#but when it has nothing to do with the post

[yurinaa-world]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Phainon/Lord Khaslana x Female reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You always hated being one of the wives of Lord Khaslana, living the rest of your life in the misery of a never-ending cycle. Until you were given a beautiful watch keeper, named Phainon was when your feelings about life began to change.

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Spoiler? Age Gap between the reader and Phainon/Khaslana, Alternate Universe, wrong lore? (I just looked at wiki tbh), Angst? Lord Khaslana has two other wives (not seen as romantic by him, though), Unfinished, not sure of anything else? Not good writing. Spelling Mistakes

💫𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I've had this in my drafts for such a long time, after being inspired by another (CANT FIND IT ANYMORE THOUGH..) I loved it and took inspiration, even though I'm not a lore player and am just yapping. NOT FINISHED THOUGH! I just wanted to post what I had. Part 2, if anyone wants it.

You were an unruly woman—an outrighteous saint, a title given to you.

No one in the temple dared to say it to your face—except the High Priest, with his sugar-coated words. After all, they must be thinking: how could one of the so-called wives of Lord Khaslana, the world-bearing god who carried so much for the people of Okhema—whether their physical or internal battles—be anything less than devoted? (even though the title was a backhanded compliment, but you're insane for thinking that way)

You wouldn’t think of yourself as his wife, more like a trophy that lives in his temple rent-free. The man never shows up or even tries to talk to you, yet somehow, you still have to pray to him every day.

Not that you are well acquainted with the verses that even children know. You only remember them when they are sung, unable to repeat them if asked. Sometimes, during prayer, you go off on random rants—mostly to yourself—or your thoughts wander to unrelated things that pull you off task.

It’s not like you ever really listened. There was a reason you were given the title of “outrighteous”—for having an attitude and opinions on most things in the temple. You never exactly followed the rules. Yes, you were “punished” only by the High Priest—nothing from your husband, no real reprimand to change your behaviour. But who could blame you for being lonely? You were rowdy, loud, and impulsive, and now you feel like a leashed animal trapped in a temple full of people with whom you cannot hold an interesting conversation.

Even with your personal maid.

Every day spent in your room was boring—nothing to do except needlework, read prayers, and whatever else there was. You genuinely just rot in your bed all day.

The faces in the temple begin to blur together. You start to forget who’s who.

Especially the two other wives he has—Daphne and Phoebe.

They are very beautiful, too. Everyone seems to think so. Even though the three of you live in separate wings (but still meet for meal times), you hear the maids and guards rave about the other two.

You don’t really talk to either of them—they’re devoted followers in your stead. It’s like a duo in a trio situation.

“I feel Lord Khaslana has given me a sign today. When the sun was burning bright in the sky, I prayed for something to calm this heat—and it started raining,”

the short, blonde-haired Daphne said with a bright smile, her blue eyes wide as if they might pop from their sockets.

“Congratulations!” Phoebe replied, tossing her long brunette hair behind her shoulder to avoid getting food on it—the same copy-and-paste smile fixed on her face.

To have the three of you together like this, with the High Priest at the other end of the table, was like going to a family friend’s house without knowing who they were.

You felt a heat rise in your stomach, one that made your blood boil.

Taking bites of your food while the other two laughed and smiled across from each other, you sat at the end of the table, simply hoping to finish dinner quickly and be done with it.

“What about you, (name)? How was your day?”

The two wives, Daphne and Phoebe, stopped talking and glanced awkwardly at you from the corners of their eyes.

You slowly lifted your head from your plate and looked at him with the most intense, narrowed eyes you could muster—filled with utter annoyance to the brim. Just a simple question.

“Fine. It was fine. Thank you.”

Your anger felt like it might burst at any second, like a ticking bomb ready to explode.

His smile did not falter.

The High Priest sat at the end of the long polished table, hands delicately folded over his plate, chin resting slightly forward as if genuinely interested—not poking a beast in a cage for the entertainment of favored pets.

You knew this game.

“Wonderful,” he said smoothly. “May Lord Khaslana continue to grace your days with peace and purpose.”

Your (rightful) wenchful attitude began to show more and more in the days that followed. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore—especially the way you looked at people. That gaze didn’t change, not even when you were assigned a new, watchful keeper to be by your side at all times. You cursed yourself for falling into this predicament because of your venom-filled words.

Still, your gaze didn’t waver—not even when that caretaker, Phainon, a man with beautiful white hair and even finer eyes, knelt down and held your hand with such grace and softness. “I will do my best to serve you, My Lady.”

Even you had to admit—you could see why the maids gushed upon first laying eyes on him. He was utterly beautiful, like a blessing from Lord Khaslana himself. A face handcrafted by the god, dressed in white silks like a present.

You thought him just another obedient servant, another pair of watchful eyes sent to tame your unruly behavior at your ‘husband’s’ request. But the way his fingers lingered when he handed you your tea, the way his voice dipped low when he murmured, “Careful, My Lady, the High Priest is watching,”—it was all too deliberate.

“You have quite the pretty face,” you said dreamily as the two of you sat in a field of flowers. It had been a long time since you’d been out like this, relaxed. You were even allowed to go without guards now, thanks to Phainon’s presence. He perked up at your words, still seamlessly cutting the apple in his hand.

“Are you perhaps married?” you asked shamelessly—he was still a man, after all—but social awareness had flown out the window a long time ago.

Phainon’s knife paused mid-slice, just briefly, the silver edge catching the sunlight. He looked a bit stunned—not offended, not flustered, just… surprised. He looked like a dog!

Then he gave the smallest smile, the corners of his mouth curling like the first bloom of spring. “No, My Lady. I’m not married.”

You perked up immediately, leaning in a little with a cheeky grin. “Not even promised?”

“Not even promised,” he chuckled.

“Ugh, you're lucky you're not stuck like me,” you sighed, feeling a little jealous of his situation. He simply put an apple slice to your lips, then motioned to your mouth, which you leaned in toward.

“You don’t like your marriage, My Lady?” he asked—such a silly question, considering everyone already knew the answer.

“Of course not,” you replied almost immediately. “Lord Khaslana has two other wives. I doubt he even thinks I’m beautiful. Or that I exist.”

You said it matter-of-factly, with the same tone you’d use to comment on the weather, like it didn’t bother you. You took another apple slice from Phainon’s hand and popped it into your mouth.

When you looked back at him, he had a sad expression on his face—like you’d just kicked him. It almost felt like you’d kicked a puppy and now it was whining at your feet…

He must have been one of those people. The kind who cared quite a lot about Lord Khaslana.

“But I’m grateful to him for taking me in,” you sighed softly.

And yet, even as the two of you walked back, that strange undertone of sadness—or was it guilt?—never quite left his expression.

Comments and Reblogging are very appreciated!!

[batboyblog]

Your post about Jewish child actors makes me wonder, do Jewish parents have an equivalent of "the conversation" with their children? You know the one, where you have to explain that some people hate you just for being Jewish, and many of them have access to deadly force. I ask because I grew up only two counties away from a neo-Nazi compound.

oh yeah we do.

I mean I'd say roughly there are... maybe 3? "the conversation" for Jews

first is, why is there are security guard, metal detector, crash barrier, big red panic button, etc at the synagogue/Jewish community center/Hebrew school. Pretty much every Jewish space in America is hardened against a terrorist attack at this point. We're spending a huge amount of money and energy on security. The Jewish community is really reliant on community safety grants from the federal government to pay for, bulletproof doors, anti-ramming barriers, metal detectors, and to pay for security guards and stuff.

So yeah Jewish parents have to explain that to their kids and also what they should do if a mad man with a gun comes into the synagogue. So thats the first conversation

the second is, when and where to not tell people you're Jewish, when to hide stars of David, and yarmulkes, and just not say, give a fake not Jewish sounding name. I mean some of us just look Jewish so there's no hope, but maybe you can pass yourself off as Italian or Lebanese. I know a lot of parents with teens who are having this talk with their kids around school trips over seas, but even parents of small kids are coaching them to maybe not let classmates and new friends know they're Jewish right away.

the 3rd is the oldest and the deepest. The when to leave conversation. literally every Jewish family has some elderly relative who tells you not to have any money you can't carry with you. Lots and lots of elderly and these days not even elderly Jews have shoe boxes with cash, gold, and their documents. These days jokes about "go bags" are less jokey than ever in my life. I know lots of Jews in their 20s and 30s who in fact have actual go bags. Our history is littered with dead Jews who misjudged the right time to leave a spiraling antisemitic situation and got stuck and died. And our history is littered with times when we've been expelled or faced "leave or die" offers where we're allowed to take almost nothing. It's a big part of why Jews so often stress education, they can take your bank account, your house, your car, your business, but they can't take whats inside your head. No one wants to be the Jew who judges when to leave wrongly or the Jew who doesn't have any easily movable wealth because they trusted the gentile's word that a bank account was safe. It's a conversation all Jews have among their family with differing levels of seriousness though again more serious now than any time in my life, whats the point, the sign the moment when its too much and we leave, and if we leave where do we go?

[au-bit-lait-yr]

rb'd for replies and...

real fucking truths: REFUSE needs to be an option.

Convenience by consumers isn't killing the planet! IT'S THE COMPANIES.

In so many industries!! They choose to make single use products, and even for vital steps in manufacturing....

My fucking medicine bottles can only be made into so many MoMa art projects or little bead storage things before... I have to live in a hoarded hell of things I could not refuse, and am pressured to reuse. Beyond what can ever do any good.

"TL;DR" Before I go off the rails:

(Unhelpful) It's ALLL... Fuck. A magnitude of FUCK beyond any comprehension of Clusterfuck.

metaphorically

we* are fighting over $20.00* (of ""change"")

while some..one (Bezos literally at the time I am posting) sitting on a pile of

$ 2 0 0 , 0 0 0 , 0 0 0 , 0 0 0 . 0 0

watches, and then with equally proportional power, works to ensure nothing is changed.

More than 7,000,000,000 people versus One guy. ONE. 1 out of 3,028 billionaires.

*we = 99% of the global population LOL, so pretending literally every person is Doing Their Part!

*$20 = some number I pulled out of my ass that just about represents, in any meaningful way, how much power you have when

the entire global population of 8,005,176,000 humans (minus 1%!)

collectively controls ~52.5% of global wealth

(1% owns almost half)

1% owns almost half!

one percent essentially owns half of HUMANITY'S wealth

aka resources aka power aka policy

So maybe one trillionth of a penny applies to you personally, and every generic multimillionaire combined is equal to $1?

You could do the math, but the point is

it's so fucking insignificant, IT DOES NOT MATTER.

Give or take one fucking ATOM, ok?

Back to a realistic and "mundane" scale.....

We're talking plastics but

Y'all need to understand the huge fucking problem of TRANSPORTATION.

Of people, goods, etc.

And the waste! Truck driver protocols. It's actually... not so simple. The dispatchers, the loads, how a driver has to keep the engine running overnight or do a turn over...

Miscalculations or inevitable errors in aviation/Airlines.

My point. As the case. Here is a Personal anecdote &

> It is as meaningful as that trillionth of a penny. Everything I explain statistically meant NOTHING. This is nothing.

( And keeping in perspective, you're arguing over what might affect a couple hundred thousand plastic spoons between all of you over your entire lifetimes. )

So. Two-ish? weeks ago, shitty ATC, pilot trying to squeeze through, airline trying to save money by not canceling a flight that Absolutely Clearly was "canceled" by mother nature -> United flight that never took off spent 3hrs burning fuel on the tarmac (YEP, over the limit but storm conditions didn't allow return to gate) =

All that time, the 142-234 passengers on 757 (the 200, obv. Boeing) used plastic water cups, other single use packagings unnecessarily while the plane burned almost 900 GALLONS of jet fuel. (lmk if calculations are off?)

I am not going to lookup/guess how many other planes were in the same position, also doing exactly that, just that one fucking afternoon in one fucking airport.

And....

REMEMBER HOW DURING THE SHORT GLOBAL SHUTDOWN (relative to time since humans started using fossil fuels) AT HEIGHT OF ATTEMPT TO PREVENT A FULL PANDEMIC, THE EARTH'S ECOSYSTEMS ACTUALLY SHIFTED.

Yay, Anthropause? BUT WAIT!

balance that out with... billions and billions of single use PPE andddddd every plastic seal on every fucking medical item, every IV, every shot, everyyyyy pair of gloves. Plus!

"Greenhouse gas emissions resulting from the treatment process of this plastic waste ranged from 14 to 33.5 tons of CO2 per ton of mask, the largest share being from production and transport."

The time spent even discussing this here is so fucking worthless, you need to personally be degrading/gobbling up plastics like that fungus but at some fantastical rate (like how fast fictional Cordyceps ate everything in The Last of Us) to offset all the pollution that occured while you read this.

Enjoy your time on Earth.

I (alone, at least) am not batshit insane. Reality, the state of things in the human world, is ABSOLUTELY BEYOND BATSHIT. Explaining the batshit is so impossible because batshit^2= ?

and yet, I am writing every word knowing no one is going to read this. /shrug

Nihilism, but in the fun way is... the most accurate way to perceive and exist. imo

But maybe some of you have actionable solutions for everything I wrote about! Maybe miracles exist. Sure, buddy.

Remember "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" ? I feel like there's been a distancing from the "reduce" and "reuse" part and a favoritism towards "recycle" by corporate American.

Capitalism can still thrive with recycling in the mix. You buy Plastic Thing 1, throw it away after one use, and they take that and recycle it into Plastic Thing 2 and sell it back to you. All while continuing to harm the environment.

Reusing puts a damper on things. They can't sell you Plastic Thing 2 when you're still using Plastic Thing 1. Plastic forks, for example- there is literally no reason why you can't reuse plastic forks more than once (aside from maybe microplastics, but it's too late for that)

Reducing is the one everyone wants to ignore. Just don't buy Plastic Thing 1. You don't need Plastic Thing 1. Pick up a set of metal forks and use those for years. Convenience is killing the planet

[leclerc-hs]

bad grip - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you can't seem to get oscar to crack OR you and oscar are in love, but only friends... warnings: friends to lovers au, angst, smut, jealousy, fluff?, NOT PROOFREAD, language, shitty writing?? word count: 5.4k author's note: hi hi hi!!! this was posted from my queue so hopefully everything goes accordingly! i still can't stop thinking of his head tilt in that one video from admin. so hot. maybe i need to write more of him....also like the win last weekend?? charles helmet smut will be on patreon august 1 sometime at night btw!! xoxo enjoy :))))

You’re snuggled up into the corner of the hotel room couch, drowning in the hoodie you stole from one of his suitcases when he wasn’t looking. And it smells like him. Like his cologne mixed with something clean beneath it.

The sleeves hang past your hands. And you pull one sleeve over your hands, bunching it between your fingertips.

One leg is pulled near your chest, while the other is stretched out, letting your toes brushing against the edge of his thigh. And he hasn’t moved. No, he’s just sitting there looking a little uneasy. Not sick. But in an antsy kind of way.

And he’s got this look in his eyes. Where his mind is on total overdrive but his mouth stays shut. Giving nothing away.

His fingers tap against his thigh in the same rhythm it always does when he’s lost in his head. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Pause. Repeat.

The TV is playing some random show that neither of you are paying attention to. But you don’t really care. It’s just background noise.

You glance at him. And his face is calm, but you know better. Know him better.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mutter, voice soft.

And he shrugs. But his face doesn’t change. “You’re loud enough for the both of us.”

You snort, hitting his leg with your toes, just to feel him push his leg back. “You’d miss me if I shut up for more than a few minutes, be honest.”

This gets you a look. One of those slow glances that starts near your mouth and ends at your eyes. And his mouth quirks up.

“You’re right,” he says, voice low. “Hate the peace and quiet.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing but smile growing. “Y’know, you’re so full of shit sometimes.”

His head finally hits the top of the back cushion behind him. Shoulders dropping a fraction. Relaxing. But he turns just enough to face you a bit more directly. Arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers dangling behind your neck. But not touching you.

“I like when you talk,” he says. Like it’s so simple.

And it catches you off guard. Hits you right in the chest. You swallow hard.

“Are you flirting with me?” It comes out light. In a teasing manner as you raise a single brow. “Because it felt like you just did.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look away either. Just watches you for a long moment. 

And then he shifts just a little closer. Knee brushing against yours. And then his fingers stop tapping.

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

It’s not cocky. Not smug. And its not even really a question.

Your breath stutters a little, just for a fraction of a second. And you know he notices because his eyes flicker. Like he’s been wondering what you’d do with the truth.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips slowly. “I guess that depends on how good you are at it.”

And for the first time all night, he laughs. It’s not loud. More like a huff. 

“Guess we’ll see,”

-

You walk into his hotel room before him, kicking your shoes off, and stretching your shoulders with a loud sigh. Like the night’s worn you out, which it has. 

The door clicks shut behind you. “I might be dying. Like actually dying.”

Behind you, Oscar’s quiet. But you hear his movement as he slips his jacket off. Unbothered.

“Y’always eat like you’re Joey Chestnut or somethin’…in a eating competition,” He mutters, slinging the jacket on the back of a chair. 

You spin around, in full righteous offense. A loud gasp. “I had two courses! And you had three…and you still stole half of my dessert!”

He doesn’t even so much as bat an eyelash at you. Just lifts a brow and folds his arms across one another. “Yeah, but I’m elegant. Y’looked like you were gonna vacuum the plate right up.”

Your jaw falls open. “You’re such a little shit when you’re full.”

His lips twitch upward. “M’always a little shit.”

You let out a groan. Theatrical and loud. Collapsing backward onto the edge of the bed. Arms spread wide. “I need a massage. Or a nap. Or death.” You shimmy up to the top of the bed, head on the pillow.

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just disappears into the bathroom with that usual silence of his. And you hear the faucet running a few moments later, the zip of the toiletry bag he always packs. 

And your eyes fall shut for a few seconds. Then the sound of footsteps approaching, and you glance up. He’s standing there.

Placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen onto the nightstand beside the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even bother to look at you for long. Just…leaves them there.

Your chest tightens. Just a little bit.

“Wow,” you smile. “Wanna tuck me in too? Maybe read a bedtime story?”

Oscar snorts, but sits at the edge of the bed. Crossing one of his legs onto the mattress without hesitation. “What do y’wanna hear? The story of a girl who inhales her dinner, talks too fast, and ends up losing her feet from stupid shoes?”

You laugh, reaching out to shove his shoulder. But it’s equivalent to punching a wall. He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to chuck something at you.”

He grins. Then tilts his head just a little bit. “Your mascara’s smudged.”

You blink. And before you can reach your phone to check with the camera, he’s already leaning in, thumb brushing under your eye. Careful. Sweet.

“For someone who acts like he hates people,” you say. Throat tight. Eyes on him. “You’re kinda soft.”

Oscar shrugs one shoulder, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You’re not people.”

And it hits you a little harder than it should.

-

The sky is a bright orange as the sun sets over the water, stretching along the coastline just outside of Melbourne. From where you sit, the beach house…tucked up a hill behind you, looks kind of like some staged postcard. Windows open and curtains swaying from the ocean breeze. 

Oscar is sprawled out beside you on a navy blue striped towel. Arms folded behind his head. Sunglasses sitting on the slope of his nose. And his hair is chaotic looking. But he looks calm. Is calm. The only kind of calm you see only outside of the paddock.

You’re sitting beside him. Heels dug into the sand, hands resting on the towel behind you, sitting you up. The heat of the sun clings to you.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re Australian,” you say. Turning your head to look at him.

And he cracks one eye open, not bothering to lift his head from the palm of his hands. “Because m’not riding a kangaroo or throwing a barbie?”

You snort. “Because you barely tan. You just burn. And you’re always like….not here…y’know?”

His lips twitch. “Keep talkin’ and see if I drive you back to the airport.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. Just closes his eyes again, like he’s unbothered.

You smile, looking back at the ocean. “Please. You love having me here.”

There’s a short-lived moment of silence. Just the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline heard.

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s a simple response. There’s no teasing tone. No smirk. Just a truth. And it sends a wave of warmth through your chest. Making your stomach flutter.

You look back at him. And he’s now propped up on a single elbow, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. And his eyes are on you. Just looks at you with that soft intensity he’s so good at. 

Then, with a light touch, he’s reaching over and brushing the grains of sand of your knee. Hand lingering a second longer. Warm. 

“Y’always this annoying on holiday?” He says, amused. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shrug your shoulders and turn to look back at the water. “Only for people I like.”

And it’s silent again for a few moments. Before he’s muttering, “Lucky me.”

And the funny thing is…he means it.

-

The kitchen is dim. The ocean breeze blows through the open patio door. The curtains around it moving gently along the light breeze.

You’re standing barefoot on the tile, swallowed in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies. The same one you always steal. 

It just fits the best you always claim. It falls mid-thigh, sleeves long and hanging past your hands as you fumble around making cups of tea. The kettle is heating on stove. Steam starting to flow from the spout.

Oscar walks in behind and doesn’t speak. He moves quietly…always has. He just steps up behind you, all calm and heat, reaching up over your head. 

His chest brushes against your back. Light…but definitely intentional.

You keep your eyes fixed on the kettle as he opens the cabinet and grabs two mugs with one hand.

“Y’just love to do that, don’t you?” Your voice is teasing.

Oscar raises a brow as he hands you a mug. “Do what?”

You turn to face him. 

Big mistake.

Because he’s fucking close. Closer than he should be. Like the kind of close where your chests are touching and the air is thick. 

You tilt your chin up anyways. Eyes narrow. A smirk on your lips. “Hovering.” You say. “Acting like it’s not on purpose.”

And his eyes darken just a little bit. Steps a fraction closer. Smirking as he leans a hand on the counter beside your hip. Trapping you.

“M’just helping.”

“No.” You grin. “You’re flirting.”

His lips twitch. And he does’t deny it.

Just hands you a mug. Fingers brushing against yours.

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks. A slight tilt of his head.

You blink. The kettle whistling behind you.

And you hold his gaze. Curling your fingers around the mug to keep yourself steady.

Then you step side, walking through the small opening he left. “Six out of ten.”

And he lets out a short laugh behind you. “Generous.”

You pour the steaming water into the mugs, and then head toward the patio door. 

“Still not kissing me,” you call without giving him a look. “Points off.”

And he just watches you walk onto the patio.

-

You’ve met most of Oscar’s close friends by now. The few he lets into the smaller corners of his life. The people he trusts. And it’s easy to forget how long you’ve actually known each other.

The bar is dim and chill. A local band is playing some covers, lighting low, and a breeze is pushing through the open doors.

You’re standing in a circle with some of Oscar’s friends. Not a well made circle, but a circle nonetheless. You’re nursing a cocktail, laughter slipping easily. Your hand brushing against one of their arm’s as you make a point in the conversation, as you lean in a little too close to hear a joke.

Across the room, Oscar’s leaned against the bar with one of his friends.

Watching. Not in a weird way. Just observant. Like he always has been.

His arms are folded across one another. A beet bottle in hand, his thumb tapping against the bottle. And he seems quieter tonight. Still engaged in the conversations, still smiling. But his eyes haven’t left you for long. And every time someone touches your arm, or makes you laugh just a little too much, you swear you see his jaw clench.

You try to ignore it. Chalk it up to just Oscar being in a mood.

Until some guy you’ve never seen before slips into the circle. Tall. Tan. Definitely a few drinks in. And he slides in like he knows someone. Which maybe he does…and then says ajoke that has everyone laughing. Even you.

And when you laugh, he leans in closer. His shoulder brushing yours.

Totally casual and meaningless. At least it is…to you.

But not to Oscar.

Because he’s beside you before the guy even finishes his next sentence.

“She’s good,” Oscar says, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

The guy blinks. Confused. “Just being friendly, mate.”

Oscar smiles. But its not really polite. It’s sharp and tight. Barely reaches his eyes. “So am I.”

It’s not really a threat. But it sure as hell lands like one.

The guy steps back. His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He mutters something before heading back to the bar. Disappearing.

You turn to look at Oscar. “That was dramatic.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at you right away. His eyes are still trained on the guy’s back, following his exit. 

When he finally turns his head, his eyes sweep down to yours. Slow. Steady.

“Don’t like people touching what’s mine,” He says casually.

“Yours?” You echo. Voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Oscar breathes out a low huff. Runs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I meant…”

“No.” You step closer to him. Voice calm. “You meant what you said.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you.

And for once, the silence isn’t calm. It’s tense.

“Yeah,” he says. Voice a whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hold his gaze. Then slowly, reach for his half-empty drink. Sip it without even asking.

His eyes stay fixed on you.

“M’not a thing you can own, Osc.” Your voice is teasing. “But you can keep hovering if it makes you feel better.”

He hums. His hand reaching for your waist and settling there like he’s been aching to do it. His thumb slips along the waistband of your pants.

It’s possessive. It’s soft. It’s him.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says.

-

The rest of the night is still warm as you walk side by side with Oscar, neither of you really saying much. 

You haven’t really needed to.

“Your friends are fun,” you say eventually. “Even if they told way too many embarrassing stories about you.”

Oscar glances over, but only for a few seconds before looking back toward the street. A smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.”

You grin and nudge his shoulder. “Not my fault young Oscar was so chaotic.”

He laughs. A short one. But real. 

Another few steps of silence pass. And then his voice breaks it.

“I didn’t like that guy touching you tonight.”

You turn your head to look at him. Still walking. And your breath catches.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes serious. Steady. But there’s a faint blush showing on his cheeks that crawls down to the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You mutter. “Got all alpha male on him.”

Oscar breathes through his nose. Not really a laugh nor a sigh. “Did I?”

You nod, turning to look back at the pavement ahead. “Yeah. It was all so don’t touch her or I’ll kill you energy.”

He’s quiet for a single step.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

You freeze. Stop walking.

And he stops too. Turns to step closer to you. So close that your space becomes his too. So close that you can smell the faint linger of his cologne.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I didn’t,” you whisper back.

His gaze is locked on your eyes for a brief moment. But then flickers down, trailing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything about you. And his eyes land on your mouth for a moment too long, before looking back at your eyes.

“Osc,” you say.

Its a warning. A dare. A plea.

But he exhales hard. Like he’s winded. Before lifting his hand slowly to your jaw.

“I want to,” he says, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut. “Like…really fuckin’ want to.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you’re leaning into it. 

“But if I…” He swallows. “If I kiss you now…I wont…I won’t be able to pretend after.”

You understand. Fingers twitching at your sides. You want to reach for him. Let your mouth crash into his and finally…finally see what it’s like when he stops holding back.

But you don’t.

Because you know once the line is crossed, there will be no going back. And that means something.

So instead you give him a slow nod. “Okay…not tonight.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

And then you walk again. Slower. Your hand slipped into his. And he’s gripping it like he’s been waiting for years to do this.

-

The house is still. Quiet.

The kind that only exists before any coffee is made. 

You wake slowly, limbs heavy.  Twisted in the same blanket Oscar threw over you last night when you passed out on the couch in the middle of a movie. The blanket tangled around your legs, an arm slung over your head to block the light filtering through the curtains. 

You blink a few times. Trying to recollect your thoughts. Wondering where you are, what time it is, and why your back fucking hurts.

“You snore a lot.”

You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “I do not!”

Oscar laughs. “You definitely did last night.”

You sit up, the blanket slipping down to your waist in the process. Your hair’s a mess, eyes still half-lidded. And you glare down at him. Because he’s sitting on the floor in front of you. His legs stretched out and back resting against the couch.

His hair is almost as crazy as yours. Wearing the same hoodie he pulled on after you got back from the bar last night. Sleeves pushed up. Mug in his hand.

“It’s too early to fight.”

Oscar lifts the mug to his lips. “Wouldn’t win anyway,” He says with a small smirk. “You’re a menace without coffee.”

Your heartbeat rises. Stupidly. At how close he is. And not just physically. But because he always seems to be near when you wake up. Like he doesn’t want you to wake to an empty room.

You look at the mug. “Is that mine?”

He holds it out without a word.

Your fingers brush his as you wrap both hands around the warm mug. Sighing into the first sip…because it’s perfect. Just how you like it.

You glance at him. “Y’know…you’d make a good housewife, Osc.”

He looks at you with a flat look, but it’s soft. “You’re on the couch I got. Drinking coffee I made.”

You smile over the rim. “And you still won’t kiss me.”

It slips out. Fast. Almost too easy.

You don’t even look at him when you say it. Just bit your lip, pretending its a joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t let the silence enter either.

“Don’t.” His voice serious. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. The mug right before your lips. Chest tight. “Then why didn’t you?”

He exhales through his nose. Runs a hand through his hair. Looking at the ceiling like there might be some answer hidden up there. “Because you matter,” He says. “And I’ve never cared this much before.”

You scoot down the couch. Knees brushing his shoulder so that he can lean into them if he wants to. He does. 

You sip your coffee. “M’not going anywhere, Osc.”

And maybe that’s all he needs to hear. Because a second later, his head drops to your knee. Like he’s been wanting to lean into your touch for too long.

-

It’s late. The kind that makes hotel rooms feel lonely. Another country, another race.

The curtains are closed, a crack of light entering in the middle. 

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed. One of his hoodies, like always, draped over you. 

Across the room, Oscar sits in the chair near the window. Legs stretched and ankles crossed. Shoulders loose, but he’s not relaxed. His eyes are on you.

“You okay?” You ask.

He nods. Shrugs. “Just tired.”

You hum in agreement. But something isn’t right. Not with the way his jaw’s clenched. And how he’s acted all night long. With his clipped responses.

“You’ve been distant.” You say.

“I know.” 

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue.

And it lands harder than you expect.

You look down at your fingers, twisting the rings on your fingers. Throat tight. “Is it me?”

His body shifts. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

“No,” he says. Quick. Firm. “Never you.”

And you nod. Even though it still aches.

“Feels like me,” your voice small.

Oscar breathes hard, tipping his head fall agains the back of the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment. And when they open again, they’re gentle.

“It’s what you make me feel,” He says. “M’not used to it.”

He shifts forward. Resting his elbows onto his knees. Fingers laced between them.

“Especially now that we’ve…uh…addressed it,” He adds. A smile tugging at his lips. “Being around you makes everything else…” He trails off. 

Searching for the right words. But they don’t come easily.

“Harder.’

You blink, a little confused. “Harder?”

He nods, eyes trailing toward the window.

“To focus. To race. To pretend that I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

You move quietly. Taking in his words. Cross the room and sink down to the floor in front of him. 

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

He lets out a small breath. 

“It’s not your fault. Never your fault.” He’s looking at you. Eyes dark. “You just make me want things…that I don’t know if I’m allowed to have.”

-

You miss Oscar. 

The afterparty is buzzing. Music hammering against the walls. McLaren finished a race with a 1-2 podium finish. The kind of result that earns drinks and a late night of dancing. 

Your standing near the balcony doors, letting the breeze cool your skin. A half finished drink lingers in your hand. The condensation slipping onto your fingers.

And Oscar hasn’t spoken to you all night. At least, not properly.

No banter or smirk. No actual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. That he’d never make a move anyway. 

And then Lando appears. Sliding into the space beside you with a crooked grin and a beer in his hand.

“Didn’t thin you’d be all the way out here,” he says.

You glance at him, giving a faint smile. “Just observing. It’s so hot in there.” You turn to look at Oscar.

Still leaned against a wall, surrounded by people. Laughing with the engineers. Relaxed.

Lando follows your gaze. “Y’always stare at him like that?”

You scoff. “What?”

“He’s not even paying attention, y’know. But I am.”

You grin, knowing he’s just being a playful little shit. “But I am.”

You look at him. Really look. And he’s close. Eyes warm, teasing. 

“That’s the line you’re sticking with?” You tilt your head. Smiling.

He grins back. “Is it working?”

And the worst part about it…is that it kind of is. At least for a brief second. Because Lando is easy in a way Oscar never is. Open. Bright. 

So you lean in, just a smidge. Let yourself enjoy the way Lando looks at you because why not? Let him flirt. Let his eyes trail your face, flick to your mouth. Let him step closer.

And you feel the weight of Oscar’s stare from across the room. Heavy. Like a hand resting on your shoulder. 

And when you glance Oscar’s way, he’s watching. Not smiling. Eyes dark. Like he’s debating whether he should walk over and intervene. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not his way.

No. He’s too calm and calculated. Too careful when it comes to you.

So you head back towards the center of the room with Lando a few minutes later, laughter filling the air. 

You spend the next hour trying to focus. Let Lando spin a story in your ear. Let him twirl you around. But your eyes keep scanning the room. Call it a habit. 

And then you finally see him standing not too far away. Alone. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to move.

Lando catches your stare, urges you to go talk to him. And Oscar doesn’t move until you’re only a few inches from him. 

“I saw that,” he says. Voice low. 

You tilt your head. “What?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Lando.”

You shrug. “He was just being nice.”

But his gaze sharpens. “He was all over you. Touching you.”

You close the space between you. His gaze drops to your mouth for a half a second. 

“Okay,” you say. Soft. “So what?” Are you gonna stand there and sulk?”

You take another step. His breath catches.

“Or are you going to actually do something about it?”

He leans in. Slow. “M’trying to not fuck this up.”

“And what if you already are?” You whisper.

He freezes. Because he knows your right. 

Knows that if he keeps holding back too long, keeps pretending, and keeps letting moments pass… that it will push you away.

-

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway. Not even close to it in fact.

Because Oscar’s hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist. Stopping you. 

And you turn, startled by the grasp. But he’s right there. And you feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The tension cracking.

His fingers slide lower until he’s lacing them with yours. And then pulls you back into him. You stumble just a bit, but he’s steadying you. Guiding you until your pressed back into the wall. 

You gasp.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Voice stripped of calm. Serious.

“Do what?” You play dumb.

“Lando.” His jaw clenches. Eyes flickering with something possessive in them.

He drops your hand. 

“Flirt with him,” he grunts. “Letting him fuckin’ touch you. Letting him look at you like..”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop acting like you don’t want me.”

And it hits him hard. Right in the center of his chest.

He steps closer. So close that you can feel his breath hit your face. A hand bracing on the wall beside your head.

“Y’think I don’t want you?” His voice is torn. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you wore my hoodie. Since you sat on my couch like you belonged there years ago. And every day since..it’s just gotten worse.”

Your throat tightens.

“Oscar,” you breathe.

But it’s too late.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s fucking starved for it. It’s not slow or careful. It’s everything poured into a kiss that’s hot and all consuming.

You gasp into him and he outright groans at the sound. Hands finally grabbing for your hips. 

He presses himself into you. Mouth moving like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you.

And when he finally pulls back he looks wrecked.

“I’ve been trying to be careful,” He presses his forehead against yours. “But you…” He starts to shake his head. Fingers curling deeper into the skin of your waist. “Y’know exactly how to push all of my fuckin’ buttons, yeah?”

You smile into his lips. Head spinning just a little bit. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”

He grunts but then kisses you again. Rougher. More of a claim than anything.

And he’s done holding back.

- 

Oscar’s hands are on you the very second the hotel door clicks shut.

His hands grip your waist like he wants them attached there forever. Like he can’t bare to ever be apart from you again. His mouth crashes onto yours mid-step as he walks you backward without ever breaking the kiss. It’s rough and relentless. His hands slipping under your dress in the process.

You gasp when your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he’s pushing you down on the mattress with a soft push.

He follows. Doesn’t even speak. Just groans at the sight of you beneath him. Like that alone is enough to undo him completely.

“Should’ve done this weeks…years ago,” he mutters. Voice rough and full of need. “Should’ve fucked you the second you started looking at me like that.”

You dig your fingers into his back as he leans forward and kisses you again. Harder. Like he wants to fuse your mouths together.

And he only pulls back to drag your dress over your head. He barely glances at it as he throws it somewhere in the room. Probably onto the floor. His eyes stay locked on you. 

He undresses himself fast. And you barely get a full look at him before he’s crawling back over you.

But even in that blur of movement and speed, you see the way he trembles.

His fingers find your thighs, curling one of your legs over his hip. Grinding down against the damp lace between your legs.

“Still gonna tease me?” Your voice is shaky.

He laughs, rolling into you. “Not teasing,” he mutters. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You moan loudly.

And then his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the lace aside. He finds your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jolt. 

He leans forward, near your ear. “Flirt with Lando again…” He drags his tongue hotly over your neck. “And I’ll fuck you where he can hear you next time.”

You arch under him. Shaking. 

He groans. Deep. Uneasy. “Fuck, you like that?” His voice drops lower. “Y’want me to make you loud, hm? Let people hear who you really want?”

“Fuck, Osc…” you gasp, but it breaks out into a moan as soon as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Ripping them down your thighs in a fluid motion.

Then he’s between your legs.

Pushing into you with a stretch that burns in the best fucking way. Your mouth falls open quietly. Just the gasp of him finally being in you.

His head falls to your shoulder, shuddering once he’s fully seated inside. “Fucking fuck..” He barely gets his words out. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Digging your nails into his back. And he starts to move. Hard. Deep. 

His hands fist into your hair, holding you in place beneath him. And his mouth presses hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Claiming you.

“Y’think we’re still just friends?” He grunts. Nipping at your ear. “Tell me we’re not.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. 

So he drives his cock into you harder. Meaner.

“Fucking say it,” He grunts. And he sounds wrecked. “Say we’re not fucking friends anymore while I’m buried in this cunt.”

You whimper. Breathless. 

“No,” you cry out. “No…we’re not…fuck fuck…we’re not friends.”

He thrusts deeper, every stroke hitting that spot deep in your belly just fucking right.

You cry out, arching into him. Fingers fisting the fabric of the sheets.

And you do. Over and over. Until your cunt clamps down around him and you’re unraveling. Crying out into the space between his neck and shoulder. Shaking.

He groans. His thrusts losing rhythm as you milk his cock. Spasming around him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He yelps. Following seconds later, hips stuttering. A tumble of curses falling out of his mouth as he presses deep into you one final time before releasing into you.

Your chest is still rising and falling. Oscar hasn’t moved much. Still inside of you. Breathing into your shoulder.

You’re staring at the ceiling, content.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. His thumb reaching out to brush your cheek. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

You nod. “I know.”

He leans in. Presses careful kisses to your cheek. Your forehead. Your lips

“No more pretending, yeah?”

"Yeah."

[wendichester]

could you do a dean x fem!reader where she almost drowns and he saves her pls?

lots of angst, and hurt/comfort

⋆˚꩜｡ breathe, baby,

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( female )

wordcount. 745 genre. angst

warnings. near-drowning, panic response, trauma, protective!dean, softness post-rescue

It happens fast.

One second, you're running—laughing—chest aching from adrenaline and the spray of cold water in your lungs. The next, you're gone.

The river swallows you whole.

You don’t even scream. There's no time.

Your foot slips off a moss-covered rock, and your world flips. The water’s brutal. Heavy. It drags you under before you can even gasp. It’s not like in the movies—no slow-motion shots or echoey soundtracks. It’s just cold. And dark. And deafening.

Panic claws at your throat. You fight to kick back up, but the current has you like it’s angry. Pulling. Twisting. Your hands scrape rock, then nothing. Just endless, black water.

You hear Dean shout your name. Distant. Muffled. Like it’s coming from a tunnel.

Then—nothing at all.

He hits the water before thinking.

Didn’t even toss his jacket. Just saw you disappear and followed like instinct—like his blood screamed at him that it didn’t matter what the thing was or how deep the current ran. All that mattered was you.

You. Underwater. Not coming up.

He can’t think. Can’t breathe until he sees you. His hands dive through the murky chaos, grabbing at limbs, rocks, tree roots—anything that might be you. He sees a flash of fabric, maybe your shirt, and goes deeper.

When his fingers find your arm, limp and ice-cold, he swears his heart stops.

But he doesn’t let it. He yanks you up, fights the current with everything he has, hauls your body to the surface and to the riverbank like the world depends on it.

Because it does.

His world does.

“C’mon,” he pants, slapping your cheek lightly as he lays you on the grass. “Hey. Sweetheart. Hey—look at me.”

You’re pale. Lips blue. Water dripping from your lashes, hair tangled like seaweed.

He starts compressions.

Counts every beat like it’s the last one he’ll ever get to give. Mouths air into yours, voice shaking even though he’s trying to keep it together.

“Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this.”

Another breath. Another push.

And then—you jerk.

Water bursts from your lungs as you cough violently, body curling in on itself. Your hands scramble against the ground, eyes wild.

Dean grabs you, pulls you into his lap, holding you so tightly you can barely move. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”

You choke another time, then suck in air like it’s made of gold. Shaky. Wet. But it’s breath.

And it’s everything.

Later, you’re wrapped in his flannel—shaking, but alive. A fire crackles nearby. You’re both soaked to the bone, sitting under a half-assed lean-to made of tarp and desperation.

Dean hasn’t let go of you since.

His arms are still locked around you, one hand running up and down your arm like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s not quite sure you’re still here.

You lean your head against his shoulder, voice hoarse. “You saved me.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“I was… I thought I was done.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw ticks, lips pressed into a hard line.

“I saw you go under,” he finally says, voice thick. “And my heart just—” He exhales harshly. “Felt like everything stopped.”

You shift, looking up at him.

His eyes are raw. No sarcasm. No deflection. Just Dean.

Real. Bare.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing the drops still clinging to his lashes. “I’m okay.”

He nods. But his voice is rough when he says, “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I didn’t exactly plan it—”

“I know. I just—” His breath shakes. “I can’t lose you. Not you.”

Your chest aches. Not from the water this time—but from the way he looks at you.

Like you’re air.

You lean in slowly. Press your lips to his—soft, still trembling. He kisses you back like he needs it to breathe.

When you finally pull away, he presses his forehead to yours. “Next time we have to cross a river,” he mutters, “I’m putting you in a damn life jacket.”

You smile. “Deal.”

But he doesn’t smile back. Just cups your face again, eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing them.

“I love you,” he says, like it just bursts out. Like he can’t hold it in anymore.

And even with wet clothes and aching lungs, even with grass in your hair and bruises on your ribs—

You feel warm.

“Love you too, Dean.”

He pulls you closer. Holds you like you’re still slipping away.

But you're not.

Not now. Not ever again.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[cheshitora]

BUNNY WANTS A CHURCH GIRL

† WARNING : AFAB!READER, SACRILEGE, PIV, FINGERING, ORAL (F!RECEIVING), CORRUPTION KINK, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, PUBLIC SEX, UNPROTECTED SEX, CREAMPIE

† FINAL CALL : based off this post i made. if you're offended by sacrilegious/religious themes, pls don't interact.

"WOULD YOU JUDGE ME FOR MY PRAYERS, IF I SAID THEM ON MY KNEES?" ─ TONGUE, ETHEL CAIN

bunny likes church girls. one who stays true to her faith, recites her verses and ends her day in prayer. he finds nothing sweeter than a young lady that holds her religious faith close to her heart, but he finds even greater pleasure testing the strength of her unwavering loyalty.

he starts out small ─ grazing your thigh if you sit next to him during service, catching your lips in a soft kiss before you leave, tugging on the rosary that hangs from your neck in an attempt to rile you up. he loves to see how flustered and annoyed you get with him, and yet, your faith remains.

so he uses a stronger approach ─ he'll whisper dirty scenarios in your ear while the pastor leads the sermon, maybe even tug on your ear with his teeth if he's feeling extra brave, uncaring if people cast him sideways glances and glares. you'll find his hand snaking up your thigh and underneath your sundress, his thick fingers pressing against your clothed mound as you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

"pay attention, cariño," he'll whisper while he slips his hand into your panties, gliding his digits between your slippery folds. it's hard to pay attention to anything else when you have two fingers pushing in and out of you though. when you look over to bunny, his eyes are fixated on the pastor still delivering his sermon, as if he isn't fucking you with his fingers.

and that's not the worse he'll do to you. you begin having dreams of the boy torturing you and they're not good dreams. you've made it a point to remain pure until marriage, but once you've started having these pleasureable dreams, you become concerned, seeking aid from the priest at your church.

once you've stepped into confession, with a deep breath, you begin to relay to the priest on the other side about these dreams and strange feelings you're developing, hoping to find some answers. but what you don't know is that the priest wasn't at work today, but a very special friend saw you enter the church alone.

he was on the other side, even though you were unaware of his presence. bunny began to urge you to dig deeper and explain in detail the nature of your dreams, to which you do, still believing it to be the priest. your eyes are fixed on your lap, giving bunny to open the small window parting the booths, his crimson eyes focused on your flushed cheeks and shaking hands.

now that he has leverage over you, this makes it easier for him to corrupt you faster, knowing exactly what your fantasies are of him.

bunny wastes no time finding you at moments when you're most vulnerable. when he sneaks into your room and finds you praying at your bedside, he lifts you from the ground, slotting his lips with yours as he pins you to your bed. he'll slide down your body until his head fits between your plush thighs.

noticing the bible on your nightstand, bunny lifts the heavy book and hands it to you.

"read for me, cariño. and try not to stutter," he commands before dipping his head back in between your legs, tugging your panties to the side. he breathes in your sweet scent, feeling your body tremble underneath him as he sweeps his tongue across your puffy folds.

you almost dropped your bible on your face, holding it up steady as you read from it, your lips quivering and voice shaky as you try not to stumble on your words. but when he starts sucking on your sensitive clit, shoving two fingers in between your tight walls, creating a scissoring motion to spread you out, you nearly scream out, clenching your eyes shut and burying your face in the pages to keep yourself from crying out in pleasure.

and he just loves to see you fall apart. he can't help but enjoy the sight of someone so pure and faithful fall apart to the pleasure they swore they wouldn't allow themselves to feel. bunny takes pride in knowing he's the only one that's able to corrupt your faith, to open your eyes to a whole new world of sin you've barricaded yourself from.

which prompts him to take it to the next level.

after finding you alone at church again, bunny initially decides to join you in prayer, sitting in the pews with you. the church is void of people, giving him the perfect opportunity to ruin that "picture-perfect" image you carry so gracefully.

it's a tight fit, but you manage you fit his thick cock in your tight cunt, your back pressed against his chest as you holds you still on your lap, giving you time to adjust to his large size. he knows he probably should've put a condom on, but the idea of fucking you raw, of creampieing you on sacred ground makes his cock twitch inside of you.

you look so pretty on his lap, you always did. tears staining your cheeks, your dress bundled around your waist, legs quivering and nails digging into the sides of his thighs. he begins lifting you up before forcing you back down onto his dick, pitiful whimpers tumbling from your lips as he skillfully bounces you on his shaft, erotic sqeulching sounds echoing through the empty of halls of the church.

your moans progessively become louder, pathetic pleas and mewls escaping your lips.

"pray, cariño. that's what you came here for, right," he grunts, thrusting his hips up into you with no stops, his pace brutal and unrelenting.

you can barely breathe, much less speak properly, but you do your best to recite the prayer you had started when he came in, your vision blurred with the tears of pleasure you thought you'd never shed until you were married.

hell, if bunny has to marry you to see this sight everyday, so be it. after taking you like this, there's no way he'd let another man have you. your prayers were his. your faith and love for your god belonged to him. he'd make sure every sunday, after service, he would fuck you so good you'd see the god you delivered prayers to. bunny knew you'd see the pearly gates of heaven as long as he brought you there.

with a final thrust, your gummy walls tightened around him, the coil in your belly unwinding as your orgasm wracked through your body. bunny's own need for release followed shortly after, filling you to the brim until you were leaking all around him.

he kept you there on his lap for a little longer, his big arms wrapped securely around you as he delivered the last line of prayer you couldn't bring yourself to say.

"lead us not into tempation," he whispered, licking the shell of your ear. "but deliver us... from evil."

[nanamiskentos]

✶ 𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗗𝗜𝗘 ── geto suguru (夏油 傑)

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 ── Fuck Geto Suguru. It's hard to forget your ex-boyfriend who went off the rails, became a traitor to jujutsu society and broke your heart.

Three years can make all the difference to just how you're willing to wrap your hands around his throat.

𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 ➤ Geto Suguru x Reader

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 ── Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Reunions, Ex!Geto, Bf!Gojo, Yearning • Implied Poly!STSG • MDNI [ stómach bulgè, cówgirl, mánhandling, crèampie, ovèrstimulation ] • Post Geto's defection, art (ceo_aneki)

𝗪𝗖 ── 4.6k

𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 ── rewrite of my first geto fic ❤️

It's cold. Cold enough to bite through your staff uniform and worry the tender skin beneath your collarbone. Cold enough to make you question whether the flicker of cursed energy you've been chasing for days is real, or just another hallucination born of want and ruin.

You've been wandering this side of the sparse mountain long enough to forget your own name, save for the one Gojo murmured against your ear a few days ago, when he handed this mission off to you.

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

He had chastely pressed his lips tenderly to your cheek, laying the flattery on thick. As though the echo of his voice would keep you warm when the cursed energy trail ran dry, and the ache in your chest began to throb.

But you knew the truth, that man was eager for a day off, to cash in on those supposed lottery tickets he had scored in the mail. Clearly content to let you handle this one on your own.

Yeah. He was definitely getting scammed.

But just as you raised a tired arm to cast a light, you feel it now. Something sharp and spectral. A pulse of something that feels wrong. A flash of movement catches your eyes, a fleeting gleam that draws you off track before you can even realise where you're heading.

You round the grove gingerly, and the sight ahead steals the breath from your frigid lungs. Through the night's shadow, a pale blue light pulses, illuminating a tall figure with an outstretched hand. Already having grasped and exorcised the wayward curse that had wasted your day.

You would recognise that cursed technique anywhere.

Cursed Spirit Manipulation.

Your biggest threat is not a special-grade anymore. No, it's something far more familiar. Something you swore to kill.

The man's robes flutter in the wind, like a funeral procession. Fingers still curled around the curse's orb that gently pulses in a swirl of bronze.

Your heart leaps into your throat, blood pulsing underneath thin skin, with such dizzying shock that your chest tightens. Each quick breath laced with something sharp and electric, not sadness nor grief.

Fury.

You swallow the burning crawl that's clinging to your ribcage. The man's features are still half-illuminated by the eerie glow of his Cursed Technique, and they certainly are not as gaunt as the last time you saw him.

Suguru Geto, standing there as though he had never left. Like he didn't split your world open and fill it with ash. His profile is so utterly familiar to you, violet eyes ringed by dark lashes, and an upturned nose that crinkles when his gaze falls upon you.

"Hey," Geto says, lips curling up in a friendly smile, "It's been a while."

Your mouth flaps open, tongue moving before your rational mind can catch up.

"You — you. Fuck you!"

Elegant, real graceful. Just the monologue that you had rehearsed in your head, facing the shower wall, for the past three fucking years.

Geto laughs, low and warm. As though nothing had ever happened. As though he hadn't turned his back on everything. On you.

"Don't you think we should catch up first?"

"I should kill you."

You wonder if your fractured voice betrayed how unravelled you feel right now. Like the earth has fallen out beneath you, and you're suddenly not sure if you're moving towards the sorcerer, or away from him as you repeat, "Oh my god, I should actually just kill you."

You wonder how you should do it. Perhaps, draw a blade and let it kiss his skin, to see crimson split from his throat? Or forgo a weapon entirely, push the air from him until his creamy skin is mottled and bruised?

But he's beautiful. So utterly beautiful. And it leaves you wondering if this is what Orpheus felt when he turned around in that tunnel, catching sight of his beloved Eurydice again. If he had planted himself in the ground, unable to move at the sight of what his heart ached for most.

The boy who once broke your heart is now a man, draped in robes of deep violent and emerald, lined with gold. A man with ghostly eyes that leave you unsure on whether you're furious, or wanting.

Wanting to wrap your hands around his throat, while you —

No. You tamp down any other lecherous thought.

The glow of his technique paints him in a holy light, and his fine features are sharper now, more carved than you remember. A deity who's shed his skin and risen again, sanctified by blood and betrayal.

You hate him. God, you hate him.

But you want him too. Want to tear him apart, or let him do the same to you.

Geto takes a step forward, but you don't move back.

"What's your business here?" You rasp, praying he can't hear the dangerous shake buried under your words.

He hums, like this is a game, "You think I wouldn't noticed cursed energy on my own estate? Or the scent of a jujutsu sorcerer skulking in my trees?"

"Huh — your estate?"

You glance behind him, letting your line of sight trail past the gaps on the forest, where silver rods pierce the night sky, monolithic and faux-holy. The Time Vessel Association.

Of course.

"Ah, you mean your bullshit cult?"

Geto's smile drops, and now it's his turn to scowl at you. A petulant expression dances across his glum face, "Rude. I pay all my taxes, you know."

His jaw twitches as he shakes off the barb, raven hair feathery as it brushes his shoulders, "You've come a long way, did Satoru send you here?"

The sound of the white-haired man's name on his tongue feels bitter, and you bark out a laugh, "That's Gojo to you now."

God, he's tall. Broader than you remember. The scent of sandalwood and allspice clings to him, mingled with faint incense. Your heart traitorously stutters.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Geto murmurs, eyes sharper, "Only you get to call him Satoru now?"

You're not stupid. You know there's an undertone of a genuine question in his aloof tone. Well, fuck that. You don't owe Geto an answer of what your life has been like during the past three years. You won't give him the satisfaction. He doesn't get to dig at you like that, using Gojo's name like a weapon.

Geto peers at you you for an answer, with a face as elegant as an idol in an ancient shrine. Pale and luminous against the moon-lit sky. You briefly wonder how a tall and beautiful boy who floated around campus with headphones around his neck, and an obscure band-tee, had managed to peel off his skin and carve himself into something more holy, like a Heian-era deity.

He's watching you with the same reverent awe he once reserved for shrines. For you.

"Suguru," you finally breathe. Your head feels jumbled, aching at the temples. But the dark haired man tilts his head, lips parted, as if he's been waiting for his name to fall from your lips. And he's savouring the sound.

It cracks you open. Just a little, more than enough.

His fingers twitch, "Why don't you come with me?" Extending his hand towards the distant temple, like it's a salvation. As though he's not the one who damned you, "You don't have to tell him. Just this once."

You should say no. You should be grinding his blood into the earth, for the night has no time for traitors. And if you were to take his hand, it would make you one as well.

But like a moth to a flame, you stiffly intertwine your fingers with Geto's slender, pale digits. His fingers close, cold and smooth, and suddenly the earth doesn't feel real beneath your feet.

He pulls you with him, quiet and unhurried, as if resistance would be too embarrassing to entertain. You try to twist away on instinct, but his grip only tightens, and he glances back at you with a grin that's too casual, too cruel.

"Still as defiant as ever," Geto says, amused voice like velvet. His gaze sweeps down your form, so slow it feels like it leaves marks that you wouldn't mind bearing.

Your cheeks flush, not just from the sudden attention, but from the fact that you don't pull away harder. From the fact that you're stumbling after the sorcerer like this.

"I wouldn't be if you weren't hauling me towards your freak palace like some prisoner."

Geto snickers, murmuring "Is that what you are now? I thought you'd come willingly."

You roll your eyes, kicking at a stray shrub knotted on the dewy grass, "Fuck off, Suguru."

His name again. You gave it too easily, but he's pocketed it already.

The temple stretches out around you, long corridors litl only tall, flickering candles. The air smells of sandalwood, dust and the faint copper scent of blood, soaked deep into the stone.

Each step echoes too loud, and your breath comes sharp and unsteady. Overlaying his softer gulps, like a chase scene where you're both the hunter and hunted.

Geto stops suddenly. You nearly collide with him, fingers still locked with his own as you scowl, "Hey, watch it! I mean, honestly —"

"Save your strength," he says, voice quieter now, "We're nearly there. And I need you to behave."

You bristle, but there's something nostalgic about his fond, exasperated tone that reminds you of a happier time, of street dates in Shinjuku, and a thousand other memories that you've kept locked in vault ever since his defection.

"You always did like giving orders," you snap, voice brittle.

Geto doesn't argue, just gives you a thin smile. The hallway ends in a sat of massive wooden doors, dark and heavy, stained with that looks too old to still be red. Geto stops there, hand slipping from your own, and your skin sings in its absence.

Your fingers twitch, traitorous, aching to reach for him again. You don't, but he sees it. The air suddenly feels far more suffocating, like incense smoke, curling and sacred.

"You came all this way, right?" Geto murmurs, turning his head just enough to meet your gaze as he pushes the door open, "Thought you wanted to catch up."

Catch up. That's what he calls this. Like the wreckage was mutual. Like this wasn't a war he had started, and then walked away from. Like you hadn't spent three years cleaning blood from wounds he never apologised for.

The room is nearly bare, smelling faintly of clean cedar. A tatami mat, and a single window, overlooking a stone wall. Walls draped in thin silk, a screen divider in the corner.

You take one breath. A deep inhale of air that hasn't touched your lungs since the day Geto left, and you're grabbing his face, and crashing your mouth against his, a clash of teeth and want.

Geto gasps, a sharp intake of surprise, "Oh —"

And the sorcerer kisses you back like he's been starving. Aching for this, the only ending that ever made sense to him.

You press into him, hands fisted in his thick robes, tugging and tearing at anything that dares to separate your skin. Geto's mouth is frantic, open and hungry, probing at your lips to part them further. Tasting you like he's never tasted anything so desired before. It's not soft nor tender.

You're breathing him in, mint and sandalwood, and something sharp and bright. Like copper coins in holy water. Geto's lips part for you, and he lets you take what he wants. His tongue, his breath, the sound he makes when your teeth nip his bottom lip.

You don't even know where the tears come from. Salt seeps down your cheeks, mingling with saliva and hunger, and you feel the tremble of his fingertips as they brush across your cheek. His skin is warmer now, real. Which only makes it worse.

"I should hate you," you breathe, looking into the beautiful face of a liar, and a traitor. But your voice cracks on the word hate, like it's a falsehood that your body can't hold.

But Geto's lips are trailing over your face, his tongue running over streaked sorrow, cleaning it right up, "Don't." His tone is pleading, the proud and defiant Suguru Geto is pleading above you, "I can't live with you hating me. Just - just let me do this."

You let him kiss you again, lean into you more deeply as your hands move instinctively, slipping beneath the soft fabric of his robes. Feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, exploring the contours of his muscles, tracing the lines of his body. Every touch igniting a spark that sends shivers through you, making your own groin feel heavy.

It's delicious, how his breath hitches as you slide your hand even lower. Past the waistband of his pants, right where the hard evidence of his desire is thick and plain. There's a satisfying rush of power that courses through you at his response. At the breath of air Suguru rushes through his teeth in a low keen, separating himself from your panting mouth to trail his soft lips on lower, sensitive skin.

His teeth briefly sink into the juncture of your neck, and you jolt at the sharp pain, before Geto runs his tongue over the fresh marks, soothing and hot.

His large hands are both under your top now, moving over the expanse of your torso and up, until they cup both your breasts. Pinching and caressing pebbled skin, leaving you slick with arousal that gathers at the apex of your thighs.

You're not sure who starts undressing who first. Maybe it's Geto, undoing the first clasp of your uniform. Maybe it's you, peeling away his robes like sacred silk that has no right to cling to a sinner like him.

But you are sure of the sound he makes when you straddle him. That wrecked little sigh, as though he's seen something so divine for the first time, feeling the pulse of your cunt on his lap.

"Fuck," Geto groans, dragging his hands your thighs, reverent, "You're gonna' kill me like this."

You rock your hips forward, just to feel his cock twitch beneath you, thick and heavy, still trapped between layers of fabric that you're pulling aside, "Good," you murmur, grinding slow and mean, "That's the plan."

You're not even entirely naked yet. Just tangled and disheveled, bare enough that the air feels like it wants in, too. Geto's robes pool around your thighs, panties shoved to the side. Folds swollen and slick already. He's untying something at your waist, and then palming your ass with both hands, like fruit he's stolen from a shrine.

And when you finally lower yourself on heavy, veined inches, your whole body seizes at the stretch. Geto's cock splits you open, thick and slow, swabbing at your gummy walls with each pronounced ridge.

Geto's jaw falls slack, and you should feel guilty. You should be seeing blue eyes peering up at you, white hair plastered with the sweat of exertion and adoration. But instead, all you can see is the twilight sky, brushstrokes of black and dusky violet, as you run your hands over his chiselled torso.

"Oh, fuck, sweet girl — s-so good, missed this —"

You had forgotten about how much Geto had babbled during sex, breath knocked right out of him when you sank down on him fully. His hands slid up your back, shaking and so desperate.

"Stay with m-me, gorgeous," Geto murmurs, his breath warm against the swan-arch of your throat. Plush lips brushing against your jaw, as you squirm and shake from the sensation of his fat tip prodding against your walls. You can't resist arching into him, mewling as his hands clasp the base of your spine.

"Oh my god, oh! —"

You're almost embarrassed, with how your wanton volume is steadily rising, but you can't bring yourself to stop, "S-Suguru, can you please — "

Bucking your hips closer, so your abdomen tacks against his groin, deliciously brushing past the trail of curled, dark hair disappearing below. But Geto stills, robbing you of the friction that was taking you higher.

"I don't think so," he mutters, "Tell me something first," with his lips trailing lower to rest between the shadow of your breasts, teeth sinking into flesh to leave a soft bruise.

"Tell me you don't hate me. I need to hear you say it, that you never hated me," Geto's violet eyes search your own, as though he's looking for forgiveness and salvation, right as you're perched atop his girthy cock.

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, and you try to focus on his stern, pleading face, to find your voice and let the incriminating words slip from your tongue. You tear your eyes away from the swollen base of his cock, where he's lifted your hips just enough to deprive you of pleasure.

"I — I don't hate you," you murmur, shocked with your own honesty, "Suguru, I could never, ah!" The chance to finish your sentence is lost, as the man below you sighs in relief, and desperation, dropping you back on his cock and effectively pinning you above him with his large hands on your hips.

You feel thick veins hit you right in the sweetest spots, all while you're still in Geto's embrace as he gladly envelops broad arms around you, bringing you closer to his chest. Planting desperate, heated kisses on your sensitive skin, and hissing when your nails create crescents in his smooth flesh.

Suguru seems just as whipped as you feel, untethered from this mortal plane of the earth, and sucked into a higher level of existence. All from your pretty cunt that's holding him together, "K-keep doing that, sweet girl. Look how good you take me."

Each word punctuated by Suguru's hips bullying into yours, pushing his cock deeper and further than you ever thought you could handle, his mouth panting under yours, "Takin' it like a fucking champ. M-missed this so much."

You missed it too, chasing after the feeling of threading your fingers through his soft black locks, feeling Geto shudder as you scrape the tips of your nails down the back of his head.

"Y-yeah, that's it," Geto shuddering, lashes fluttering close, as you're sucking him up so deliciously, ramming his hips and angling them in a crude way that has your abdomen tingling, and your eyes seeing streaks of shooting stars.

Your ex-boyfriend taps his wide shoulders, where his dark robes have slipped off, revealing the smooth expanse of toned muscle and hot, flushed skin, "Hands here, baby. Keep you steady, y-yeah?"

And you plant your hands on his chest, determined to swivel your hips in a way that has you gasping for air, and glancing down where you can see the thick curve of his bulge, fuck.

You just couldn't pull your eyes away from the sight of him, intoxicating as he was. Suguru under you, broad chest heaving as he caught his breath with every rock of your hips, with a flush painting his creamy skin, framed by dark strands of choppy hair that fanned messily around his face. Falling in careless streaks over his forehead, and brushing against his cheekbones.

And you just couldn't help yourself, curling your fingers in the unruly halo pooled over the tatami mat, drawing Suguru up closer your face, his crimson-bitten lips parted slightly, clacking around a deep groan.

Suguru's mauve eyes lift away from the tantalising swell of your chest once more, hazy with exhaustion, but they softened meeting your eyes with an almost reverent, quiet awe. Even lying there, while you quite literally rode him to hell and back, pussy clamping around his cock in a way that left you both breathless, Suguru looked at you as if you were some divine vision, his rosy-bruise mouth curling.

"Always thought you l-looked like a dream," Suguru murmured, tracing your face as if he were committing every detail to memory, "Used to t-think that I had forgotten, or tried to forget how damn' beautiful you were, are."

"Stay a little longer, yeah?" he whispers, "Just let me look at you, c-can't get enough." He reaches a wide hand in between your thighs, finding your swollen clit, drawing soft circles around the pearl with the pads of his fingers.

It's becoming too much, the harsh smack of his sticky skin against yours. The feeling of your throbbing clit being showered with white hot attention from his quick hands, the sensation of his dense shaft gliding down your pliable walls, stretching them out until you can feel every inch of him deep within you.

You're tangled in Suguru's arms, in the arms of a man who should have remained your enemy, a traitor who crumbled all that you once held dear. But his chest rises and falls erratically against yours, and you can feel his heartbeat jump. It grounds you in the most unbearable way.

His fingers are now bruising your hips, leaving faint marks that you're sure Satoru will easily be able to recognise, but you can't bring yourself to care.

You certainly can't tell whose tears are staining the fabric of his robes between you, his or yours. The line between the two of you blurs, like the fog in your mind from the way his cock has driven into you, left a print in a way that you'll never forget.

"S-Suguru —"

You're wondering if your poor, torn heart will just simply give out now. Why is it so hard to breathe? Each press of his fingers against your clit as you moaning over the shell of his ear, "I'm c-close, so — so close."

The dark-haired man chuckles weakly, bubbling from his throat and mingling with a gruff grunt, "Yeah, yeah. I fuckin' know." His soaked fingers are still drawing a figure eight in your sticky arousal, leaking over his cock, his ropes, dampening the dark trail of her that coats his groin.

"Always been m-mine." Suguru bites your neck, fangs sinking into you as you feel the coil in your abdomen snap! God, you don't think you could ever go back, not like this.

You can't even imagine the picture you must paint now, lips parted and open as you feel yourself being rocked through an earth-shattering orgasm. How the spasm of your sloppy walls must finally trigger his own release, for Suguru has suddenly stiffed beneath you. Thick, creamy ropes of seed finding their home in you, "S-see, always mine."

All you can truly do is let Suguru manhandle you now, let his arms tighten and pull you in as close as possible. So his teeth are tugging and bruising your lips, kissing deep into your mouth as you ride out the stars of your climax, tears springing to your eyes once more from the overstimulation, hands digging into the woven mat under him.

As you lie in Suguru's arms, wrapped up entirely in the exhaustion and sheer guilt of what you've done, it feels as though the rest of the world is hazy and irrelevant. The steady rhythm of his breath in small puffs is the only thing grounding you, the warmth of his chest rising and falling against yours. He's tracing soft lines across your back, memorising the feel of you.

"Suguru," you whisper, voice breaking once more on his name, lips close to the damp skin of his jaw. You're not sure if you're still weeping, or if this is the quietest, most intimate form of surrender that has replaced the weathered storm.

Suguru doesn't speak for a long while, but his grip has tightened over your waist, as though he's trying to draw you closer. Having you meld into him, "Don't," he mutters, voice jagged and raw, "You don't have to leave just yet."

The quiet desperation in his words crack your heart, and for the first time in three years, the distance between the man who had become a shadow, and the boy you once knew feels almost unrecognisable.

His face turns towards your, eyes searching your own, as if he's looking for something to anchor him, something to give him the assurance that all the destruction he's caused, and all the distance between you, can still be undone.

You're not sure if it's possible. You ache to say something, anything, but the words lodge in your throat, too heavy and tangled to escape. You let your hand rest on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart, matching the pace of your own, "I don't know if I can stay, Suguru. How can we go back to what we were, you know, before — "

"Then let me make it up to you," Suguru interrupts softly, voice tinged with a quiet urgency, as though he's grasping at the last chance he'll ever receive, "Let me show you what I've built here."

If you stay, you risk losing yourself. You risk losing the anger that you had cherished, and treasured. Nurtured and held onto. The anger that guided you through the world. Still, as you meet his unwavering eyes, something inside of you shifts. Maybe it's the way his hands gently slide up your back, steady and sure.

"Please," Suguru breathes again, his forehead resting against yours, "Don't leave. Don't do to me what I should have never done to you."

The moonlight spills through the cracks of the window, and it brings to mind the flicker of bright blue eyes, Six Eyes, alongside their warmth and steady presence. You wonder if the earth will swallow you whole for what you've done. You should have never come here, nor have accepted that mission from Satoru.

You should never have allowed yourself to get caught up in Suguru's gravity again, shouldn't have let him pull you back into this mess of old feelings and broken oaths.

Suguru's low, tired laugh pulls you from your thoughts, as though he can read the self-flagellation in your mind. He pulls back slightly, his dusky eyes gleaming with something you can't quite place, a spark of surprise or maybe amusement. Even a little mockery, but there is no lie or falsehood in his eyes.

"What — Satoru?" He says, the name slipping from his lips with a touch of disbelief, "You really think he hasn't visited me in the past three years either?"

[keeryhours]

we are never getting back together - chapter one

Masterlist Series Masterlist Tag Lists

Eddie Munson x ex wife!reader

Summary:

You drop your kids off with your ex husband, and think back on your life together.

Warnings:

Pregnancy, birth, drinking, drug use (weed), suggestive content, divorce

Word Count: 7k

A/N:

I’m so happy to be back and posting the first chapter of this series! I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much @feral4youu for all your help, ily ❤️

“It’s my weekend.”

You rolled your eyes over the phone. “I understand that, Eddie. Believe me, you’ve said it enough times. I’m just saying-“

“You’re trying to take 3 hours away from me.”

You had a headache coming on. You pressed your manicured fingers against your temple. “I’m not trying to take anything from you. You’re being difficult on purpose.”

“Then you should schedule your shit for your own time!”

“It’s a dentist appointment, and it’s the earliest day they had!” You threw your arm up in the air as you spoke, as if he could see you. “Do you even hear yourself right now? I’m not asking for fun, she needs to go to the dentist.”

“Why can’t I take her?”

“Uh, would you remember?” you scoffed.

“That was one time.”

“Sure,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Look, Ed. It’s kinda non-negotiable. She has to go. We can meet at 6 instead of 3.”

“Whatever.” Silence, nothing but the crackling of the phone line. “Okay. Whatever. I’ll see you at 6.”

Click.

You sighed, putting the phone back down on the receiver. Eddie could seriously be such a pain in the ass. No, scratch that, not could be - he was.

You didn’t always fight like this. At one point, you were just two high school students in love - puppy love, maybe. First love, lust at first sight, whatever you wanted to call it, you were head over heels for each other.

A positive pregnancy test at the beginning of your senior year, when you were 17 and Eddie was 19, threw everything off balance. Before, everyone knew you and Eddie would graduate and get married. They knew you were the kind of high school sweethearts that would lead to marriage - even if you didn’t make it in the end. But a pregnancy sped everything up - way too fast.

Your parents had been furious, of course. They never approved of Eddie in the first place, thinking he was beneath you. He lived in a trailer park, he wore thrifted clothes, he repeated his senior year twice and sold drugs in the clearing behind the school. You’d heard it all before.

It didn’t stop you from loving Eddie.

You found out you were pregnant on your own. By yourself, in the silence of your bathroom while home alone, you took the test, saw the results, and cried yourself to sleep on the tile floor. You just knew Eddie was gonna run. Your parents were gonna kick you out and Eddie was gonna run and your friends were gonna abandon you, you’d be having a baby all on your own, being a single mom, working to take care of a baby-

Your spiraling turned out to all be for nothing, because your parents didn’t kick you out and Eddie didn’t leave you. That didn’t mean the news was taken well, however.

You told Eddie after school, in the theater room before Hellfire. Eddie was surprised when he looked up at the sound of the door opening and saw you walking in. You weren’t usually interested in D&D, you thought Hellfire Club meetings were boring and hated having to wait for Eddie when campaign days and date nights lined up.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, a hint of confusion in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you?” You were getting straight to the point, wringing your hands together and avoiding eye contact. You crossed your arms, uncrossed them, then crossed them again.

“Now?” Eddie asked, looking around the room, at the table completely set up for the campaign. “The guys are gonna be here any second-“

“I know,” you said, looking down at your feet. You were losing your resolve. “I just- it needs to be now. I need to talk to you now.”

“Is everything okay?” He pulled out a chair for you, then sat on the edge of his throne, leaning forward on his knees. “You’re freaking me out.”

“Yeah, well.” You let out a long breath. “Not really. I, uh…I have something I need to tell you.”

“Okay, now you’re really freaking me out,” he said. His eyebrows drew together, looking at you with obvious concern.

“It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” you said, looking around. “Why are there no windows in here?”

Eddie looked around, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just…” You were sweating, avoiding eye contact. “It’s hot in here, is all.”

“I…feel like you’re stalling,” Eddie said, focusing back on you. You couldn’t escape his attention now. “Just tell me what’s going on, please.”

You looked down at your trembling hands. “Eddie, I…” It felt like you were trying to make yourself as small as possible, shrinking under Eddie’s gaze. You knew nothing would be the same after you said your next words. “I’m pregnant.”

It felt like time had stopped. Eddie’s throat closed up as panic set in - his skin felt ice cold. Then, he let out a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I- how? How could this fucking happen?” he asked. He rubbed his palm over his chest, as if he were physically pained. “How- when?”

“I just found out a couple days ago,” you said. You wanted to run, hide, as far away from this conversation and reality as possible. This wasn’t going well, you could already feel it. “I think I’m like- like 6 weeks, or something. I think it was…that night in your van.”

You could see Eddie mentally going back, thinking back to that night, replaying every second of it in his head. When the sickening realization passed over his face, you could see it. “We didn’t use a condom.”

“Yeah.” You couldn’t hold eye contact with him, not even for a second. Pushing some of your hair behind your ear, you continued. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do, Eddie.”

“Yeah, me fucking either,” he scoffed. He crossed his arms over his stomach, hunching over, like he might be sick. You knew what was running through his head, because it was the same thing that had been in yours. I’m a fucking idiot. I’ve ruined my life. I’ve ruined both of our lives. I’ve ruined everything. His body felt heavy.

“Are you…” You swallowed. “Are you going to stick around?”

Eddie’s eyes snapped up to your face. “Of course I am. I’m not gonna leave you on your own.”

You nodded. That was good. This wasn’t going quite as badly as you’d feared. “What are we going to do?”

“I just said I don’t fucking know!” Eddie snapped, throwing his arms out wide. He slammed his fist on the table, knocking over a bunch of figurines, and you flinched - you hadn’t been expecting it. You could see the instant regret on his face. 

“Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I didn’t mean to lose control like that,” he said. He tried to rein in his emotions, desperately trying not to take out his fear and anger on you. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you said quietly.

“It’s not,” he said. “You’re going through this too. How…how do you feel?”

A strangled sounding laugh tumbled from your lips. “Just great.”

“I’m being serious,” Eddie said. “I mean, this is…this is…”

“A total disaster?” you supplied. Eddie nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. I know.”

“Have you thought about it?” he asked. “What you want to do?”

“Like if I want to…keep it?”

Eddie nodded. He clenched his jaw, preparing for your response.

You nodded your head quickly. “Yeah. I mean, that’s the only thing I do know. I don’t think I can get rid of it. I mean…it’s ours.”

He dropped his head forward. He was hunched over, buried into himself. He cursed under his breath - he knew you and he knew you’d say that, but he had still been hoping for something different. For you to say you wanted an abortion - that’s what Eddie would have chosen. He felt like he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs.

His mind immediately jumped to the future - what that would look like. He pictured his life over, no more fun, no more D&D or Corroded Coffin or weed or anything. Dead end job he hates just to take care of the baby. His relationship with you taking a nosedive. He stretched his hands out wide and balled them into fists, over and over.

“It’s fine, it’s gonna be fine,” you said, mostly to yourself. “We’re gonna be okay. Everything is gonna be alright.”

“Should we…” he began, but startled you when he abruptly stood, the throne scraping loudly against the floor as it was pushed back. He started pacing, back and forth in front of you as he raked his hands through his curls. “I don’t know, do we have to…should we get married?”

Your mouth fell open, staring at Eddie incredulously. Had he really just suggested you get married? “Do you…want to marry me?”

“Of course I do,” he said easily. “I just…I imagined it being in the future, y’know? Not right now. It’s not…we’re not ready. We haven’t even lived yet, you know?”

“I know.”

“But…the, uh…” Eddie stopped moving, cleared his throat. “The baby. Should we get married for the baby?”

You turned his words over in your mind. You knew it would be best for the baby if you were together. But did you really want Eddie to marry you only because he felt like he had to? “I mean,” you started, “we could. But we don’t…if you don’t want to, we don’t have to.”

“Yeah, but baby,” he said, coming back over to sit in front of you again. “You know how people are gonna talk. I don’t care, I’m used to it. But I know you care.”

It was true. You weren’t particularly concerned with popularity and social hierarchy, but you did care what people said about you. You didn’t want to be talked about like trash all over town. And that’s exactly what would happen. “People are gonna say all kinds of shit.”

“Yeah. They are.” Eddie looked at you. “But that’s why we’re gonna go to the courthouse and get married. Like, this weekend.”

“Eddie- what?” Your lips parted, drawing in a quick gasp. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he said. He grasped your hands in his larger ones. “That’s the only way. We have to get married so people don’t know you were pregnant first. Or everyone’s going to…they’re gonna call you a whore, they’re gonna say you’re easy. I’m not gonna let anyone talk about you that way.”

“Eddie…” Tears brimmed in your eyes, your lower lip wobbling as you tried to find the words. “How would we- how do we explain why we got married so suddenly?”

“Just couldn’t wait anymore,” Eddie said, grinning. “Too in love. Had to get married immediately, couldn’t be put off for another second.”

Soft laughter bubbled up from deep inside, pulled from you unwillingly by Eddie’s words. “Really? You want to elope?”

“Fuck yeah,” he said. “Let’s do it. Let’s fuckin’ elope.”

You told your parents the next day. That went…worse. A good hour of lectures, yelling, and crying later, they agreed it was best for you and Eddie to get married. They didn’t approve of him, not by a long shot, but having you single and pregnant at 17 was worse.

Eddie was the most scared to tell Wayne. He knew his uncle was going to be disappointed in him, and that was the worst thing he could think of. He cared so much about Wayne, the idea of letting him down made his stomach sink.

You had cooked a dinner for Wayne and Eddie, something to sit down and eat together before Wayne went to work so you could break the news. One delicious lasagna later and you were sitting the dish down in front of a confused Wayne and a terrified Eddie.

“So…” Eddie started about halfway through an awkwardly silent dinner - you were letting him take the lead and he was just now working up the courage to speak. Wayne looked up at him, his mouth full of lasagna. “There was something I…we…wanted to talk to you about.”

Wayne swallowed, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He was scared of whatever Eddie was about to say, it was written across his face. “Yeah? What’s goin’ on?”

“We, uh,” Eddie cleared his throat, looking at you then back at Wayne. “We just, uh, have some news.”

You were pretty sure Wayne knew what you were about to say from that moment, from the sick feeling that crossed his face. “What is it?”

Silence. Eddie pushed his food around his plate. “We…so, we’re…” A heavy sigh. “We’re…having a baby.”

Wayne just stared at the two of you. Then, he let out a long, weary sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Ed…”

“I know,” Eddie said. “I know.” He had promised not to end up this way. He had promised not to throw his life away. He had promised to live a life that put respect on the Munson name. He didn’t do any of those things.

“What the hell are you gonna do?” Wayne asked. He didn’t say it like he was mad. He wasn’t mad - not really. Just disappointed, and scared shitless for his nephew.

You and Eddie glanced at each other. “We’re, ah, gonna get married. This weekend.”

“Getting married?” Wayne practically choked. “Ed, are you sure-“

“Yeah.” Eddie squeezed your hand under the table. “I’m sure. This is what I want, what’s best for us.”

Wayne took a long sip of his beer. “God, Ed,” he said, once he’d sat the bottle back down on the kitchen table. “How did you let this happen?”

That weekend, December 1985, you wore a thrifted lacy white dress to the courthouse. Eddie dressed in a black button up shirt, tucked into his only pair of not-ripped jeans. His hair was combed and neat, and he was freshly shaven. You held a small cheap bouquet as you said your vows in front of the justice of the peace, then held Eddie’s hands and looked into his eyes as you declared your love for him. You cried. Eddie almost did.

Your parents and Wayne watched on - it was a bittersweet moment for them. They could see the love between you, but the circumstances weren’t ideal.

You graduated 5 months pregnant, but the pride you felt at finishing school was nothing compared to how proud you were to see Eddie walk the stage. Wayne teared up as Eddie was handed his diploma. Your two families took photos together outside after the ceremony, Eddie’s hand possessively on your belly.

Your daughter, Caroline Roxanne Munson, was born September 1986. Your pregnancy was blessedly easy, your birth simple and quick. Eddie held his baby girl like she was made of glass, like she held the secrets of the universe.

“Hi, baby girl,” he mumbled to her as he rocked her in his arms, you asleep in the hospital bed behind him. The tiny baby opened her eyes, peeking around the room but focusing as much as she could on Eddie’s face. Eddie trailed his finger lightly over her chubby cheek, her small nose - his nose. Your lips. His eyes. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I love you and your mama more than I’ve ever loved anything.”

Eddie got a job as a mechanic right out of high school, at the shop down the road from Forest Hills. He was determined - it didn’t take long before he was buying a trailer and having it put in next door to Wayne’s. A new double wide, with three bedrooms.

The front door led into a large open living room with a kitchen to the right. Past the kitchen was the door to the master bedroom with a bathroom attached. Down the hall to the left was a bathroom, and two smaller bedrooms.

Caroline spent the first couple months of her life sleeping in the room with you and Eddie, but when she was six months old, you moved her into her own room.

You were happy.

When Caroline was old enough, you got a job as a receptionist for a local doctor’s office. You and Eddie were doing well - you had pulled yourselves out of a bad situation and made the best of it, and made yourselves a nice life. Wayne and your parents were proud of you both.

January 1988 - it occurred to you that you hadn’t gotten your period in three months. You’d been so busy you hadn’t even noticed - you didn’t exactly track it, it came when it came. But when you noticed it had been months? Panic set in. Caroline was only 16 months old, it felt like you’d just had her first birthday party.

You kissed Eddie at the door, took Caroline to daycare, and bought a pregnancy test on the way to work. It sat in its bag in your car all day, weighing heavily on your mind during work. 

When you got off you went straight home - usually you got off work at 4, picked up Caroline, and started dinner in time for Eddie to get home at 6:30. But today, you had something to do before you could pick up your daughter.

At the house, you tossed your car keys on the hall table and headed straight for the master bathroom, bag clutched in your hand. 30 minutes later, and you were staring at a familiar sight - a positive pregnancy test.

You had no idea how Eddie was going to take the news. Sure, it was better to get pregnant now than when you were 17. But was it the right time? You and Eddie hadn’t even talked about more kids - you figured he didn’t want more. One was enough for both of you.

You picked up Caroline and got home, starting the meatloaf and mashed potato dinner. At 6:30, Caroline was sitting on the floor, playing with her toys with the Care Bears on the TV while you finished up the last of dinner. You were placing the steaming dishes on the kitchen table when the front door opened and Eddie walked in, oil splattered coveralls unzipped.

“Hey baby,” he greeted you. “Smells great. Is it ready?”

“Yep,” you said, maybe too casually. Eddie gave you a look, but shrugged it off, leaning in to place a kiss on your lips.

“And how’s my other best girl?” he asked, lifting Caroline into his arms. “What did you learn at school today?”

Caroline babbled to him about Care Bears. Eddie smiled at his daughter - he adored her like he’d never adored anything else. Not even his first sweetheart - the guitar currently hanging in your bedroom that still got plenty of love.

“That’s great, baby girl,” he said. He kissed her on the top of her head and sat her back down, where she took off running into the kitchen and straight into your legs. You picked her up, sitting her on your hip.

“How was your day?” Eddie asked you. He grabbed a bite of meatloaf and popped it into his mouth.

“It was…it was good,” you said. “Uh, boring.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Hey, I’m gonna go take a quick shower. I’ll be right back and we can eat.”

“Okay,” you said, watching his form already retreating into the bedroom. The door closed behind him, leaving you alone with Caroline. You sat her in her high chair and cut up her meatloaf, making her plate.

You were helping her eat when Eddie came back out, hair wet and dressed in a white tank top and his plaid pajama pants. He took his usual seat and began piling his plate high with food.

You’d changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants since getting off work. You sat down in your seat across the table, Caroline between the two of you. You pushed your food around your plate.

“So,” you began, after a few minutes of idle conversation. “I, uh. Something happened today.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie asked, looking up at you as he chewed his food. “What?”

You bit your lip. Caroline shoved a whole handful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. “My period is three months late.”

Silence. Eddie stopped eating, just staring at you. The only sound was Caroline, oblivious as she squealed and continued eating her dinner.

“…Oh?” he said finally. You couldn’t read him - you had no idea what he was thinking.

“Yeah,” you said. This was incredibly awkward. Things between you and Eddie were never this stilted. “So I got a test today.”

Eddie had lost his appetite, at least for right now. His food sat untouched in front of him while he stared at you. “Did you take it?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” He was getting impatient. “Please just tell me.”

You looked down at your plate. “It was positive.”

A long rush of air. Eddie running a hand through his wet curls, pushing them back out of his face. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, staring at some point on the wall behind you now instead of at you.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. This is…it’s okay. We’re okay.”

“You think so?” Your brow was furrowed in concern. “Can we afford it? Are we ready? Is Caroline ready?”

“We’ll just…have to get ready,” Eddie said. “I mean, financially I think we’ll be okay. We’re alright. But are you…are you ready for another baby?” He was looking at you again. He reached across the table and took your hand, Caroline obliviously blowing raspberries and getting food everywhere. “This is mostly a big change for you.”

It was true. You were the one who’d have to go through another pregnancy and birth, you were the one who’d be at home with a newborn while Eddie only got one week of parental leave. You were the primary parent while Eddie worked longer hours.

“We don’t really have a choice,” you said. “I’ve got to be like, 10 weeks pregnant at least.” Eddie rubbed his hand over his chest. “But…yeah. I think I can do it.”

You were 11 weeks pregnant, it turned out, with a healthy little baby. Eddie smiled at you so big his face hurt at the first ultrasound. At home or out in public, he kept his hand on your belly most of the time, protectively.

This pregnancy was already such a different experience. Eddie was excited. He was extremely involved, stayed by your side every second, constantly had to be touching you and the bump, talked about baby stuff, wished for a son. Of course he’d be happy with another daughter too, but - a son would be cool, he thought.

You decided not to find out the gender. It was going to be a surprise - you decorated the third bedroom in gender neutral colors, a yellow Winnie the Pooh theme. Eddie made a little Hellfire shirt, just like he had for Caroline when you were still in high school.

You went into labor in the middle of the night. It was right on time, and your bag had been packed for weeks by the door. You dropped Caroline off with Wayne next door, and headed to the hospital to have a baby.

The birth was a little more complicated this time. There was some hemorrhaging, so they wouldn’t let you hold the baby right away. But in June 1988, you gave birth to another beautiful baby girl - Janis “Janie” Nicole Munson.

Wayne brought Caroline, who was 1 year and 9 months old, to the hospital to visit. She clung to Wayne tightly until he entered the room and she recognized you and Eddie - she reached for her father, whining for him. He laughed, lifting her from his uncle’s arms.

“Hey, angel,” he said to her. “Are you ready to meet your baby sister?”

Caroline wasn’t sure about Janie at first. She just stared at her like she was scared to touch her. Janie was sound asleep in your arms, wrapped in her hospital blanket with her little hat on her head full of dark brown hair. Finally, Caroline reached out, poking her cheek. That was as much as you were getting from her.

The sisters warmed up to each other quickly. Caroline was so fussy with noises as a baby, but Janie could sleep through the loudest of her sister’s screeches - maybe she’d gotten used to them in the womb. 

After his week of parental leave, when you all stayed home together, Eddie took Caroline to daycare every morning while you stayed home for 6 weeks with Janie. You spent most of your days on the couch, cuddled together and watching old sitcom reruns. You were happy and content.

Janie hardly ever cried. She was so different from her sister - quiet and reserved, even as she grew. She was well behaved and kind, while Caroline was loud and in charge (but still a sweet girl).

Eddie adjusted to life as a dad of two easily. He really was a natural at being a father. He’d walk around the house with Janie in his arms, a giggling Caroline hanging on his back with her arms around his neck.

“Did you get her to sleep?” you asked Eddie one night, bleary eyed as you breastfed Janie in bed. He was shutting the bedroom door softly behind him.

“Yeah,” he said. “She went down easy tonight. She’s out.” He laid on the bed next to you with a groan - he’d had a long day at work. “How are my other two girls?”

“Tired,” you said. “She’s almost done eating. She should be ready to lay down in a few minutes.”

“Good,” Eddie said. “You need the rest.”

You did. It was hard to find time to sleep between taking care of a 3 month old and a newly 2 year old. “I’m exhausted,” you admitted.

“You want me to take her?” he asked. “I can finish feeding her with the bottle.”

“No, it’s okay. She hates the bottle.” You smiled down at your baby daughter. “I think she might already be asleep.”

Eddie leaned over. “She’s eating in her sleep?”

“Yeah. She does that.”

Janie finished eating about 10 minutes later, just letting go and turning her sleepy head. She was out. Eddie took her from your arms and down the hall to her bedroom.

When he came back, he crawled back into bed next to you. “Finally alone,” he teased, kissing your shoulder.

You knew he was just messing around - you hadn’t been in the mood for sex since Janie was born, even though you’d been cleared for 6 weeks - Eddie had been patient. But you wanted him - finally, something was coming alive inside you as Eddie kissed across your skin.

“Yeah,” you said. “Finally.” You met each other’s eyes - then your lips crashed together, meeting in a heated kiss. Eddie’s tongue slid into your mouth, pressing against yours, exploring you. He moaned, he was already hard - it had been months, after all.

“God, I need you,” he groaned as your hand brushed over the rock hard erection in his pajama pants. “I want you so bad.”

“I want you too,” you whispered back. You pulled him tighter into you, your sensitive breasts pressed against his bare chest.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want to rush you. We really- we really don’t have to.”

“I want to, Eddie,” you told him, grinding your hips against his cock, making him moan pathetically.

Then you showed him just how much.

February 1990, when Caroline was 3 ½ years old and Janie was nearing 2, Eddie came to you with a proposition.

“Let’s have another baby,” he said.

“What?” You nearly spit out your coffee. “Eddie- what?”

“I know, it’s completely out of nowhere,” he said. “But hear me out. The girls are older, a little more independent. We’re financially stable. And I want another baby.”

“You want another baby?” Somehow, you’d still never discussed it. “I didn’t think you’d even be happy about two kids.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “With you? I’ll have ten.” He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “We aren’t kids ourselves anymore. We’re 23 and 21. We have stable jobs, we’re great parents. We can do this.”

With two accidental pregnancies under your belt, you and Eddie felt like getting pregnant on purpose would be a breeze. You were experts at this point, after all. And the act that led to the making of babies was one you two had plenty of practice at.

But it didn’t happen. You fully expected to get pregnant right away, so when your period showed up the next month, you had been borderline confused.

“I don’t get it,” you said, sitting down on the side of the bed next to Eddie, feeling dejected and sad. “We- I mean, we had sex plenty of times without protection. Why didn’t it work?”

“I don’t know, baby,” Eddie said gently. “Maybe it can take time? I’m sure it’ll happen next month.”

But in April, your period showed up again. And again in May and June. By the time July rolled around, you were scared and discouraged.

“We did this by accident twice,” you said, tossing a negative pregnancy test in the trash can and wiping tears from your eyes. “How can it be so hard to do on purpose?”

“Maybe we should go to the doctor?” Eddie offered. He was leaning against the doorway of the master bathroom, shirtless with his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sure there’s…an explanation.”

“But probably not a good one,” you sniffled. “But…I’ll think about it.”

August came, and with it came an increase in appointments at the pediatrician office you worked at in preparation for school. Between work and the kids, you were kept so busy you completely forgot about taking a test.

When you remembered, you were 2 weeks late.

“Eddie?” you crept into the bedroom after laying down Janie. Eddie had just gotten Caroline bathed and in bed, and was lying in the bed you shared, shirtless, flipping through his D&D notebook with a cigarette between his lips. He had feared his days of gaming were over, but he still found time for Hellfire every other week. He was still the only one of his friends to get married or have kids. You wondered sometimes if that bothered him.

“What’s up?” he asked, looking up from his notebook. He put out the cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed and closed the book, dropping it in the drawer.

“So…” you said, climbing in bed. “I took…a test.”

Eddie’s eyes scanned your face for any hint at how you were feeling. When he didn’t see sadness, a grin slowly spread across his lips. “Did you?”

“Yeah, I did,” you said. You were trying your best to hold your own smile back. You placed the test in Eddie’s hand - he turned it over to reveal the result. Positive.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug while you giggled. “This is the best news. I’m so fuckin’ happy. Another baby.”

Eddie was a little more open with his hope for a son this time around. He reassured you every time that he’d be happy with a third daughter, but - he had his hopes. You didn’t mind either way - you loved being a girl mom, but a son would be amazing, too.

This pregnancy was rougher than the first two. You stayed sick, often ending up in the hospital for fluids after being unable to keep anything down. You were in a lot of pain, under a lot of stress, and were exhausted at all hours of the day. Eddie stepped up a lot, coming home from work as early as he was able and cooking dinner some nights, helping with the girls and their bedtime routine.

Your doctor was concerned, but the baby made it until their due date, April 1991. You were induced, however, because they didn’t want to chance leaving things any longer. The birth went well, and your third daughter was born - Melissa ‘Missy’ Joan Munson.

Having a third child turned out to be a much bigger adjustment than one to two, or even none to one. Everything changed after Missy’s birth. Eddie never said it, but it was clear he felt some regret for suggesting a third child, despite the love he felt for her.

You and Eddie were both exhausted, between work and home, it felt like it never stopped. By the time the girls were in bed - Caroline and Janie sharing, Missy in her own nursery - you were too tired to do anything, both just passing out in your own bed. Your sex life was nonexistent, and you hardly had the chance to say a passing word to one another.

Over the next four years, things were strained. You were struggling more financially than you had expected. The stress over bills was constant, one or both of you sitting hunched over the kitchen table with the mail spread out and your head in your hands.

When Missy was three, she started preschool and you picked up a second job waitressing. You had never been at that level of exhausted before.

It strained your relationship more than anything. Eddie was withdrawing, spending more time at work (which you couldn’t complain about because you needed the money), going out with the guys, and burying his stresses in beer and weed after the girls were in bed. Many nights, you went to sleep alone.

Fights became a regular thing. Whether it be about finances, chores, parenting, whatever - it was always something. It felt like you couldn’t have a civilized conversation with each other anymore.

“You promised you would do the dishes,” you said, dropping the laundry basket full of the girl’s clothes in front of the washing machine. You opened it, poured in the detergent, and angrily started throwing clothes inside. “But they were still there when I got home today.”

“I forgot,” Eddie mumbled. He was drinking a beer in the recliner by the TV. The girls were in bed, and Eddie was distracted by whatever rerun was currently playing.

“You always forget.” The last of the clothes were put inside and you slammed the lid shut. Turning the dial, you started the wash cycle. “Then I have to end up doing it myself.”

“Well, it’s kind of your job,” he muttered.

“Are you fucking serious?” You walked into the living room and stepped in front of the TV, hand on your hip. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Here we fuckin’ go,” he groaned.

“You are such an asshole,” you spat. “What’s your problem? It’s impossible to get you to do anything around here anymore. You just get home from work and sit on your ass and let me do everything!”

“I’m tired!” he exclaimed. “I’m fucking exhausted! I just want to sit down with a fuckin’ beer when I get off work and not get bitched at by my wife for once.”

“Oh, I’m bitching?” you scoffed. “I’m fucking tired too, Eddie! I work two jobs then come home and take care of the house and my apparently four children.”

“Real mature,” Eddie said. He took another swig of his beer then pushed closed the leg rest of the recliner. “Fuck this. I’m going to bed.”

“This is why we can never get through anything,” you threw your hands in the air. “You run away. You’re not willing to listen to anything I have to say. You have no respect for me. You don’t care about making anything better.”

“There is no ‘making things better’ when it comes to you.” He threw his beer bottle into the trash can with a loud clatter. “You’re never happy. Nothing I do makes you happy.”

“You used to make me happy.”

Silence. Eddie stopped, but didn’t turn around. Finally, he shook his head. “Goodnight.” And he disappeared into the bedroom.

This wasn’t new, either. You’d end up waiting until you knew Eddie was asleep before you came to bed yourself, even if you were tired. Or maybe you’d just sleep on the couch. Either way, it felt like things between you and Eddie were doomed.

It was March 1995  when you called it quits for good.

The fighting, the resentment, the drama - it had all gotten to be too much. You and Eddie didn’t even seem to like each other anymore. You didn’t know how Eddie felt deep down, but you knew you’d always love him - even if you felt like you hated him right now.

You moved out and into a three bedroom apartment. Eddie helped you move while the girls were with your parents, but it was extremely awkward. Steve, Robin, and Nancy came over and helped, too, which made it a little less uncomfortable. 

It was a bittersweet moment for you - you were happy to be getting out of that house full of painful memories and starting a new life on your own, but watching Eddie walk out the door and leave you standing there alone - it crushed you. It hurt more than you ever anticipated it would. You almost went after him. Almost.

The divorce was finalized five months later.

You and Eddie barely even looked at each other as you signed the papers. There was a custody hearing, mercifully brief since you and Eddie were able to come to an agreement easily. You would keep the girls during the week while Eddie got them every other weekend. He would have liked more time, but he knew with the divorce would come sacrifice.

The girls didn’t take it well. They were 9, 7, and 4 at the time, old enough to understand what was happening and what it meant for their life as a family. For the first few months, they would cry their eyes out at every custody drop off, which made both you and Eddie feel like the worst people on the planet. But with time, everyone settled into the new normal.

You dated a few guys on and off, but never got into a serious relationship. More hookups than anything. It’s like you looked for Eddie in every guy you met, whether you could admit that to yourself or not.

Eddie was a different story. It seemed like he had a new girl on his arm every time you turned around. And it pissed you off. It’s not like you couldn’t get a boyfriend - you had plenty of opportunity to. You just didn’t like anyone. Eddie didn’t care. He didn’t have any serious girlfriends, but he didn’t mind sleeping around. He was single for the first time since he was 17, and he was living it up. It made you sick.

But you were better off apart.

October 1997

Your car pulled into the parking lot of the abandoned Shell station, the designated meeting place since the separation. It was run down, weeds peeking through the cracks in the asphalt. Eddie’s truck wasn’t there yet.

You checked your beeper to see if you had any missed messages from Eddie - nothing.

You sighed. He was always late. The girls were in the backseat fighting over a toy, not bothered at all.

Finally, his truck rumbled into the parking lot. You could hear the music before you saw the vehicle - metal blasting so loud the whole street probably heard. You rolled your eyes, preparing to deal with him.

“Daddy’s here!” Missy yelled, unhooking herself from her car seat and reaching for the door. Caroline and Janie lit up too, grabbing their weekend bags.

Eddie’s truck skidded to a stop in the parking spot one over from yours. You slid your sunglasses on, then opened the door, stepping out just as Eddie hopped down from his side. You could see her sitting in the passenger seat, not even bothering to look at you.

“Daddy!” the girls all yelled, jumping out of the SUV and running to Eddie. He laughed as he hugged them all, tossing Missy in the air.

“How are my favorite girls?” he asked, ruffling Janie’s hair. She pushed him off with a giggle, fixing her braid.

“I thought I was your favorite girl?” Stacy called from the passenger seat. She was joking, but it still made you want to punch her.

“We’re good,” Caroline said. “Can we see Laura this weekend?”

Laura was Jeff’s 6 year old. Jeff was the only one of Eddie’s friends who’d had a kid, too, and she was close with the girls.

“I’m sure we can,” he said. Missy was latched onto his leg, as if she hadn’t seen him in years. He lifted her, placing a kiss on her head. “Okay, girls, go ahead and get in the truck. We gotta go, and I need to talk to your mom before we leave.”

“Bye, mommy!” The girls called, each giving you a tight hug. You waved and watched them climb into the tall truck, closing the door hard behind them. No one in the truck could hear you now.

Eddie took a step closer to you. “You look nice,” he said, his voice low. “You gotta date or something?”

“Or something,” you said. “Not that it’s any of your business. Don’t you have your skank to get back to?”

Eddie nearly cackled, throwing his head back and laughing hard. “You always were so feisty,” he said.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Take good care of my girls.”

“You know I will,” he said seriously. “You can call any time. If you wanna talk to them.”

You glanced towards the tinted truck window. “I don’t think she would like that too much.”

“She’ll get over it,” he shrugged. “You’re their mom. You can talk to them whenever.” He scuffed his boot against the ground. “How…have you been?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but jumped when the truck’s car horn blared. You and Eddie both looked over his shoulder to see Stacy leaning on the horn, looking out the window and gesturing for Eddie to hurry up.

“Guess you have to go,” you said. “Your girl is calling you.”

Eddie looked sheepish. “I’ll see you Sunday,” he said. He looked like he wanted to say something else maybe, but instead he turned, walking back around the truck to the driver’s side door. You climbed back into your own car, the silence heavy with the kids gone.

You started the car and drove back home.

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@bellalillyrose @kthomps914 @rainybloo28 @kellsck @alyisdead @obesessedvv @trixyvixx @emxxblog @foreveranexpatsposts @micheledawn1975 @avobabe87 @badasspizzalover @sungrlie @fallout-girl219 @cheesesandwichsanto @sadiea20 @rincallistis @belle101200 @flightyspores @lissssaarae @mdurdenpitt @spider-starry @catherinnn @twirls827 @strangerthing93 @facelessgetolover @strangerlove365 @vinecstasy @newstedswife @momentomoribitch @reidswifeyyyyyy @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @readinggeeklmao @katsfandomcorner @chelseyprimrose @alwayssnivellus @haliastyless @amesjahhh

[cosmic-quantums]

Now, I know people can find these themes appealing due to hypersexuality and personal traumas, which if that is the case talk to someone who you can trust and get help. My inbox is always open for anyone looking to talk about it. This post is for the defenders and proud supporters of the topics discussed.

TW: talks of incest, non-con, pedophilia, and cheating

I'm not even going to lie, you have to be a different kind of weird to defend and write/read fanfictions with incest/incest adjacent, non-con, cheating, and pedophilic themes. It's morally wrong, I can't even fathom the fact that people sexualize real world problems as serious as these topics and find it "hot" or wish for that to happen to them. I feel as though when you understand the seriousness of these issues or know someone who has experienced things like that, nothing about it should even be a turn-on.

Also the argument that it's fiction and "just porn"...nigga you're just weird🤦🏾‍♀️

The people that boast or defend it should be very open with the people around them since they're so proud of it. Be honest with family and friends that you find things like that attractive. Anyone who fucks with that shit won't do it because everyone is going to look at you and realize you're weird as fuck. The thing that makes me worry is knowing most of the apologists/defenders for things like this have most likely done something like that to someone in REAL LIFE, or have thought about doing it. That's sick, and you're sick.

Just having the KNOWLEDGE that things like this harm people and even ends lives should be enough of a wake-up call.

[elumish]

The responses to this post make me think of the book For Such A Time.

For those of you who don't remember or aren't familiar with For Such A Time, it was a 2014 romance novel that was nominated for a RITA Award, which was controversial because it's an "inspirational" romance between a Nazi SS officer running a concentration camp and the blond, blue-eyed Jewish woman forced to masquerade as a Christian and serve as the officer's secretary.

There was a lot of backlash to this book and particularly to the nomination, which largely boiled down to "it's horrible and horrifying and grotesque to write a romance between a Jewish woman trapped in a concentration camp and the SS officer running it." I think a lot of people would consider this backlash entirely justified.

The reason the responses to this post make me think of this book and this controversy is that many of the responses seem to be some version of "fuck you, you can't tell me what to do and I don't need to listen to you if you do" with a strong undercurrent of "absolutely nothing is out of line or off-base in fandom."

And to be clear, I am not saying that an author's word is law or that you are required to follow every request from every person on the internet. We are all randos. None of this is inviolable law.

But I do wonder where a line should be, if there should be one--and why to so many people in fandom that line seems to be different for fandom than for a book like For Such A Time.

At some point in the yonder days of like 2017, I remember in some somewhat niche part of the internet, there was backlash against Jewish Star Wars fans asking people (especially goyim) not to write Kylo Ren as Jewish, because he is canonically part of a group that is explicitly modeled after Neo-Nazis. And, of course, nobody had to follow the request of those Jewish Star Wars fans (we are all randos on the internet) but is there a point where we stop and ask ourselves "should we be doing this?"

If it's inappropriate to publish a romance novel with a romance between an SS officer running a concentration camp and a Jewish woman during the Holocaust, should you write a fanfic with a romance between a Nazi and a Jewish character? Should you write a fanfic with a romance between a white slave owner and a Black slave in the United States?

And if the author explicitly states that they don't want those two characters shipped, do you do it anyway?

I don't believe in the idea that an author's word is law when it comes to writing fanfic about their work. Write all the Interview with a Vampire or A Song of Ice and Fire fanfic that you want. Write queer stuff or kinky stuff or whatever even if the author hates it. Stick it to The Man. Be free.

But is there a point where you look at where an author has drawn a line and think, yeah I agree with that line? I'll respect it? I'll follow it? Not because of some call to authority but because there are lines we all should draw in our own approach to morality and to writing.

I don't have a perfect answer here. I don't think it's an easy "always yes" or "always no." But based on some of the responses to this post, some people get so caught up in their anger about their contrived idea that listening to another person means that that other person is censoring them that they seem to miss the fact that sometimes other people are right. Sometimes there are things we shouldn't root for or support or write fanfic for. Sometimes we should draw lines about what we find acceptable, and sometimes other people are the ones who ask us to draw those lines.

If the creator or something explicitly states they don’t want two characters shipped will you respect it?

[checkeredflagggs]

To Paint a Picture: Pentimenti

Pairing: max verstappen x webber vettel!reader

summary: y/n webber vettel swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

a/n: I’ve had this piece rumbling about in my mind since like November so I’m really excited to actually start posting it!

a/n2: yeah this consumed my thoughts and demanded that I write it next

a/n3: art is by anastasia trusova

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Private Messages, the Uncles

Private Messages, Hanna and yn

Private Messages, Sebastian and yn

Private Messages, Max and Victoria and Sophie

Private Messages, Mick and yn

not_yn🔒

liked by mick, gina, lance, and 19 others

not_yn: I shouldn’t find this charming…don’t tell the parental figures

view all comments

gina: ok but those are so pretty?

↳not_yn: they are — and he’s handwritten some poetry in each one

↳gina: oh he’s so down bad for you already…

↳gina: which poems?

↳not_yn: “I realized I was thinking of you, and I began to wonder how long you’d been on my mind. Then it occurred to me: Since I met you, you’ve never left” was the latest

↳gina: so cute! He’s been thinking of you since he met you?? I call maid of honor at the wedding

↳not_yn: not happening! No weddings 🙅🏼‍♀️

↳gina: 😂😂

mick: well at least he’s moved on from bad pick up lines

↳not_yn: that is a positive…

↳mick: admit it — you love it

↳not_yn: I’ll admit nothing of the sort

↳mick: so we’re resting in denial…

lance: You’re dating someone? Why am I the last to know?

↳not_yn: I’m not dating anyone Lance — I wouldn’t keep that info from you

↳mick: max is completely down bad for her

↳lance: verstappen?? You’re dating Verstappen??

↳not_yn: I’m NOT dating anyone

↳lance: a Vettel/Verstappen relationship…we’re all doomed liked by mick

↳not_yn: Lance…

Bluesky

user1: I feel…confused?

↳user2: didn’t he once say that he’s only read 2 books before?

↳user3: well now it’s 3?

user4: I didn’t know that was something he knew how to do…

user5: he’s reading…an art book?

↳user6: what kind of art book?

↳user5: I think it’s art history?

↳user6: …that’s kinda cool actually

user7: I bet it’s because of a girl

↳user8: it’s always because of a girl

↳user9: what kind of a girl is enough to get his attention from racing to…Art history?

↳user8: the kind you keep

↳user7: the forever kind

yn_vettel🔒

liked by seb5priv, lewis44, nando, jenson_priv, and 291 others

yn_vettel: some new inspiration and cat toys

view all comments

seb5priv: blümchen tell me you didn’t get 2 massive cat trees?

↳yn_vettel: ok

↳seb5priv: blümchen…

↳yn_vettel: you told me not to tell you!

nando: pequeña?

↳yn_vettel: ¡Estoy esperando el informe semanal! I’m waiting for the weekly debrief!

↳seb5priv: so there is something!

danric: those are looking good!

↳yn_vettel: thanks Dan! Got a piece ready for you!

↳danric: yes!

lewis44: is the lavender one available?

↳yn_vettel: how much are you offering?

↳lewis44: what?

↳yn_vettel: I’m an actual artist now — I’ve even got some commissions.

↳yn_vettel: so how much are you offering?

↳jenson_priv: I’ll pay double whatever he offers

↳nico_r: triple it!

↳nando: too late

↳lewis44: this is terrorism

↳yn_vettel: I think it’s capitalism actually

↳lewis44: 😑😑

↳seb5priv: I think you both need to go back to school…

Private Messages, the Uncles

not_yn🔒

liked by gina, mick, and 16 others

not_yn: my studio has been taken over by flowers and poems…

view all comments

gina: and you’re…complaining?

↳not_yn: I’m not saying anything

↳gina: so you’re absolutely loving this!

↳not_yn: stop talking

mick: he’s winning you over isn’t he?

↳not_yn: go away!

↳mick: so when do I get to say I told you so?

↳not_yn: never!

Private Messages, Max and yn

Private Messages, Nando and yn

Taglist

If you want to join my taglist, interact with my taglist post. I won’t be adding anyone else

@daniskywalkersolo @thenerdysimp @quinquinquincy @lecfosimaxbull @gr3yhues @armystay89 @simplylovelysworld @mimisweetz @angelluv16 @hamiltonforwdc @alexxavicry @suns3treading @ymrereads @monzipan @stuffyownswrld @kuolonsyoja @ky14-1 @devilacot @justheretoreadthxxs @minrayven @albonoracers @hc-dutch @somerandomf1fan @purplephantomwolf @shadowreader07 @spilled-coffee-cup @galaxygurlll @anamiad00msday @freyathehuntress @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @ihaveitprinteddout @deena-beena-weena @lilyofthevalley-09 @nightrose-18 @kodeelyn @star73807-blog @avengers-assemble123456 @howling-wolf97 @boke-hinata-boke @hannahmotors10 @mountainshuman @daisydaze111 @evie-119 @shadowreader07 @r0nnsblog @1800-love-me @edgyficuselastica

[honeytonedhottie]

there is no separation⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🌸💕

oh em GEE this is my first law of assumption post i've made in a MINUTE but i wanted to hare something that was on my mind and kind of get back into it…💬🎀

so a lot of people in the loa community ESPECIALLY over on twitter (no shade) are pushing the narrative that "you're not affirming enough" for ur desire, or implying that there's still something for you to do. listen, u don't have to do ANYTHING for ur manifestations. it's not called the law of affirm 20 billion times its called the law of ASSUMPTION because all u have to do is assume. thats literally it.

and often times once we've said that we had something, it feels awkward when u look outward and see that nothing has happened but thats bcuz we're so used to things working as a means to GET something but the law is not a means to GET something it's a means to just be aware that you ALREADY HAVE IT.

don't ever let yourself be aware of NOT having what u want, then ur just going to perpetuate a cycle that ur trying to break. keep ur awareness on the fact that you already have it and BE STILL. be still and relax, there's nothing left for you to do. when it comes to mind, remind urself that u have it. give it to yourself up here 🧠 and stop looking for external validation, u are the validation. there is no separation, the second u said u had u had it, u only don't have it when u make yourself aware that u don't.

SO REMEMBER, if you've been mentally strong for like a week and you feel a little inkling that maybe u should affirm for 4 hours even if u don't feel like it... thats the old story being sneaky and trying to make u aware that u don't have it. DONT FALL FOR IT. it's it's last ditch efforts to try and stay relevant, "there is no separation, it's already mine" and GO ABOUT UR DAY.

and thats not to say that u can't affirm for 4 hours, if u feel like doing that genuinely then GO RIGHT AHEAD. everyone likes to do different things. me, i like to scroll on pinterest and look at what i want while affirming in my head, or listening to music with affirmations, and talking to myself. thats how i do it. on occasion i'll have a little saturation session while playing roblox or something, but that is PURELY when i just feel like it. u shouldn't feel like ur forcing urself to do something. do what u want, when u want it PERIOD.

i hope my little rant/yap session made sense and clarified things in case there was someone who was wondering this. and happy manifesting dolls 🎀

[sweetdarlingfic2]

Yeah right

Cw: smut

You’ve been sleeping with Ghost on and off for a few months now.

No labels. No talks. Just sex, video games, and quiet 2 a.m. hangouts in the dark, nights that start with trash talk over split-screen shooters and end with your legs around his waist, breath caught between your teeth.

It’s casual.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Say it enough times, maybe it starts to feel true. But the way he touches you, slow, soft, like he’s savoring every inch, makes it hard to believe this is just sex.

He lets you wear his hoodie home, then pretends not to care when you post a mirror selfie in it but he still double taps it within two seconds. His jaw clenches when you take too long to reply. And his eyes always drop to your mouth when you talk, linger like they’re thinking.

You want to ask what this is. Why he acts like this. What you are.

Is it just comfort? Is it just habit? Or something close to love? Maybe too close?

You tried to ask once.

But the words barely left your mouth before he kissed them away, hands sliding up your thighs, breath hot at your throat. The question died in your mouth. Drowned in the way he fucked you like you were his. Like he didn’t need to say it because you already knew.

So you let it go.

You kept pretending it was enough.

Even though it wasn’t.

Was a Thursday night. He was at your place. The city’s asleep outside, but your apartment was lit dim and warm, a mess of tangled sheets, empty beer bottles, and that ghost of something unspoken, thick in the air.

He was quiet after. On his side, one arm slung around your waist like it’s second nature. Your skin still hums from his touch, but you’re cold inside empty in a way he hasn’t even noticed.

You stare at the ceiling.

And then “Do you ever think about me when I’m not here?”

It comes out softer than you meant it to. Too soft. Like you’re afraid of scaring him off.

Silence.

He doesn’t answer he just exhales slowly and pulls you closer, his mouth brushing your shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Wordless.

that was the only answer you got.

You don’t sleep.

You just laid there, his breath at your neck and that emptiness blooming wider in your chest. You’re not comforted by the closeness. It pisses you off, how he can touch you like that, hold you like he means it, and still give you nothing.

You turn away from him before sunrise. His arm slips off your waist. He doesn’t pull you back.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him wonder why you’re quiet in the morning. Why you don’t kiss him goodbye. Why you nod and shut the door behind him like it doesn’t take everything in you to do it.

Because if this means nothing to him… then why should it mean anything to you?

A month passes.

You don’t sleep with him. Not once.

Not because you don’t want to. You do. Desperately. Every time his shoulder brushes yours on the couch. Every time he leans back laughing, head thrown, or looks at you like he misses you even though you’re right there.

But you resist.

You keep your distance. Draw careful, invisible lines between your thigh and his. You still hang out because neither of you knows how to stop but you don’t stay. Not anymore. You dodge his touches. Dodge his eyes. Ignore the ache in your chest and pray he doesn’t see through it.

Of course he notices.

He’s restless now, picking at beer labels like they’ve got answers printed on them. Watching you when he thinks you won’t catch it. And when you do, he looks away fast, jaw tight like your silence is choking him.

Maybe it is.

He doesn’t know what he did. That’s the worst part. You asked him a question and he let it float off into the dark. Now all he has are guesses and guilt and that gnawing pit in his stomach that only you used to calm.

He needs you.

And he’s trying. He shows up more. Lingers longer. Drops hints with his hands, his eyes, the way he says your name like a question he’s too afraid to ask.

But you don’t break.

Not this time.

Because until he can look you in the eye and give you something real, you won’t let yourself be touched like you’re his when he’s not willing to say it out loud.

Not again.

He’s the one lying awake, wondering what the silence means.

It all comes to a head in the fifth week.

He shows up quiet. Tense. Like something’s unraveling inside him and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

He doesn’t play cool. Doesn’t make half hearted jokes. Just watches you. And this time, when you catch him, he doesn’t look away.

You feel it building in the silence between you it was thick with all the things unsaid.

You’re on opposite ends of the couch. Some movie’s playing, neither of you are watching. He just looks at you like you’re speaking a language he can’t translate.

Then, finally

“What did I do?” Voice low. Rough. Not defensive. Not cold. Just lost.

“I don’t know what I did,” he says again, eyes locked to yours. “But you’re not staying the night. You’re not looking at me. You won’t even let me touch you. I miss you… and you’re right here.”

You blink, eyes burning a little.

“I asked you,” you whisper. “I asked if you thought about me when I wasn’t there, and you didn’t say a word. Just held me like that was supposed to be enough.”

His brow furrows. That moment lands.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he mutters. “Didn’t wanna say the wrong thing.”

“So you said nothing?” You sit up straighter. “You can’t fuck me like I you love me and then act like I don’t matter.”

He leans closer. Not touching. Just close enough to feel.

“you do matter,” he says, it’s not soft. It’s firm. “You mean so much to me. You always have. I just… fuck I don’t know how to say it without ruining everything.”

You stare at him.

“I love you,” he says, finally. “And I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

This time, when his hand reaches for yours, he waits.

you let him touch you.

You don’t speak. Just lean forward and rest your forehead against his. His breath hitches. His eyes flutter shut.

“Show me,” you whisper “show me you love me,”

He kisses you like a confession. No rush. No greed. Just soft, reverent pressure. Like he’s trying to say I’m sorry with every slow drag of his mouth.

His hands find your thighs, sliding over your skin like he’s remembering how to hold you. “You sure?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Just… be honest this time.”

His jaw flexes. “I promise.”

He lifts you like it hurts to let go, carries you to the bedroom, lays you down with more care than you’ve ever seen in him.

This isn’t just sex. It’s something else.

He undresses you in silence, and when he pushes inside you, slow and aching, your whole body breathes for the first time in weeks.

“I wanted you for so long,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair. “Even when I pretended I didn’t.”

His eyes close. A breath shudders out of him.

“Me too” he says. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

He fucks you like he’s reclaiming something. Like your body is a home he got locked out of. Every stroke says what his voice can’t, I need you. I miss you. I’m yours. I’m trying.

And when he comes, breath broken in the crook of your neck, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays.

You lie there tangled up. Skin sticky. Sheets a mess. And when he says your name, it’s not a question. It’s an answer.

“Love you.”

You turn to him, heart raw but full.

You both slept that night.

Hands sewn together. The quiet, certain feeling that maybe, just maybe, this is what it means to be loved.

[wendichester]

Hi could you possibly write about a scene where reader is getting lasik eye surgery and how dean and Sam would help afterwards. Maybe this happens when Cas is human and can't heal the reader and tries his best to help in any way he can.

I have my appointment in a few weeks and im low key nervous.

Ik this is a bit specific 😭😭

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. clearer than ever,

pairing. dean + sam winchester x reader ft. castiel ( gn )

wordcount. 613 genre. warm fluffy fluff

warnings. post-surgery tenderness (but nothing graphic), mentions of LASIK recovery (light sensitivity, discomfort), dean being the world’s loudest nurse, sam being a gentle giant, cas being the most earnest, confused little human, fluff, caretaking, and chosen family feelings

notes. i hope this is still on time! and that the surgery goes well! i'll be waiting for news on how it went 😙🩷👁️

You didn’t think the scariest part of LASIK would be the aftermath.

But here you are—eyes shielded by wraparound sunglasses, sitting in the backseat of the Impala, sandwiched between Sam’s arm and Dean’s leftover fast food wrappers. Every blink feels like your eyelids are made of sandpaper and regret. Your eyes are watering nonstop. And the faint glow of the dashboard lights might as well be the sun itself.

“Ow,” you mumble, burying your face into Sam’s sleeve. “I hate it. I regret everything. I want my glasses back.”

Sam chuckles softly, brushing his hand over your hair. “You said this would happen. Remember? The doctor said—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “Burning, stinging, temporary discomfort—blah blah medical lies.”

Dean glances back from the driver’s seat. “Well, you did just let someone laser your eyeballs. Not exactly a spa day.”

“Dean,” Sam warns. “She’s in pain.”

“I’m just saying! She’s the one who kept bragging about ‘super vision’ and being ‘like a hawk but hotter.’”

You blindly reach forward and swat at the air in Dean’s direction. “Shut up before I rip out your headlight bulbs and leave you in the dark.”

Dean snorts. “Yup. Definitely feeling better.”

“Don’t poke the wounded,” Sam says, adjusting the pillow you’re leaning on. “She’s already cranky.”

“I’m not cranky,” you grumble.

“You’re literally growling.”

“I have every right.”

Dean pulls into the bunker’s garage a few minutes later, and that’s when Cas appears like some kind of ex-angel concierge. Human now, still earnest as hell, and clearly prepared for a medical emergency.

“I’ve prepared a nest,” he announces solemnly as you shuffle out of the car, arm-in-arm with Sam. “Blankets. Water. Cold compresses. Also… gummy bears. Dean said those were essential.”

You blink slowly behind your sunglasses. “Cas. You beautiful, confused, literal man.”

“I’m trying,” he says softly. “I can’t heal you, but… I can make you comfortable.”

Your heart swells. Or maybe your corneas are just twitching again. Who’s to say?

Inside, the “nest” is surprisingly impressive. Cas has turned the couch into a cocoon of soft things: four comforters, two heating pads (questionable), and a tower of snacks organized by texture. There’s even a notebook titled Symptoms: Observations and Mood sitting on the table.

Dean grins. “Told him no clipboard, but he wouldn’t let it go.”

“I must monitor her healing process,” Cas says solemnly, fluffing one of the pillows. “Without divine grace, I have spreadsheets.”

You collapse into the fort with a dramatic sigh, tugging the blankets over your head.

Sam lowers his voice as he crouches beside you. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. “Hurts. But this is kinda amazing.”

Dean passes you a bottle of water with a straw sticking out of it. “Well, get used to the princess treatment, Cyclops. You’re officially banned from doing anything for the next twelve hours.”

You peek out of the covers. “So I can’t… do research? Or load silver bullets?”

“Hell no.”

“No cooking?”

“Especially not cooking,” Sam adds. “Last time you made soup while half-conscious, you poured it into a mug full of salt rounds.”

“Gourmet,” you mumble, smiling despite yourself.

Cas sits carefully on the armrest. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“…Depends,” you say. “Do you still read like you’re announcing a prophecy?”

“I can try a more casual tone,” he offers, clearing his throat. “Chapter One: Bella did not want to move to Forks…”

You groan. Dean laughs so hard he nearly chokes.

And somewhere between the bad Twilight impressions and Cas trying to understand why sunglasses don’t work at night, you realize—

Even with sore eyes and no super-angel healing, you’ve never felt more looked after in your life.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[under-the-mud]

Description: Over the course of Paige and Azzi’s relationship, the idea of marriage, or forever, has been brought up over and over, typically as a joke. One day, it’s not a joke. fluff, slowburn(?), probably around 7-8 parts

This is inspired by @/victoria bennie on tiktok

(a/n) so remember when i posted yesterday about a cute little short pazzi one shot idea that could not get out of my head? yeah well that snowballed into a multi-part series b/c i am averaging ~500 words per section and that feels too overwhelming to write as one big oneshot. anyway, this is my first big piece so all constructive criticism is welcome but also please be kind. I will never write smut, so if you're looking for that, go check out @33lol , i love their work so much. love ya!

masterlist ch.2

～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～

2017

It was late. Paige knew this. Even with only an hour difference between them, Paige could see the wear of the day on Azzi’s face. Still, she could not bring herself to be separated from Azzi. 

It had been three months since Team USA and the girls somehow managed to grow even closer. The minute they went their opposite directions at the airport, they were already texting about when they’d get home and could facetime again. Both families found it cute, if not a little obnoxious how one could never be completely pulled away from the other. Even when they weren’t directly on call with one another, they still brought up the other in conversation, often leaving their families exasperated at the constant obsession. 

However, to Paige and Azzi, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. To them, they were best friends, the best of best friends, why shouldn’t they always be texting or calling, why shouldn’t they be obsessed and wrapped around one another. Which leads them to now. 

Their current phone call was on its 6th hour, lasting even through each of their after school showers, much to their parents' dismay. Finally, it was time for bed and both girls were sitting all wrapped up and cosy in their respective beds, secretly wishing the other was laying next to them instead of on a phone halfway across the US. Azzi was starting to drift off, only half listening to whatever Paige was yapping about. But then Paige said something that suddenly made her wide awake. 

“...we’re going to UCONN to be coached by Geno, the best coach of all time and we’re going to be the best college basketball backcourt duo in the nation! I bet with the two of us playing together, we’re going to the natty’s every year. AND then obviously I will get drafted first-”

“Woah, slow down,” Azzi said, startling back to reality. “Who said anything about UCONN and us going together and being drafted to the W?”

Paige, taken aback, “well UCONN is one of the top women’s basketball colleges in the nation. And, well, we’re best friends and we do everything together…”

Warmth bloomed in Azzi’s chest. “You’re right P. I’m sorry, I was just joking. Of course we’ll always be best friends and we’ll go to UCONN together and eventually play together in the W. Nothing could split us up”

“You promise?” Paige said, still shy but holding up her pinky finger.

“Promise.” 

“Till the end of time?”

“You’re such a dork. Yes, Paige Madison Bueckers, I promise to be your best friend until the end of time,” Azzi laughed, virtually completing the pinky promise.

A quiet “yay” came from Paige.

Azzi snorted, “go to bed you big goofball”

～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～♡～*～♥～*～

(a/n) thanks for reading! like i said, i'm new to this so i am totally open to anyone who wants to maybe revise my outline or edit my final drafts before I publish them. I want to give a special thanks to @33lol @elleaitch22 @hcneymooners @pbaz7 @azzibuckets and @izzih22 who all write so beautifully that they have inspired confidence and courage in me to try writing and yeah they're each just really awesome blogs and i love them so much

[jkwrites-m]

Ghosts Can’t Be Dads

Drabble - Daddy Kookie

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes, parents au, idol au, angst,

Word Count: 2k

Summary: One year gone. One love untouched. One heart waiting.

Setting: This drabble takes place 1–1.5 years post-ghosting. Y/N and baby Eun Ae live in America. Jungkook’s in Seoul prepping for BTS’s first mini-tour, unaware he has a daughter.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, childhood lovers, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, single parent, post-break up (ghosting) emotions, anger, depression, heartbreak, yearning, mutual pining, journals, unspoken feelings, grief, self-blame, mention of idol life pressure, some postpartum, references to the emotional cheating, no happy ending (yet obvi)

A/N: here’s a drabble (it was already written, it was originally in a later chapter but i wanted to give this to y’all) bc of all the love i’ve received these last couple days 🫶 srry for it being so sad 😭

Note: regular text is y/n’s pov, bold is jungkook’s (minus titles)

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1 year after ghosting -

I don’t know when the numbness turned to pain.

Maybe it was the morning I found her sock in my hoodie pocket. Pink, small. Barely there. I don’t even know how it got there- maybe she’d tucked her feet into my lap one night, like she always used to, and it slipped off without either of us noticing. I held it for a long time that day. Didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Just stared at it like it might explain something.

It didn’t.

Nothing does.

It’s been over a year since I blocked her. A year since I let fear, shame, and cowardice dictate every decision I made. A year since I let someone else get too close because I thought we could work it out.

It didn’t.

That girl- God, I can’t even remember her name now. She was loud. Pretty. Flirty in a way that made me feel wanted and sick at the same time. I let it happen. Let her talk to me every night after rehearsal. Let her laugh at my jokes, brush my hand with hers. Let her believe I was someone she could keep.

But I was never hers.

Not even for a second.

The messages stopped after a month. I couldn’t do it. Every time I typed something back, I saw Y/N’s face. Her eyes when she was tired. The way she’d curl into me at night, mumbled dreams pressed against my throat.

I never physically cheated.

But emotionally? I was gone long before I disappeared.

And I never apologized.

Not once. Not to her. Not to myself.

There are nights I can’t sleep because I swear I hear her voice in my head. Soft. Hurt. Asking why. I never had an answer. Still don’t. Just excuses and shame.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

So I do what I always do.

I pull out my journal. The one Namjoon gave me. Said it might help me start being honest.

And I write. 

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Jungkook

I still miss her.

I don’t care how much time passes. I don’t care how much I try to fake healing.

I miss her.

I miss her mouth when she argued with me. Her hands when she made tea. The way she said my name like it meant something more.

I wonder if she ever cries over me. I wonder if she tells her friends I died just so she doesn’t have to explain the truth.

I wonder if she moved on.

God, I hope she’s okay.

Even if she hates me.

Even if she never forgives me.

I just hope she’s safe. Loved. Whole.

Because I’m not.

Not even close.

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5 months postpartum -

I promised myself I wouldn’t write to him again.

That I wouldn’t keep a record of a man who abandoned me, who tore something sacred out of me and never once looked back. But some days… some days I still look for his name in my inbox like a fool.

He’s not there.

He hasn’t been there for over a year.

So I write instead.

To no one. To him. To the version of him I loved. To the version that loved me back.

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

It’s been five months since I gave birth.

Eun Ae is… everything.

She giggles now. Real giggles. Sometimes when I feed her, she stares up at me and makes this face- this exact Jungkook face- and it makes me want to scream and cry all at once. How is it possible that someone so small can carry all of his mannerisms?

She babbles like she’s telling secrets. She sleeps with her hands balled under her chin like he used to. And her hair’s getting long. Thick. Dark.

She’s him.

She’s me.

She’s ours.

And he’ll never know.

Part of me used to hope he’d reach out. That he’d apologize. That I’d open my email one day and see some long, gut-spilling message with the subject line: I’m sorry.

But he didn’t.

So I stopped hoping.

I don’t hate him the way I used to. That’s the worst part. I want to hate him. I deserve to.

But I just… I just feel empty where he used to be.

I wonder what he’s doing. If he thinks of me. If he thinks of the way I used to tuck his hair behind his ears when he was too tired to hold his own head up.

I hate that I still love him.

I love that he gave me her.

I hate that he never gave her him.

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I almost texted her today.

Just to say something.

Anything.

But what do you even say to the woman you abandoned and emotionally cheated on?

“Hey. Sorry I ghosted you. How’s life?”

I close my eyes and think of what she’d look like now.

I think of all the milestones I missed. Her birthday. Holidays. The way she probably learned how to be strong without me.

I wonder what kind of music she plays in the car now.

I wonder if she sings to someone else.

I wonder if she ever lets herself miss me.

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I didn’t mean to get mad.

It wasn’t like he did anything wrong.

He was nice. Polite. He held the door for me during my lunch break and said something like, “You’ve got the kind of smile that makes a man forget what day it is.” I laughed- just out of shock and told him I wasn’t interested.

He backed off right away. Even apologized. And I told him it was fine. That it wasn’t him.

It was me.

I walked back to the break room in a daze, my chest twisting the whole time.

Because for one second- I forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

And the first person who popped into my head?

Him.

Of course it was him.

Jeon fucking Jungkook.

The man who smiled like summer storms. Who used to call me baby with that low, teasing voice like he had a secret. The man who ghosted me, blocked me, replaced me with silence and nothing else. The man who told me I was his everything… and then walked away like I was nothing.

I threw away my lunch. Didn’t eat the rest of the day. Just paced the back room and tried to scrub his name from my brain like it was something you could unlearn.

Later that night, after Eun Ae went to bed, I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, and I wrote.

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

A stranger called me beautiful today.

And all I could think was, “You haven’t seen him.”

You haven’t seen the boy who kissed my collarbone like it was a prayer. Who cried into my hair the night he received his trainee contract. Who slept on the floor next to me when I was sick because he didn’t want me to feel alone.

You haven’t seen him.

So don’t tell me I’m beautiful.

Don’t tell me I could have anyone I want.

Because I had him.

And he left.

And I’m still trying to find all the pieces of myself he took with him.

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Later that week, I got a text from a number I hadn’t seen in a year or so.

Hanni: “YO- look who I saw downtown!”

Attached was a blurry photo of a glowing billboard.

“BTS TOUR – SOLD OUT”

His face was massive. Centered. Laughing.

I stared at it for a long time. The way his hair was styled now. How much broader he looked. How bright his smile still was.

He didn’t look like someone who missed me.

Didn’t look like someone who wrote secret journal entries or whispered apologies into empty rooms.

He looked happy.

And for some reason… that hurt more than anything.

I deleted the message.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t cry.

Just stood there, in my kitchen with cold tea and an aching heart, and felt everything settle into something sharp and final.

I didn’t get the happy ending.

I got a baby and a memory.

So that night, I opened my journal again and I wrote the last thing I’d ever write to him.

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

You’ll never read this.

You’ll never know the weight I carried or the fire I walked through.

But I need to let this go. For real this time.

You don’t get to be her dad. You don’t get to be my past or my future.

You’re just a lesson now.

And I’m done bleeding for it.

So goodbye, Jungkook.

In every way.

I hope you’re okay.

But I hope I never see you again. 

Because I can’t care anymore.

Not for you. Not for us.

Never again.

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I closed the notebook.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream or tear anything up.

I just… sat there.

The silence wrapped around me like static, humming against my skin. The lamp buzzed quietly in the corner. The baby monitor crackled once and went still again.

Eun Ae was asleep.

I should’ve been too. But I couldn’t stop looking at the notebook. Even closed, it felt like it was staring back at me.

Like it knew what I’d done.

That I’d buried him. That I’d stopped waiting. That I’d chosen to live.

And maybe that was supposed to feel empowering.

But all it felt like was grief.

A different kind of grief.

The kind where no one sends flowers. No one holds your hand. No one says, “I’m sorry you lost the love of your life while he was still alive.” No one says that.

But it’s true.

I brushed my fingers across the cover. Just once. Just enough.

And then I got up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured myself a glass of water. Sat on the floor with my back against the cabinet and stared at nothing.

My heart didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t ache and break and twist.

It just felt… hollow.

Like a house someone moved out of. Like something echoing.

And somewhere, in the dark part of me that still dared to believe in things- I hoped he was listening.

That he could feel it. That he’d missed me too.

But wishing only ever left bruises.

So I stopped.

And I sat.

And I let it be quiet.

Because there’s nothing left to say when someone doesn’t come back.

Not even goodbye.

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I stare at my phone long after the screen goes black.

Not because I’m waiting for it to light up.

Not because I think she’ll reach out first.

Just because it’s the closest thing I have to her now.

This screen.

This silence.

This stupid rectangle that held everything once—her name, her voice, her heart.

Now it’s just… blank.

And so am I.

I’ve drafted messages. So many.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I miss you.”

Dozens. Hundreds.

Some that rambled.

Some that said nothing at all.

But I never hit send.

Because how do you apologize for disappearing?

For ghosting someone who would’ve walked through fire for you?

How do you explain that you let go, not because you stopped loving them, but because you didn’t know how to hold on while your world was spinning too fast?

You don’t.

You just… don’t.

I’m never going to reach out.Not because I don’t want to.

God, I want to.

But I don’t deserve her anymore.

I let fear decide.

And I waited too long.

And whatever we had? Whatever I shattered between the silence and the selfishness?

It’s gone now.

I closed my own door and now I have to live on the other side of it.

But every time I scroll too far and see a photo from then- 

Us.

Young.

Laughing.

Undone by nothing and everything- it kills me all over again.

Because no matter how much I try to convince myself that time heals, or that we both moved on, or that she’s better off- 

The truth is simple.

I still love her.

I think I always will.

But I hope she’s happy.

Wherever she is.

And I hope she doesn’t look back because I’d never forgive myself for pulling her under again.

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 07/31/2025

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