautiful eyes.”

He gave a little huff of disbelief, “They’re just eyes.”

“No,” you said, “They’re not just eyes. They’re beautiful. I like the shape of them. And they’re warm. Even when you tried to look all cold and scary. Anyway—let me finish.”

He chuckled but didn't add anything.

“I thought…” you continued, choosing your words with care, “that you looked like you were battling more than just your opponents. And I wanted to understand. To know you. Because something inside me just… felt that you deserved better. And I was right.”

You took a small breath. “And that night,” you said, even softer now, “when I went to bed with Kole… I imagined that his arm around me was yours. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Not for a second.”

Noah stared at you for a long moment, then, without a word, he reached out and pulled you toward him in that quiet, easy way he had, with one arm sliding around your waist, the other hand cradling the back of your head as he tucked your face against his shoulder. He held you close, close enough that you could feel his heartbeat, and when he spoke, it was right against your ear.

“I love you so much,” he murmured.

You smiled into his shirt, arms wrapped around him, holding him just as tightly.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You broke apart suddenly when you heard Amber’s voice behind you.

“Seriously? Near the frozen food section?” she said, raising an eyebrow as she walked past with a carton of oat milk in one hand. “Get a room, you two.”

You and Noah both laughed, a little startled, a little embarrassed. He pressed his lips together in an amused smirk, while you rolled your eyes.

Vivienne followed close behind Amber, shaking her head with a faint smile. “You said you just needed yogurt,” she muttered, glancing at the collection of things in Amber’s arms.

Amber ignored her, still grinning at you. “You’re lucky I love love,” she said, reaching into the freezer for a bag of something.

You leaned against Noah’s side, letting your shoulder touch his again. “Sorry,” you said, not sorry at all.

The evening air was still warm when you stepped back into your house, the soft click of the door closing behind you barely louder than the muffled sound of Noah’s voice coming from the living room. You paused in the hallway, sliding off your shoes, just catching the tail end of his conversation.

For a second, it almost felt like a flashback. The last time you’d walked in on something vaguely like this, you'd found Kole in bed with someone else. You knew it wasn’t the same, not even close, and you trusted Noah with all yourself, but your body remembered. And for a heartbeat, it braced for the worst.

“Yeah… yeah, that time works. Thanks. I appreciate it. See you then.”

A short pause. Then the low tone of his phone ending the call.

Buying a phone had been one of the first things he did once he started earning enough money. You’d told him you could get it for him, or at least help cover part of it, but he hadn’t let you.

Then, you registered his words and blinked. An appointment?

By the time you stepped into the living room, Noah was standing by the window, phone in his hand, the street lights outside casting a soft glow across his face.

“Oh—hi,” he said when he turned around. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

You smiled a little, stepping closer. “Everything okay?”

He hesitated just for a second. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Actually… yeah.”

You waited.

He tucked his phone into his back pocket and ran a hand through his hair. “I was just, uh… I’ve been thinking about what you said. That night, about talking to someone. About not carrying everything alone.”

You started to understand and slowly nodded.

“I’ve been keeping so many things inside for... years.” He let out a soft breath, like the words tasted strange in his mouth, but he kept going. “So… I made an appointment. For next week. With someone.”

You blinked, then felt the soft pull of a smile starting to form.

“I mean, it’s just a start,” he added quickly, almost shyly. “I don’t know if therapy will actually help. But I figured I’d try. You were right.”

You stepped closer, close enough to rest your hand over his. “I know I probably said that hundreds of times but I’m really proud of you.”

His gaze lifted, met yours, and you thought he had never looked at you with so much love.

“I don’t know how this all works,” he said softly. “But I want to be okay. I want to keep building something with you. And if this helps me get there, even a little… I’m willing to try.”

You squeezed his hand, leaning into him, feeling the soft fabric of his hoodie against your skin. “That’s all I ever wanted. Just for you to try. For yourself. And I don’t really know how this stuff works either,” you admitted, voice soft. “But I’ll be there, okay? I can wait outside the place, and if you don’t like it, we can just leave. We can go back home, no pressure, I just don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you or that you have to do this for me or—”

He leaned in and kissed you before you could finish, his lips warm against yours.

“You’re so cute when you start rambling,” he murmured against your mouth.

You huffed a quiet laugh, cheeks warm.

He cupped your cheek with one big, tattooed hand. “Will I be anxious? Absolutely. Will I want to bolt the second they say my name? Probably. But I felt like that the first time I ever stepped into the ring, too. The difference is… this time, I’m doing it to help myself. Not hurt myself. So yeah… I’ll get through it.”

You wrapped your arms around him without a second thought, pressing your face into his chest, and he pulled you in just as tightly. His chin rested gently on the top of your head, and his hand slid under the back of your shirt, not to start anything, just to feel your skin beneath his palm. He did that often.

“I love you,” he murmured quietly, closing your eyes.

You were so genuinely happy, you realized.

You had a boyfriend who you loved and who loved you. A best friend who made you laugh until your stomach hurt and who Noah found just as funny as you did. A white cat curled up on the couch a few feet away, tail flicking lazily in his sleep. Two kids who never stopped asking when they’d see you again.

You had built something, despite the mess of where you started.

You tilted your head up, just enough to meet his eyes.

His hair had been growing longer lately, falling into his eyes and brushing the nape of his neck in soft, brown strands. You loved it. You hoped he wasn’t planning on cutting it anytime soon, because that old “threat” you’d made months ago in the fight club locker room still stood: if he only thought about picking up scissors, you’d hide every single pair in the house, in the city and in the world.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

You were so genuinely happy.

Because he was trying.

Because he came back.

Because he was still choosing this. Choosing you. Choosing himself.

And maybe that wasn’t the end of the story.

Maybe it was just the beginning.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland @rumoured-whispers @astronoids @im-the-fucking-king

Fresh bruises tags: @1toreyouapart @respectfulrebel @dragoncopper @overmydeadbodysblog @fear-its-beauty @xslavicprincess @concreteangel92 @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @pipidoll @bluehairpunklol @tktstomydwnfall @jesuisunchaton @brutallysoftmuse @acatatonicpeace @spookieolson @dontwantthemoney @renegadebirch @awkwardalex @nojoyontheburn @jaded-and-hollow-souls @milkysoop @spacec0wgirl777 @kenjipepsi1 @namenotimportant1373

[starkeygirl114]

Baby daddy Rafe x shy reader

Warnings: toxic relationships, cursing, past trauma, pregnancy, possessiveness, narcissist, mean girl vibes, Abuse, physical and mental abuse, mentions of blood, weapons, Ward Cameron (yes he’s alive in this story 🥴, past drug abuse, mentions of drugs, rehab, alcohol, being drunk/high, teasing/ poking fun of friends, Mentions of cheating, mental health mentions, anxiety, angst, crying, vomiting ( I’m sorry 😣) smut 🙂‍↕️

18+ read the warnings. If the warnings are too much for you do not read!!

authors note: I’m gagged with this one it’s messy as hell enjoy 💖

Fair warning this part does contain Ward Cameron

Part 5 1/2

As the day ends and the shock of the race wears off, I lay there holding Keegan as he sleeps.

Is Rafe really capable of being the father his son needs—and deserves?

Am I making the right decisions when it comes to my son?

My thoughts spiral well into the morning. The sun begins to rise, casting a soft glow across the horizon.

Keegan sleeps peacefully, his little lashes resting on his cheeks.

My whole world, bundled into one little boy.

He’s my biggest and greatest blessing.

When Keegan finally wakes up, we sit at the table eating cereal.

“Baby, I wanna talk to you about something,” I say, gently fixing his hair.

“Okay, Momma,” he answers, spilling milk on his chin.

“How are you feeling after yesterday? I know you were scared… and I’m so sorry you felt that way.”

He looks down, thinking hard before answering.

“I was scared for Daddy. He could have hurted himself.”

I reach over, wiping his chin.

“Well, Daddy’s okay. He’s not hurt—no boo-boos.”

“Yeah, boo-boos are not fun. Can we call Daddy?” Keegan asks hopefully.

As Keegan calls Rafe, I silently hope it’s a good morning—because after the last couple of days, I honestly can’t take much more.

Rafe answers, and he sounds cheery enough.

With plans to pick Keegan up shortly, we start getting ready. While we wait outside in the garden, Keegan wanders toward the bell peppers Auntie Kie’s been growing.

A car pulls into the driveway.

Rafe.

He sees us in the yard and approaches the garden cautiously, like he’s expecting a sneak attack.

“It’s okay, Rafe. No one’s awake but Keeg and me,” I say, meeting his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything—just nods—and gives his usual quiet hello. Keegan keeps digging around in the dirt.

“He loves digging,” Rafe says softly, smiling as he watches his son crawl around.

“He’s probably looking for bugs. That’s his favorite thing to find,” I reply, watching him.

He turns, catching me staring. I quickly look away, but it’s too late.

“You like what you see, huh?” he teases in a flirty tone.

“Please, Cameron—don’t be so full of yourself. I was looking at the cut on your eyebrow and lip,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You should really make sure you clean that.”

Rafe laughs and steps closer.

“I mean, if you wanna play nurse, I’ll be your patient.”

My eyes go wide.

“Rafe, are you okay? Clearly, you hit your head,” I say sarcastically.

He laughs—really laughs.

“I’m okay. Can’t keep me down.” He pauses, then adds, “About yesterday… I know it was—”

Rafe’s never been the type to admit when he’s wrong or apologize.

“It’s fine. It happened. Can’t change that,” I say, shuffling my feet.

“There’s a cookout or some shit at Tannyhill today. My dad wants me there. I don’t know why I’m even thinking of going,” he says, looking down.

“Oh wow, I didn’t realize you and Ward even talked enough for him to invite you back there,” I say softly, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“I guess, not really. It’s just small talk here and there. But he called me yesterday and brought it up,” he says, watching Keegan still digging around.

“I mean… it’s free food and drinks. I’d go if it were me,” I say with a smirk, trying to lift the mood.

Rafe turns and stares at me for a beat.

“Let’s go. You, me, and Keegan. I’ll drop you back home after.”

“What?” I blink at him.

“Yeah. Let’s shake it up. Plus, like you said—free food and drinks.”

“What about Sofia?” I ask, stunned he even brought this up.

“She’s with her family or something. I don’t know,” Rafe shrugs, totally unbothered.

“Are you actually being serious?” My jaw drops.

“Yes, I’m serious. I want you to come with me,” Rafe says, looking straight into my eyes.

I try to process everything—his mood, this conversation, how he’s acting like yesterday didn’t even happen. And now he’s just casually inviting me, like we’re still… us. After dropping the bomb that we’re not.

Before I can respond, Keegan comes bounding over.

“Are you ready to go, Daddy?” he asks, clinging to Rafe’s leg.

“Yeah, buddy, I am—as long as Mommy’s ready,” Rafe says, glancing at me.

“Mommy, you’re coming to Daddy’s house?!” Keegan looks between us, wide-eyed, confused—but clearly thrilled.

“Uhm… I guess. Grandma and Grandpa Cameron are having a cookout, and your dad invited us to it,” I say, looking at Keegan, still unsure myself.

“You want Mommy to come with us, right?” Rafe asks as he picks him up, and I swear I see that smug little spark in his eye.

Using Keegan as leverage? Dirty game, Cameron.

“Yes! I want Mommy there! It’ll be so fun!” Keegan says, arms tight around Rafe’s shoulders.

“Okay then. It’s settled—looks like Mommy’s coming with us,” Rafe smirks, shooting me a look.

I don’t even bother arguing. Not when both sets of those icy blue eyes are on me—that’s my kryptonite.

As Rafe takes Keegan to the car, I rush inside to grab my purse. Thankfully, the house is still quiet—everyone’s snoring, so I don’t have to explain the mess I’m about to walk into.

Slipping back outside, Rafe is waiting by the passenger door.

“The door for you, miss,” he says, holding it open with a mock bow.

I just stare at him for a beat, heart pounding, knees slightly weak. What the hell am I doing?

The drive to Tannyhill is smooth. Keegan’s in the backseat, singing along to the music, blissfully unaware of the tension up front. I watch the world roll by out the window, then glance over at Rafe. His jaw is clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Hey,” I say gently. “It’s okay. I’m here. If Ward starts anything, I’ll cuss him out, and we’ll leave.”

I smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’ll be like old times.”

Rafe glances over at me and smirks. He’s not totally relaxed, but a little of the tension leaves his face.

As we pull up to the house, it hits me—this is strange. Being here with Rafe, about to face Ward.

Must be a full moon tonight, I think.

The times I do show up at Tannyhill to pick Keegan up from Wheezie, I keep it quick. In and out. But today, I need to be brave. No backing down—not even from the ghosts that haunt this house.

Keegan runs ahead of us, giggling.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Rafe asks, staring up at the front door.

“I’m ready if you are,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just stands there, breathing, trying to steady himself.

Rose opens the door before either of us can knock.

“Rafe! It’s so nice to see you—I’m happy you could make it. And my sweet grandson,” she says, smiling as she reaches out to touch Keegan’s hair.

Keegan hugs her tight. “Where’s Auntie Wheezie?” he asks, already taking off into the house.

Then she turns to me—and her expression shifts. She’s clearly surprised to see me standing there beside Rafe Cameron, of all people.

“Oh my God—what a lovely surprise,” Rose says, pulling me in for a hug.

“I’m happy you’re here.”

Rose and I have never been the best of friends. So either she’s genuinely thrilled… or she popped hella Xanax before this lunch

Walking through the house toward the backyard, Rafe makes a beeline for the bar cart. He pours his first—of what I’m sure will be many—whiskeys and downs it in one sip. Without missing a beat, he refills the glass.

“I needed that,” he mutters, catching me watching him.

Stepping outside, the air feels heavy. Ward is standing at the grill, Rose by his side, whispering something in his ear. He turns slowly, his eyes locking onto Rafe’s.

“Rafe. It’s good to see you,” Ward says, voice clipped.

“Yeah, you too, Dad,” Rafe replies stiffly, standing close to me.

“I see you brought a guest… and the little guy,” Ward adds, glancing down at Keegan, who’s now hiding behind Rafe’s legs.

There’s a pause—silent and tense. Ward and Rose both look us over, like they’re trying to piece together what’s really going on.

Thankfully, Wheezie bursts out the door.

“Hey, Rafe. Hey, Y/N! Is the food almost done?” she asks, giving me a quick hug before turning to her dad.

I feel Ward’s eyes by me. I glance up and catch him and Rafe staring at each other, some unspoken standoff simmering.

Finally, Rose breaks the silence.

“You all can go sit at the table. Food’s done—it’ll be served shortly.”

Rafe picks up Keegan and turns to head back inside. I stay frozen for a beat, still locked in Ward’s disapproving gaze.

“Y/N, you coming?” Rafe calls back, nearly at the door.

“Huh? Yeah,” I mumble, shaking myself out of it and hurrying to catch up.

At the table, Keegan sits beside Wheezie, while Rafe and I sit across from them. Ward and Rose take their usual places at each end of the table. Dinner is served—way more food than I expected, and surprisingly really good. We eat mostly in silence, the only real noise coming from Keegan giggling with Wheezie.

A staff member brings Rafe another whiskey. I stick with water.

“So, son. How’s business going?” Ward asks, taking a calculated bite of food.

“It’s good. I’ve got a few things in the works,” Rafe answers, eyes on his plate.

“Darling, can we not talk business at the table, please?” Rose interjects with a polite smile.

I just focus on my food, minding my own business. Then, out of nowhere—

“So… are you and Rafe back together?” Ward asks, turning his attention directly to me.

I nearly choke on the bite I’m chewing.

“Oh—uh, no. We’re not. I’m just here for support,” I say quickly, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything else after that, just nods once. The rest of lunch goes better than expected. Quiet, but still better than the old times I remember at this table.

By the time dessert is served, Rafe is visibly ready to leave. His leg bounces under the table, and I can feel the tension vibrating off of him.

Ward gets a phone call and excuses himself. Rafe immediately seizes the opportunity.

“Let’s go,” he says, already pushing back from the table.

“Wait, you’re leaving already?” Wheezie pouts, hugging Keegan tight. She’s not ready to say goodbye to her favorite little human.

“Yeah, Wheez. I gotta get outta here. You know how it is,” Rafe says gently.

Rose offers me leftovers, and I accept. She disappears to go pack some up.

As we wait, Wheezie takes Keegan to show him her new lizard. Rafe downs the rest of his drink. When Ward returns, he immediately picks up where he left off.

“Sorry about that. Business never sleeps,” he says, then looks at Rafe. “Leaving so soon?”

Rose returns with two bags of food.

“Here you go. I think this’ll be enough for whatever you need it for,” she says, handing them to me.

“Thanks. And thank you both for lunch,” I say politely.

Ward gives me a half-smile.

“Anytime. It’s nice having my grandson around.”

Rafe and I turn to leave, with Ward and Rose watching us from the dining room. As we walk through the house, Rafe turns to me.

“Go wait outside by the car. I’m gonna grab Keegan.”

I nod and step onto the porch. I don’t even get two steps out before I hear Ward’s voice behind me.

“If you’re not dating my son… why are you with him?”

I turn slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a fairly simple question, dear. Why are you and Rafe spending time together if you’re not back together?”

“Uhm… maybe because we have a child together? We have to talk.”

Ward watches me silently, eyes cold and analytical.

“Well, I think if you’re going to start showing up to family events, you should be more willing to let Rafe see his son whenever he wants. And maybe even let Keegan come over here when I’m home. After all, you’re the one who made the rule he’s not allowed around me unless one of his parents is present.”

My jaw tightens.

“Ward, I do let Rafe see Keegan whenever he wants. It’s on Rafe how much time he takes. Don’t put that on me,” I snap, holding his gaze.

Seeing I’m getting annoyed, Ward finally says his goodbyes and slinks back into the house.

“Bastard,” I mumble under my breath, walking to the car.

Rafe and Keegan come out a moment later. I toss the food into the back and close the door—maybe a little too hard.

“Damn, you okay? You’re slamming my door,” Rafe says with a smile as he buckles Keegan in.

I stand next to my door, arms crossed, taking a second.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just… your father,” I say quietly.

Rafe looks over, confused.

“Wait—he said something to you?”

I nod slightly.

“It was stupid shit. You know how he is—trying to size me up.”

Rafe watches my face closely.

“Nah, I don’t like that. He has no reason to be speaking to you alone.” He turns to head back toward the house.

I grab his arm.

“No, Rafe. It’s fine. No harm done,” I say, pulling him closer.

“Well, you’re clearly upset by it. I’ll tell him to fuck off.”

He glances down at my hand on his arm, and I let go quickly.

“No, don’t do that. It was an okay lunch. Let’s not ruin it.”

I take a step toward the car, and after a pause, he nods.

“Alright. I’ll let it go.”

“You’ve been drinking though,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’ll drive your car to your place and just Uber back to the Cut.”

Rafe eyes me up and down.

“You’re not Ubering anywhere. It’s not safe—for one. And two, I’m not even drunk. But if it makes you feel better, you can drive to my place and stay there until I’m good to drive.”

“You want me to come over and be inside your house?” I ask, anxiety creeping in.

“Yeah, why not? Sofia’s not there. It’ll just be us and Keegan,” he says, already sliding into the passenger seat.

Taking a deep breath, I get in the driver’s seat. Off to Rafe’s house we go.

Pulling up outside, I take it all in. I’ve been here a few times, but never inside. Usually, Rafe just meets me out front to pick up Keegan.

“I’ll put your food in the fridge,” he says, grabbing Keegan and the bags.

We follow him to the door.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go drop this off,” he says, disappearing into the kitchen.

I stand in the living room, looking around. It’s a nice place—beachfront, modern, with those polished bachelor-pad vibes. Along one table are a few framed pictures, most of Keegan and Rafe. But one stands out: a family portrait. Rafe, Sarah, their mom… and Ward. I’m staring at it when I hear Rafe come back in, so I quickly turn away.

“Uh… do you want a drink?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you,” I say.

Keegan tugs on my hand.

“Come on, Mommy. I wanna show you my room!”

Walking into Keegan’s bedroom is like stepping into a dinosaur exhibit. His room is every little kid’s dream. Bright colors, toys everywhere, a small tank on the windowsill. I lean in for a better look.

“He actually made that,” Rafe says behind me, smiling. “It’s his ant farm.”

I kiss the top of Keegan’s head as he excitedly shows me all his books, his favorite stuffed animals, his ‘coolest’ rock he found last week. He’s got so many neat things tucked into every corner.

Once he settles down to play with his Legos, Rafe steps back from the doorway.

“If you wanna see the rest of the house, I can show you.”

I nod. Keegan says he’s gonna stay and build, totally focused.

Rafe walks me through the upstairs. He shows me the guest bathroom, a spare room, and quickly opens the door to his bedroom. I only glance inside—trying not to feel weird about it. It’s personal, private. I don’t linger.

Downstairs, he points out his office near the front door, then leads me into the game room—complete with an eight-foot pool table, a massive screen for video games, and even a golf simulator.

“Damn,” I whisper. “You really don’t leave the house, do you?”

He just laughs and keeps walking. We pass the living room and kitchen, then step outside through the sliding doors.

There’s a pool. A small garden lines the edge of the yard, colorful flowers bright against the green grass.

“I wanted Keegan to have somewhere the bugs would be,” Rafe says as I look around. “So I had them build the garden.”

I glance at him, surprised by how soft his voice is.

The view of the water stretches out behind the house, calm and wide.

For a second, I forget everything else—because Rafe Cameron really did build himself a tiny paradise.

[r0-boat]

Hi!! Can I Request a Stolas NSFW alphabet pls? Thank uuu <3

Yup yup!

Stolas NSFW Alphabet

Short King full of anger

Cw: breeding Kink, noncon, mention of gunplay

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Stolas has a soft side, He doesn't show it often but for you and only you He will gladly show it.

Pepper your face with kisses His soft voice asking where It hurts So he could heal it.

Ask whatever you need and he'll get it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite part of your body is your ass and thighs. Honorable mention is your neck. The power he has when your arms are bound, your ass is up, and he's driving his cock into you. Hand striking, your soft flash until it's red, digging his nails into your meaty thighs until they bleed. His mouth marks and bites your neck, making it as visible as possible.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

His cum always inside of you, fucking you full making sure that is cum is running down your thigh when he's done with you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants to commit a really diabolical sin in all of hell, taking you by force. Give in to his devil instincts. Your no's and cries of health are turning into begging for more. Filling you up with his demon seed until you're his forever. If he ever were to do that to you, imagine how much carnage all of hell will be in hahaha...

The only law in Abyssos is stealing one's lover And if he did that he would technically be stealing the Seven Kings of Hell's lover...

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Stolas... ✨Has never had sex✨ because....i- i-umm... honestly, I have no other excuse other than he looks like someone who would whimper and cry while rutting into you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mating press. It feels so dirty. He want to press himself down and fuck into you like an animal.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He is not at all goofy and he will only be annoyed if you're goofing around.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I feel like all devils in Abyssos (except for a few) are very well-groomed well groomed well dressed and ready for a night out. (Which is every night)

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Well if you consider breaking and entering and him fucking you on the property as romantic...

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Nope, once he gets his first taste of you all, he wants to do is be inside you. His hand can no longer satisfy him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Biting and marking

non-Con

Breeding

Gunplay

Roleplay

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His favorite location is Beelzebub's own bedroom. The child of Solomon in the bedroom of the king of gluttony makes him want to cum just thinking about it. Beelzebub does, in fact, know he's not said anything and refuses to.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He is so weak to teasing. A little bit of teasing and he's falling apart trying to have you. Any kind of teasing will do it.

Wearing clothes that hug your body just right.

Brushing your foot against his leg under the table.

Gracing any part of your body against his cock.

Suggestive words being whispered in his ear to get in to be flustered.

Don't think you can just tease him and get away with it...

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Not necessarily a turn off... But it will hurt his ego.

Turn him into a submissive mess and peg him.

Again not a turn off... But it will bruise his ego....

(He will cum really hard and be pouty for a week.)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

It embarrasses him how much he can't control himself when Your mouth is around his cock.

When it comes to him giving you oral, it will be short-lived because he'll just want to fuck you. It's teasing to him...

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Deep and desperate, going fast or slow, he hits deep and tries to milk every sound out of you. He wants to make you scream so loud that everyone in the vicinity knows what's happening to you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies oh my god Yes! Quickies are his lifeblood. Instead of slowing down he is fucking up into you like an animal making sure you come fast and hard for him.

He'll take you anywhere and make you leave with his cum running down your leg or you being covered in it.

Stupid bird puffs out his chest in pride every time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Oh fuck yeah. The fact that there's risk involved makes his cock throb. The risk of being caught, the risk of the consequences... It's everything to him.

If it involves taking risks new locations or really anything he's always down to experiment.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Extremely high human standards but devil standards pretty low.

Listen to my delulu brain, Stolas is very inexperienced... He's like a chihuahua, all bark, no bite. He's still incredibly horny and perverted. He's lucky that his dick is big and he knows how to pleasure humans (hell sex education)

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Using toys on you absolutely. But if it's on him get that shit away from him!

He's so scared of what that toy will do to him how fast it will make him cum buckets How fast it will turn him into a whimpering begging mass.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can dish it, but he can't take it.

He loves watching you squirm underneath him. He loves having all that power. Making you whimper his name making you plead for him to give it to you.

But if it's him getting teased ✨No✨

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Noisy, shaky moans, cussing and whimpering when he's close broken words and sentences of how he's about to cum, How he's going to fill you up and other things he's saying.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Birb likes scriches before during or after sex he doesn't care give him scritches now!

He demand scritches.

And don't you dare stop too early or else he will be mad.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

You see his dick through his-... whatever the fuck he's wearing on his Sprite artwork don't know how big that is but yeah you legit see it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He's a devil under the king of gluttony. Nothing will ever be enough.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If he does fall asleep after sex, it's only a quick nap, and then He wants more... If not, he'll still want more. He's always wanting more. Again, the devil of the country of gluttony.

[howlingday]

I'm right now trying to do Solo Leveling writing but my head won't let me until I get it out, so I'm giving it to you.

RWBY Brooklyn Nine Nine au

I've come with it to you before but I cooked up stuff.

P.S. I've never read Before the Dawn so I don't know NDGO's bad personalities, and will actively ignore those decisions cause they were dumb.

Captain Holt = James Ironwood

Sergeant Jeffords = Cardin

Jake Peralta = Jaune Arc

Amy Santiago = Nebula Violette

Rosa Diaz = Arslan Atlan

Charles Boyle = Sun Wukong (or whoever you want)

And that's all I have so far, and am giving it to you to make something cause it won't leave me alone, and I wanted to use other characters instead of the main eight.

Jaune: So... I take it Operation Nasty was a success~?

Ironwood: I'm assuming you mean Operation: Nasty Sex Lot?

Jaune: Isn't it how it's always been that way?

Ironwood: Didn't you see him flirting with me?

Jaune: Uh, no?

Ironwood: Then you're both blind AND a prude. The man was wearing a single-windsor knot tie; the easiest knot to untie. Might as well have shown up naked.

Jaune: I think you might have badly misread that interaction.

Ironwood: Oh, please. He did everything but lick his lips and purr. Ditch him! And bring me someone who can keep it in their slacks!

Penny: Did someone say to take off our slacks?

Jaune: No! Not even close!

Penny: Ah. I see. Please keep me informed, as my dogs are barking. (Exits)

Jaune: ...WHAT DOGS?!

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

Cardin: Uh... Hey! Polendina! You got any surveillance equipment Arslan can borrow?

Penny: Ah! You are refering to my "creep kit"! (Lifts box) Here you are~! I have a spare ready in the car.

Arslan: See, Nebs? That's what a REAL friend looks like!

Penny: (Lifts glove to face, "Sniffs")

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

Cardin: Arc, if there's any advice I can give you, it is this.

Cardin: DO. NOT. DO. IT.

Jaune: What? Don't you love your girls?!

Cardin: Of course! They're my whole world! Oh, Vivi this morning with her little bracelets~. So adorable~!

Jaune: Aw~.

Cardin: But they are a ton of work, man! If you are not completely and totally 100% sure you want 'em, you will never survive!

Jaune: Is it really that hard?

Cardin: YES! I never get any sleep. I'm always sick. I never get to watch anything I want on TV. I never finished Remnant: Lost Souls, but I can recite Bunya of the Sea from memory!

Cardin: Bunya, Bunya, Little Bunny of the Sea~! She's the little bunny with the blue tummy~!

Cardin: WHY DO I KNOW THAT?!

Jaune: I don't wanna watch kids movies. I wanna watch shows for adults and teens!

Cardin: And they are so manipulative! Yesterday, Gigi was sobbing, going on and on about how she thought she broke her leg, meanwhile Vivi and Cici snuck in the kitchen and stole an entire bowl of cookies!

Jaune: Geez, your kids are monsters...

Cardin: HEY! Those are my kids, Arc! Watch it!

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

Sun: So, uh, what's the deal? Something awkward happen? I can probably relate. Dish, bitch~!

Jaune: Arslan got dumped out of the blue because she cares more about being a huntress than hanging out with Reese- (PUNCH'D) OW! There's just no winning with you!

Sun: Ah, so you got dumped, huh? Didn't see it coming? Oho, brother, can I relate~! Total Wukong Country!

Arslan: (Rolls her eyes)

Sun: Here's what you gotta do.

Cardin: C'mon, Wukong.

Sun: (Backing up with Cardin) Beg her to take you back! Don't be afraid to cry! I'm talking serious waterworks! Tears, sweat, snot, and maybe even pee!

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

Cardin: STOP! I've got a headache from Salem herself!

Penny: Ah! A classic huntsman rhetoric of drinking hard liquor before entering work?

Cardin: No, I've just got a tension headache from this huntsman exam coming up! I've been stress-eating like crazy and I've had nothing but hard-boiled egg yolks all morning! Half a dozen cartons worth before 9!

Jaune: Gross.

Nebula: I've been there before. March 13th, two years ago, I also had a high-grade pre-test full-test freakout. I was in the middle of advanced leadership finals and-

Jaune: I'm gonna stop you right there, Nebs, because I already know how this story ends.

Nebula: Oh, really?! You know that I crapped my pants in the middle of the exam?!

Jaune: Oh my god, no! I thought you were going to say you got a B-plus!

Nebula: Well, I definitely got a B-M~.

Jaune: Noice~! (High fives)

[mooshie-blue]

IMPORTANT UPDATE.

Please read

I’m gonna be honest with y’all. The internet is just. Not healthy for me. There’s a lot of reasons, doom scrolling, discourse, easy access to see horrible things happening that I can’t stop or control.

I use the internet to cope. Cope with my feelings, my anxiety. To escape and find solace in others. But lately, it’s not enough. Nothings enough.

Maybe I need to spend more time with myself and family. I need to just let it go. I’m exhausted. I’m always overthinking my worth to others.

Sometimes I cry alone, in my room wishing it would all make sense, or that I could trust people. But I can’t just sit and vent online because it really doesn’t help. Not as much as I wish it would.

And my art. My stupid fucking art. I have improved a lot last and this year, but that doesn’t erase the fact that I can easily see people that deserve the title of “artist” way more than I do. I can’t fucking stand it.

I’m even finding myself angry and jealous at my friends, but it’s not their fault. I’m the one who lacks discipline and variety lol.

And honestly. Yes, the harassment I received two years ago still bothers me, not in the sense that I miss the freind I fought with, I don’t. I hope she’s doing okay. It’s moreso the fact that I think they were all right about me.

I still don’t think I’m a good person. I get angry, I say things without thinking. I lose patience. Others get angry because of bad things happening to others, same here, but I also get angry because of how I think others are against me, or better than me.

It’s all culminating to a point where I’m obsessing over and spending hours sticking to unrealistic or unreasonable thoughts and ideas about my friends

And instead of asking them or talking to them upfront I just let those thoughts fester until it pops.

I need a break. From the whole internet. All my apps. Everything. I can’t hurt myself like this anymore. I mean I’ve come dangerously close to harming myself more times than I can count.

I mean most of my all nighters are spent dicking around on my phone. And it’s made even more pathetic by the fact that I don’t have any irl friends. You guys online are the only friends I have. And I don’t even talk to a lot of you guys, so even that’s a line that’s thin enough to cut.

I don’t want to put pressure on anyone anymore. I don’t want to hurt or think bad thoughts. I need to open myself up a little bit and stop letting everything get in the way.

I want to focus on me. Not my thoughts, not my art. Me. I want to grow more comfortable with myself. Just sit and think. Read, play games. Just let it all go.

So. I’m gonna take a break. I don’t know for how long. I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can’t keep living like this.

The only thing online I’ll be doing until further notice is DMs. I’ll still talk to you guys. But I’m not posting for a while.

I love you guys. Thanks for understanding. I’ll come back when I’m ready.

[asgardiansofthegalaxyvol3]

The inevitable scenario where Wade and Logan start having sex, and Wade of course has the self esteem of a rock so he assumes they’re just fuck buddies and he’s just a warm hole, because Logan is THE WOLVERINE and Wade is a walking lump. And to be fair they haven’t actually had a conversation about any of it. And Wade is willing to put up with it because he’s so in love with Logan that it hurts, and if this is the only capacity he can have him in then he’ll deal with the consequences when they happen.

Except when those consequences finally do happen Wade is NOT prepared at all. He’s out, picking up take out at Logan’s favorite hole in the wall junk food place, as a surprise because the two of them have actually been getting along really well lately, and Logan’s been surprisingly soft with him for such a long time that maybe he actually IS kind of into Wade- except he’s here, having dinner with some bombshell of a lady. She’s so hot it makes Vanessa look like a 7/10 rather than a 10/10.

And of course his entire world comes crashing down immediately. He’s hyperventilating, seeing black spots, his fingers are completely numb. So he takes off without a word, because Logan is clearly having such a good time that he doesn’t even see Wade standing in the doorway.

Al is spending the weekend with her sister out of state, so he can’t even go home and cry to her while he does enough coke to kill an elephant. So he goes to the nearest bar he can find, which is some sort of Country bar that’s clearly having heartbroken Ladies night, because it’s jam packed full of Yeehaw Women and the only kind of music playing is HeartBroken White Women Country songs. Which usually is not Wade’s cup of tea, but damn if they aren’t all hitting him in a special way right now.

There’s all the classics. “Jolene” has him aching, because Dolly was fucking onto something with that song. Like she plucked it straight from Wade’s joke of a life. “Mama’s broken heart” has him missing Al with a vengeance. She’s many things, like a drug addict and an asshole, but she’s also loving and extremely reasonable. If she was here with him she probably would have stopped him from spiraling completely out of control. Or at least swatted him into behaving and then held him while he cried. “I hope.” By Gabby Barret (not that trash version featuring Charlie Puth) has him feeling vindictive. Because yeah they might not have been together together, but Logan was still a dirty fucking cheater and Wade hates his guts and NEEDS him to experience this level of heartbreak. And that chick was a 10/10 on a bad day, she can have her choice of any dude in at least a 50 mile radius, and Wade hopes she does. Because he’s spiteful and mean and wants to break Logan’s heart, too.

By the time “Before he cheats” comes on Wade has enough alcohol, coke, and ketamine in his system that he’s taking Carrie Underwood’s words as fucking gospel. He’s ready to burn every single item Logan owns. So he heads home and sees Logan’s beloved motorcycle and is ready to fucking trash it. And he wants his good baseball bat to do it, in honor of Carrie. He’s trying his best to remember where exactly he left that thing and lets his eyes drift up to the window of their apartment and sees the light on. Of course, the bike is here that must mean Logan is, too. And then the image of Logan and that Bitch rolling around naked in Wade’s bed-their shared bed- floods his mind and he sees red.

He heads upstairs, and is genuinely surprised to see Logan there alone, perched on the couch and looking worried. Which good, he should be. Except Wade doesn’t realize why Logan looks worried until he sees the bag of take out he ordered earlier sitting on the table, “Wade Wilson” printed clearly in big bold letters on the order slip. Which means Logan must have pieced two and two together. He knows he’s been caught since Wade clearly showed up for the food he ordered and then left without it. Which had been hours ago at this point, he’s not entirely sure since he’d lost track of his phone at some point (by which he means he traded it for a fuck ton of Special K)

“Where have you been?” Logan had the audacity to ask, and Wade loses his absolute shit.

“Where have I been? Where have you been? Out with your whore when you told me you were at work?” And he goes on and on spewing vile things, sounding every bit of a jealous girlfriend when they aren’t even dating. And Logan just sits there listening to the rant, eyebrows pinched in confusion, doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed or anything. It pisses Wade off so much he grabs the gun off the table and points it at Logan, who just rolls his eyes at the non-threat.

“Will you just calm down for a sec-” which is the wrong thing to say, and Logan seems to realize that the second Wade switches pointing the gun from Logan to his own head, holding it at his own temple menacingly. “Jesus Christ, Wade, I’m not cheating on you!”

“Yeah yeah, can’t cheat on someone you aren’t dating, I get it-”

“No, that’s not- we weren’t-” Logan stumbles over his words for a moment, rubbing his hands down his face in frustration. “She’s a fucking collector. I was looking for a present for your birthday, dipshit.”

And that takes all the wind out of Wade’s sails because he hadn’t even stopped to consider Logan could have been doing anything else with a beautiful woman besides trying to sleep with her. Which actually isn’t cool of him, but he’d been so caught up in the moment.

And as if to prove a point Logan picks up another box off the table, sat right next to their cold food, that Wade hadn’t even noticed before. It’s poorly wrapped, and definitely from Logan. Wade stares at it dumbfounded and slowly lowers the gun from his temple and softly says “oh.”

And then Logan goes on to say that even though they haven’t really sat down and talked about it, that he’s still really into Wade and he would never cheat on him. And that he hasn’t done labels in a really long time but if Wade wants to call them boyfriends or partners or whatever then that’s fine because “you’re my person, Darlin’, I take that very seriously.”

And Wade fucking melts and they end up making love on the couch, and then fucking nasty all over the apartment until Al comes home two days later and tears them a new one.

[pandapool]

-- Panda's Poolverine Recs --

◻️ Chronic Pain Edition ◻️

an inconclusive list of Chronic Pain Poolverine fics i've read & enjoyed

💛 Death Punch Therapy by Cornerofmadness Teen and Up | 1,1K

The cold makes Logan’s metal-infused bones ache but a little brawling and a lot of Wade will help warm him up and ease those aching bones.

❤️ Achey Sickness by RogueFroggo Teen and Up | 2,3K

The first thing he noticed was the tear that slipped down his face. Great, he thought bitterly, now he was crying too. But the second, more pressing thing he noticed, was the firm, calloused hand rubbing down his back soothingly. He tensed, instantly recognising the touch as Logan’s. He felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. First, he vomited in front of Logan and now he was crying like an idiot. He was a damn mess right now. Or; Wade is having a rough day because of his cancer, but he also promised Logan that he'd do a job with him that he's been putting off for weeks and the last thing he wants to do is irritate Logan too much. So he forces himself to go, no matter how bad he feels. Which obviously doesn't end well for him.

💛 Bad Days (But Better With You) by RavenWingedSky Teen and Up | 2,4K

Wade's healing factor can't always keep the pain that comes with being riddled with cancer at bay. This time, Logan is there to notice the struggles he tries to hide.

❤️ everything's made to be broken by midnightdragons / @midnights-dragon Teen and Up | 2,4K

The only thing going well for him at the moment was that at least he was alone, with Al having gone out for old lady bingo or whatever the fuck she did, and Logan surely being gone by now, because he usually left in the — “What the hell are you doing?” — and, no, Logan was right fucking behind him, because something about you sick fucking fanfiction readers is that you really want to see your babygirls suffer. (Or: Wade has a bad chronic pain day. Logan helps.)

💛 Cherish by oddityofstars Mature | 3K

The building's heater broke three weeks ago. Logan and Wade aren't handling it too well. – or, part 1 of a little series of them figuring it out and taking care of one another because it's cold and i said so. rated MATURE for language and wade's... everything.

❤️ forwards beckon rebound by laynie_addi Not Rated | 3,2K

Cancer is about the ugliest illness a guy can have. Especially when that guy used to look like Ryan Reynolds. It's been about a year since Deadpool and Wolverine saved the multiverse, and Logan's been healing slow and steady. Wade's not always been the best at healing. Basically, Wade Wilson has cancer and all of its nasty side effects and the worst part is: he's been accidentally hiding it from Logan the whole time.

💛 Background Noise by letitrainathousandflames / @letitrainathousandflames Mature | 4K

Wade suffers with the chronic pain caused by his cancer. Sometimes the pain becomes too much and he resorts to... other methods to be rid of the pain. Like cutting himself open until his guts spill out of him.

❤️ i don't want to miss a thing by weedwilson / @weedwilson Explicit | 4,1K

“You sick or somethin’, bub?” Logan asks. His voice is soft, and Wade wants to curl up in it. “Can you even get sick?” “Nah,” Wade says, sighing. His head feels light and his limbs seem to be melting into the mattress. “Flare up. Healing’s not up to speed with the cancer today.” or: the closest thing this ship can have to a sick fic <3

💛 Constant Craving (Has Always Been) by babyfairy Mature | 8K

“Yeah, okay. I’m dead.” Wade nods once. “The tumors growing in my brain have officially killed me. Some absolute, total, breathtakingly stupid moron fucked up and sent me to heaven. Alright, honey badger, I’m ready. Come here. Ravish me, blow my back out, I can take it.” He pulls his arm free of Logan’s grasp and holds both out, cup still in hand. “Do not hold back, either. I’m dead, we can do it however we want.”

❤️ We Should Just Kiss (Like Real People Do) by afterhoursnika / @nikaandtea Teen and Up | 8,1K

Sitting still was the only thing that didn’t hurt to do on his ‘burn’ days. Wade would quietly leave the apartment so as not to bother Al, and go sit in the night air and allow his body to buzz and sting until he felt himself doze off. Then he makes his way back and sleeps on the couch in their living room. That routine worked out for a while, despite waking up briefly sore (which went away as soon as he moved around, and his healing factor took course). But then Logan moved in. or Wade has chronic pains, and Logan has emotional baggage. They talk it out. Make pasta not war.

🖤 Poolverine Recs Masterpost 💙

If you have requests what trope/tag I should do next, drop them in my Inbox!

If you're an author who recognises their fic, feel free to let me know so i can tag you!

[sturniphone]

Hi i'm sorry if your inbox seems quiet right now, but it's not your fault anyway so don't worry i'm kinda new to tumblr and trying to navigate i'm just really shy to ask for stuff sometimes, (i've done some requests here only three for now but unfortunatly i can't find the answer to two of the three) i don't know if you do this kind of stuff but i had an idea based off another answer you wrote to a "similar" request you got where Bunny had a past of sh and matt comforted her about it.

What would Matt do if instead of the healed scars he found some fresher looking scars if you get what i mean...

It's totally ok if you don't feel comfortable writing it because it's too angsty or because it doesn't fit your au idea, either way it's your blog and your choice (love your blog and your au's! Especially Bunny and Matt, sorry if this is kind of long, love you!❤️)

hello <3 i kept this short and general for my own sake, and just a little note that i won’t be writing active sh… recovery and comfort only, okay? anyways, hope you’re doing okay. mentions of sh below the cut

if matt saw fresher scars on bunny, his heart would ache in the sweetest, most tender way. he’d pause, eyes soft and full of worry, but never a flicker of anger or disappointment.. just pure love. without a word, he’d wrap her up in his arms, holding her close like she’s the most precious thing in the world, whispering little comforts against her hair. ❝you’re safe with me, always, okay?❞ he’d murmur, fingers gently tracing soothing circles on her back, like trying to erase the pain with his touch alone. he’d stay quiet and steady, letting her lean on him, letting her cry if she needs, and when she’s ready, he’d softly say, ❝whenever you want to talk, i’m right here. no rush, no pressure. just me and you.❞ his whole presence would be calm and warm, like a soft blanket wrapping around her heart.

[formlessfool]

Okay

It's been a year since I decided to read Assassin's Apprentice and half a year since I've read Fool’s Fate but. I still. Cannot. Stop. Fucking. Crying. STILL. I haven't even started the last trilogy yet, because I'm SO FUCKING SCARED because those books killed me already and I KNOW it's going to be even worse experience and IM REALLY FUCKING AFRAID even though I want to very much while I hadn't spoiled everything to myself

But this whole fucking time since I read the last page of Fool’s Fate (and after an absolute crashout that followed for the next few days when I couldn't controle my hysterics at all) I think about it every now and then and start uncontrollably sobbing I cannot count how many times I wept right during my work because of this and how many nights I spent crying into my pillow

Even worse that there's no one else I could share my pain with, I mean my friends did support me with my obsession, but they refuse to read it themselves and cannot fully fathom the levels of that hurt

Idk I read a lot of books, a lot were sad, but for me personally nothing had been this devastating

I fucking hate and love and hate this story AND I HAVEN'T EVEN FINISHED but I'm sure it will rip me into pieces at the end and I'm not feeling ready

I've been to so many fandoms already for years and years, but this one, for some reasons I dont even know, hurt worse than anything else

There's been only one thing that helped me somehow get through this and it's that amazing fic Of Cats and Closed Doors BUT IT ALSO MADE ME CRY A THOUSAND FUCKING TIMES but still mended some scars, I keep just rereading it over and over because it makes me feel a little lighter, but that pain inside is not going anywhere no matter what I do, I'm trying to find something new but every time I just feel that "It's not THEM. No one will ever be like THEM" and I just can't let it go

Anyway, thanks for reading my TedTalk

[friendlynaborhooddisapointment]

ik this isnt my usual type of post, but i wanted to share this. i feel asleep in the middle of the day today (Easter sunday) and had this dream.

i was in the metro with my mom to get some food, because i had just dropped out of a prestigious college (in the dream) and was very upset (the collage was difficult and stressful and i hated almost everyone there, just not a fun time, also i got mold on my feet there?). we were going to talk about it over food.

at one of the stops, someone pushes a piano into the metro and they start playing. it was verying impressive and beautiful. when they stop, someone else plays it, it was also very good. this continues, different people i wouldn't have looked twice at in public come to the piano and play beautiful music. it was all different types of music, but it was all good.

stilling right next to us was my great grandfather, he died 5 years ago (2020). me and my mom are talking to him like we all walked into the metro together (we did not) and was not a strange thing to happen. he starts falling asleep, we try to keep him awake and one of the things my mom does is read the newspaper to him. when he hears that someone is reading to him, he wakes up and takes the paper. he tells her "don't read to me! i can read well enough on my own".

he continues reading the paper out loud. while reading, my great grandfather skips a word, and my mom points it out. he says that the words all move around when he reads, but reading in french (the language the newspaper was in) is better then reading in armenian (our mother-tongue) since armenian letters all look the same and the words are easier to mix up if you are not paying attention. he says thats why french is his favorite language. i tell him i have a simular issue, and he smiles.

the newspaper disappears and my mom tells me to massage his hands since his arthritis is acting up, so i massage his hands. hes listening to the music now and tells me he used to play the guitar. he also shows me a picture he drew of the back of an electric guitar with the serial number and screws and everything. and also shows me the tattoo he has of the serial number of the guitar on his upper arm right next to a tattoo of the back panel scews of a guitar. i get the distinct feeling that he learned it in heaven, and also got the tattoo there. im not a very religious person so im suprised that i was thinking that. i guess i assumed when he came down to visit me in the metro he was an old man again? idk

anyway he tells me that he cant play the guitar anymore because his hands don't work like they used to. i tell him i i've been wanting to learn the guitar, but i hadn't gotten around to it.

he tells me that i can't give up when something is hard, and that if i do, i wont ever do anything. and that will make me a very sad person.

he doesn't say this, but i know hes not talking about becoming a pittiful person, hes talking about becoming a person who is very unsatisfied with their life and incredibly sad. who has gotten to the point where looking for their happiness doesn't even register as a solution to become happier.

after he tells me this, he becomes very tired. My mom tells me to let him sleep since he is tired and should rest. he falls asleep very quickly and i wake up.