#...I might have to write a Thing for those two now...

[lovetrouble123]

Anxiety Angel

Synopsis: It’s your first time wearing a bathing suit around them, so you can’t help but feel insecure

TW: suggestive content, Tim being a creep, Jason has boy brain, Damian is such a concerned sweetheart in this ugh

A/N: I might write more things with all the boys included…maybe…idk yet

Included: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Al Ghul Wayne:)

𓇼🐚☾☼🦪

→Bruce

Pulling Bruce away from his work as both the CEO of Wayne Enterprises and as Gotham’s protector was like pulling teeth. He rarely (and I mean rarely) took days off, especially from his night time job as the Batman. But summer was coming around and all your friends were going on fun and exciting vacations, while you were stuck in the cesspool known as Gotham City.

Y/N’s boyfriend had taken her out of the state and country before for business meetings, and the few times that his night time job made him travel. But those were all at work expenses, nothing for just them two.

So, with much convincing, Y/N was able to pull Bruce away from Gotham for a weekend. Yeah, a weekend. Two days. She had bargained for a week, but he very sternly told her: “take a weekend or nothing at all.”

But now came the hard part, her insecurities. Y/N wasn’t model thin, just average…maybe a little plush. Either way, she hated her body and was always finding the faults in it.

She knew that Bruce probably wouldn’t care about her body and how it looked in a bathing suit. But this was Bruce Wayne we’re talking about here…dude’s been with countless women—models included!

“Sweetheart, are you okay in there?” Bruce asked as he knocked on the door to the bathroom. “You dragged me away from work just to haul yourself up in there? You could have done that at the manor.”

Y/N flinched a little at the sound of his voice on the other side of the door. “I’m—,” she trailed off. What was she going to say? That she was okay? That she wasn’t going to go anymore?

Bruce tried to open the door, but the handle barely turned any as an indicator that it was locked from the inside. He sighed to himself before replying, “you can’t force me away from work and then hide in there all day. I thought you wanted to get out of Gotham for a little.”

“I did,” Y/N admitted as she looked over her ugly shoulders, and stomach, and arms, and legs, and—. “But now I’m having second thoughts.”

“Y/N, let me in.” Bruce firmly demanded in a soft voice that left no room for argument.

She tore her eyes away from her body and from the mirror as she shuffled over to the door. She unlocked it and wrapped her arms around her torso as Bruce opened the bathroom door to find her in a black bikini.

There was no hiding it from him. No amount of convincing that she was fine would simply slip past the world’s greatest detective, so she didn’t even try. Was it the way she covered her stomach? Or the way her shoulder’s sagged ever so slightly that gave her away? Maybe the small frown on her face that told a thousand words?

But to Bruce, she was stunning, and yet she stood there with so much insecurity and doubt.

He softly shut the bathroom door and stood in front of her. He gently grabbed her arms, his calloused and warm hands flush against her skin as he pulled her arms away from her middle.

“God, sweetheart, you have no reason to be so worried,” Bruce assured as he held her arms so that she couldn’t put them back.

“Well, I do,” she bit.

“Why would you think that I would judge you for your appearance?” Bruce asked, his blue eyes meeting her own.

“You’ve been with models before, Bruce.” Y/N softly explained as she looked away from him, “you’ve been with models before and I’m nowhere near their size—.”

Ah, so that’s the issue. Bruce thought to himself.

He cupped her chin and forced her to look up at him, and when she did, their eyes met once more. “You really think I care about some model? I was only ever with them for appearances. I would rather have a curvy, real woman any day of the week.”

Y/N’s eyes still held so much insecurity, but she would be lying if she said his words didn’t affect her some.

“Do you think I’m lying to you?” Bruce asked. “That my words are just empty and not genuine, sweetheart?”

“N-No,” she softly replied with a stutter. “I know you’re telling the truth.”

“Then why do you still look unsure?”

“Cuz I don’t like how I look in this bathing suit,” Y/N admitted. “I bought a black one and it’s pretty…but I’m not pretty enough for it.”

“Sweetheart,” Bruce murmured, his voice soft and calming. “You’ve been nothing but beautiful to me, in every way, since we met. Don’t you understand?”

“I’m sorry. I’m ruining our trip by being stupid—.”

“—You haven’t ruined anything.” Bruce insisted as he let go of her chin and moved his hands down to her waist, pulling her closer to him. “But if you don’t believe me, I could always show you just how beautiful you really are.” He then smirked, “I bet if I did that, then you’d never be insecure again.”

→Dick

“Babe, we’re going to the beach!” Dick declared with a bright and cheerful smile.

That was what he said when he arrived home from patrol one night at 3AM. Honestly, Y/N thought he was joking when she saw him enter the window, his arm all bloody and cut up from a street fight while she laid curled up in bed and on her phone.

But no, it wasn’t a joke. Apparently Barbara had mentioned something about the beach for one of the missions, and Dick had the bright idea to turn the mission into a vacation. He would vacay while on the job. It all works out!

So with Barbara’s help, she booked the nicest place that money could afford for just the two of them. One could call it romantic, but this was still a work trip after all.

But for now that could be pushed aside since it was the last thing on Y/N’s mind. She currently stood in the hotel bathroom staring at her reflection in the mirror. She bought a new bathing suit a few years ago since she liked it at the time, however, she hadn’t tried it on since she bought it, and now she was regretting it.

Why did her stomach look like that? Since when did her hips dip so deep? And the stretch marks? And—.

“If you’re thinking you look awful, I disagree.” Dick said as he leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “I think you look beautiful, sweetheart.”

Y/N jumped at the voice in the doorway, “don’t scare me like that, Dick!”

A boyish smirk appeared on Dick’s face as he pushed off the door frame and stood behind his girlfriend, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You were taking too long. Don’t blame me. But seriously babe, you look great.”

“Easy for you to say,” Y/N huffed in annoyance as she melted against his chest. “You look pretty regardless of what you’re wearing.”

“You’re gonna make me blush,” Dick lightly teased as he placed his chin on her shoulder. He could feel the nerves radiating off her body, and it only made him more concern than he was before. “Babe,” he lightly kissed her shoulder, “are you okay?”

“Is this the part where I lie or..?”

“The truth, please.”

With a sigh, Y/N told him. “I don’t like how I look in this. I feel ugly.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Dick asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Sweetheart, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N looked at him through the mirror with narrow eyes and annoyance, “and how many girls have you said that to? Cuz last I checked, your track record for a committed relationship was low.”

Ow, okay, that one hurt. But he couldn’t really deny her comment considering this seemed to be the only relationship so far that felt real and genuine (well, maybe outside of his relationship with Barbara).

“I won’t lie, you’re right. But I genuinely mean what I say, regardless of my past,” Dick replies. “I’ve had my fair share of relationships in the past, and I won’t deny it. But what we have feels right…none of the others compare to you.” Dick looked at Y/N through the reflection of the mirror, their eyes meeting as his blue ones took in the insecurity in her eyes. “Sweetheart, you look amazing, and I mean it.”

Y/N gently placed a hand over top Dick’s hands that were still wrapped around her waist. “It feels right to me too.”

Dick’s smile widened as she saw the insecurity and doubt seemingly melt away, and become replaced with a sense of security and comfort. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

Dick spun her around to face him. “Now, how about we hit the beach?” He asked, his hands unwrapping from her waist to grab her hand. “Unless you wanna forfeit the beach and stay in and do something else.”

→Jason

Why had he let her drag him to this place to begin with? Oh right, he was hopelessly in love with Y/N, that’s why.

For the last month and a half Y/N had been bringing up the beach. It started in passing, just randomly bringing it up in conversation. But then Y/N started showing him pictures of her friends who had gone to the beach already. But the real convincing point was when she told him she’d be wearing a bathing suit.

Yeah, alright, that made him cave.

Listen, he didn’t mean to be like every other man out there who was persuaded by the idea of their partner in a bathing suit. But what choice did he have when Y/N never wore tight clothes and never showed off her body? He’d take his chances when he gets it.

The only bad part was his job as the Red Hood, that part proved to be the most difficult. But if Y/N wanted a beach trip, she’d get a beach trip. He’d just have to sit there and complain about not being on patrol and killing people.

Y/N stood in the bathroom staring over her reflection as she wore a bathing suit in his color, red. It was a bit too revealing for her taste, but Jason had chosen it for her and she wasn’t about to tell him no. It was the only way he agreed to come after all.

A soft knock sounded at the door, “doll, is everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah!” Y/N lied as she grabbed her black jacket that sat on the sink counter that she was wearing earlier. “Be out in a minute!” She slipped her jacket on and zipped it up before walking out of the bathroom.

He stood in the middle of the room, his green eyes landing on her covered body. “What’s up with the jacket?”

“I’m cold,” Y/N said.

“There’s no way you are when you took it off as soon as we got here.” Jason stated, “so what’s the real reason?”

“Like I said,” Y/N sniffled. “Cold.”

“Liar. Let me see the bathing suit,” Jason quickly demanded. “Otherwise, I will tear that jacket off you myself.”

Not wanting to make the situation any worse, Y/N obeyed and unzipped the jacket. The black coat slipped from her shoulders, down her arms, and then to the floor beneath them. Now left in a red bikini that barely covered any skin—she felt exposed.

Jason’s eyes roamed her body that was clad in his color. He took in the way the material hugged her curves, made her skin appear brighter, and every inch of the exposed.

“You were hiding this from me the whole time?” Jason asked.

He had seen her body before, of course he had, multiple times in fact. But her wearing a bikini in his color? Yeah, it was doing something to him.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself as if she was trying to hide her form from the world. “Can I put the jacket back on?”

“Don’t you dare put that jacket back on.”

“Jason, I-I feel like I’m wearing nothing,” Y/N uncomfortably admitted.

“That’s the point,” Jason retorted. “You’re my girlfriend and I wanna see every part of you.”

“But this seems…weird…”

“Babe, half those girls out there are wearing a lot less than you. Honestly, you’re more covered than they are,” Jason stated.

“And I’m sure they’re not insecure about their bodies either,” Y/N snapped.

Jason’s hard demeanor softened at the insecurity in her voice. He knew that he had to put his boyish ideas aside and help his girl out, and so he gently took her hand in his. His cold body always sent a shiver down her warm one. “Doll, you’ve got no reason to be insecure. I’ve seen this body before, it’s beautiful, and there’s no reason to hide it.”

“Of course there is,” Y/N said. “I’m bloated so my stomach is sticking out a little, my boobs look weird and—.”

He put a hand over her mouth.

“Do I need to sit here and list every single god damn reason why you’re perfect? Cuz I can.”

A muffled ‘no’ sounded from under Jason’s hand.

“Then listen to me…you look great. Hot even. Really hot.” Jason paused for a moment before continuing, “yeah, and I should have picked something a bit more moderate for you. That’s on me. I’m sorry.”

Y/N eyes softened at his apology. Was he really apologizing for giving her a revealing bathing suit?

He then removed his hand from her mouth, “but if you really wanna cover up your body…then I’ll let you.”

→Tim

It was rare for Y/N’s boyfriend to get out of Gotham due to his vigilante adventures. So when her friends had asked her to tag along for their couples beach trip that year, she asked her boyfriend to come along.

He immediately agreed on the account that something bad could happen to her. She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but she assumed he was talking about his jealousy and the fact other boys would be there.

Y/N knew her boyfriend could be possessive and mostly obsessive at times, so she kept your mouth shut cuz he actually agreed to come.

When they arrived at the beach, everyone was immediately put off by Tim. It wasn’t that he was a walking red flag (though pretty much all the Wayne wards were), but the way he seemed to talk for Y/N. She didn’t think anything of it since her boyfriend knew her better than she knew herself.

So when the time rolled around for all of them to head out to the beach side, and Y/N realized she forgot to pack her bathing suit? Tim shoved a green one in her direction and pushed her into the bathroom to change.

The bathing suit fit like a glove, like it was made for her specifically. And while it was nice material, comfortable and a pretty shade of green, Y/N wondered how Tim even knew she had forgotten it. There was something a bit…unsettling about it.

“Tim, how did you know I left my bathing suit at home?” Y/N asked him, slipping on a pair of flip flops as she grabbed her sunglasses from her bag.

“Oh, I purposely took it out before we left.” Tim nonchalantly replied, “I thought you’d like this one more.”

“Wait, you did what now—?”

Tim was calm, collected and nonchalant about the whole ordeal. It wasn’t all that surprising, but he just causally took your original bathing suit out of your bag and packed this one instead?

“Well I assumed that the other one would be uncomfortable since the top had a wire support. I know that you’re not a fan of wired bras, so I simply switched it out for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Tim, that’s an invasion of privacy.”

Tim gave Y/N an almost innocent look, but judging by the small smirk on his face? Yeah, he was amused. “Privacy?” He questioned, “when you found out about my vigilance you practically gave it up.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, “are you still watching me while on patrol?!” She exclaimed, covering her torso with her arms. “I told you it was creepy and to stop!”

“I gave it up for…a while,” Tim states. “But how else am I supposed to make sure that you’re safe? We live in Gotham. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t keep an eye out for you?”

“Tim, there’s a big difference between looking out for me because my life could be in danger, and simply stalking me.” Y/N groans, “and judging by how you snuck out my other bathing suit for this one…I’m going with the latter.”

“I disagree.” Tim stubbornly says. “You’re not very good at packing clothes for trips. You always forget your hair brush, and you forgot to pack a hoodie that one time you were going to the mountains with your parents—I’m doing you a favor honestly.”

“And how is changing out my bathing suit a ‘favor?’ I liked that other one,” Y/N asked as she crossed her arms. “Regardless of the wire.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “The other one would have pinched your skin and make you uncomfortable within the hour. And please don’t argue with me. I know more about bras than you do.”

“Tim…what the hell?”

Tim scoffed, “I’m just looking out for your comfort.”

“By being weird.”

“No, it’s called being considerate.” Tim corrects, “and the other boys are just going to drool over you and so I switched out your bathing suits for comfort, and to make sure that nobody is staring at you but me.”

In a weird way, Tim was just stating that he was jealous.

“So once again, you’re welcome.”

“No wonder my friends think you’re a creep,” Y/N sighed out.

Tim grabbed her hand and began to drag her out of their shared hotel room, “let them.”

→Damian

It was Y/N’s idea to have a fun filled summer with her new boyfriend of two months. Y/N and Damian were both young, but both acted like they had been dating for years. It was finally the summer between school years, and Y/N’s family always went on a yearly beach trip.

Y/N had begged her parents to let Damian come along, and they happily agreed since they wanted to meet him. Damian on the other hand, did not want to go. But Bruce practically shoved him out the house and told him: “go act like a regular kid your age.”

So here he was…shoved into the back row of Y/N’s parent’s mini van with her, his arms crossed and an annoying look on his face. He would rather be back in Gotham fighting crime than stuck in some van with people he didn’t like—but if they were going to be his future family members, he’d suck it up…kinda.

It was day one of the beach trip and Y/N was in the bathroom looking over how she looked in her new bathing suit. She bought a new one to match Damian’s dark aesthetic of black, red and grey since her own were full of bright colors. But in her mind, she didn’t suit the darker shades and it only made her feel bad about herself.

Why had she bought a new one anyway? It wasn’t like Damian was going to care if she matched him or not.

“You are taking too long. I am coming in,” Damian bluntly announced as he threw open the bathroom door. “Why are you just standing there?” He asked, his eyes landing on her exposed body.

“Damian!” Y/N exclaimed with flushed cheeks as she quickly grabbed a towel from off the shelf to cover herself. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?!”

“I thought it was unnecessary. We are dating.”

“But what if I was naked?!” Y/N continued.

Damian’s cheeks flushed in realization that: one, she could have been naked and this situation could have been totally different. And two, she was wearing nothing but her one piece bathing suit.

He quickly looked away, “apologies.”

“You think?!”

“I was growing impatient,” Damian admits with his eyes still focusing away from her towel covered body. “What was taking you so long?”

“Girl stuff.”

“That entails..?”

“Staring at myself in the mirror with disgust.”

Damian quickly looked back at Y/N, completely disregarding the fact she only wore a towel and her bathing suit. “Who put that idea in your head? Your mother? I will go and talk to her, and if she does not understand, then I shall kill her—.”

“Damian, don’t kill my mom. She didn’t do anything,” Y/N says. “It’s me. I’m doing it.”

“Why do it then?” Damian asked.

Y/N flushed and dropped the towel from around her body, “it’s this bathing suit. I-I asked my mom to help me pick one out that complimented you more a-and I think I look stupid in it and—.”

“—You did not need to buy a dark color bathing suit to please me, habibti. I do not understand why you would go out of your way when I like you how you are already. I assume you packed a regular one. Shall I get it for you?”

[verstappenverse]

All This Time

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was your first everything, first friend, first heartbreak. Now years later he’s world champion, and you’re standing in front of him like no time has passed at all. (Requested)

3.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t expect him to remember.

Not after all this time. Not after the years had passed like train cars speeding in the dark, loud, fast, and gone before you could even wave.

You’d stayed in motorsport, of course. Racing had been in your blood too once. You never fully pursued it like Max did, but you’d carved out a place for yourself behind the scenes, making a name for yourself in strategy, development, coaching, anything that kept you close to the world you loved. Anything but Formula 1. You avoided that part like a wound you never let scab, too afraid it might tear open the second you saw his name on a garage wall.

But today when you finally step into the Red Bull garage and your eyes meet his, those same ocean-blue eyes that once squinted against the sun as he begged you to race him down some dusty backroad the world doesn’t just pause. It stops entirely.

Max Verstappen freezes like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper. Because really, what else can you say after almost ten years, multiple countries, and the ache of being forgotten?

He blinks once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You came.”

You nod, nervous under the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. I mean, your mum invited me, and… it felt like time.”

Time. That strange, cruel thing that unraveled the knot you’d once tied so tightly between you, a knot built from scraped knees, shared dreams, and the kind of trust that only comes from growing up side by side.

Time turned summer sleepovers into unanswered texts. Turned secret handshakes into blank stares across a room you no longer shared. It turned “always” into “used to.” You had been inseparable. Velcro. Chaos in a two-person unit. Trouble, always in pairs and never quite as brave alone.

You’d kept up with his career of course. You knew his stats, his wins, the way the crowd chanted his name now. But the Max you remembered the one with grass stains on his knees and ice cream on his chin felt like someone else entirely.

You grew up in karting garages together, your laughter bouncing off concrete walls louder than the engines. You were twin shadows slipping between toolboxes and tyre stacks, dodging mechanics and stealing zip ties like they were gold. Oil-smudged fingers. Greasy fries in one hand, tyre pressure gauges in the other. Max taught you how to kick-start an engine before you’d even mastered telling the time. You taught him how to tie a tie, how to tape a blister, how to calm down after a bad lap.

You used to sneak snacks off each other’s trays and pretend neither of you noticed. You fell asleep shoulder to shoulder in the back of his dad’s van, watching old F1 races on a cracked iPad and whispering commentary until one of you snored. You had a notebook, battered and dog-eared, where you’d both sketch ridiculous helmet designs, all glitter paint and fire decals. He always said he’d wear yours if he ever made it. You still have that page, folded and faded.

After every race, whether he won or crashed out, he’d find you. Every time. He’d pull off his gloves and jog toward the barriers just to hear your opinion. When you raced his face would light up when you crossed the line whether first or last didn’t matter. You were his best friend. That was enough.

But then life did what life does. You moved. He kept racing. You said you’d write. He said he’d call. And you did at first, but life moves fast and somewhere along the way you stopped.

Now here you are standing in the Red Bull garage as if no time passed, as if the world hasn’t changed, as if you’re still those two sunburnt kids who thought karting trophies and fizzy drinks were all that mattered.

Max looks at you like you might disappear if he blinks again.

His gaze flicks over your face with an urgency he’s trying to hide, like he’s checking to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. Like he’s afraid to find too much of one or the other.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again,” he says finally, voice low and rough-edged, like it’s scraped up from somewhere buried.

You swallow the lump that rises instantly in your throat. “Didn’t know if you’d even remember.”

His mouth tilts not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one, soft and haunted around the edges. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And just like that, something inside you, something carefully packed away for years, twists, sharp and sudden. An old ache, familiar and stupidly alive. He used to say things like that all the time, back when the only people in your world were each other.

Max shifts like he wants to say something else. Instead his eyes catch on your features again, and he frowns faintly.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off. His lips part like he might keep going, but nothing comes.

You don’t press him. You’re not sure you could handle it if you did.

So you offer a crooked smile. “Older?”

He snorts, a low, almost fond sound that slips past his defences. “Still short.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his arm. “Still rude.”

Then he laughs. Really laughs. It hits you in the ribs like a punch, that sound because it’s the same. Deeper now, with age and wear, but still the same boyish rasp that used to echo through paddocks and across bunk beds and over midnight walks when the world felt too big and all you had was each other.

For a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring, locked into the space between who he was and who he is, until his voice drops lower, softer.

“I missed you.”

Three words, barely breathed.

They land like a stone in your chest.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something that might no longer be yours.

“I missed you too,” you whisper finally, and the truth in it feels like something dangerous.

Because now you’re not just remembering him.

You’re feeling him.

The next morning, the paddock is alive with chaos, engineers buzzing, cameras swiveling, drivers darting past like comets. But all you can think about is the message from Max that was left at your hotel for you.

Come by the garage in the morning, before FP?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you enter the paddock. You’ve barely slept, head full of things you almost said and things he nearly did. It’s like a door opened yesterday, and now you can’t stop looking inside.

He’s waiting by the back of the garage, half in uniform, half in thought.

His face softens when he sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way his fire suit clings to his frame. “I figured if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

He smirks. “Yeah probably. I know where you’re staying.”

You laugh, but there’s a tightness in your chest.

You watch as he fiddles with the velcro of his gloves, not quite meeting your eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Maybe it’s stupid.”

He leads you to his driver room, past engineers, down the corridor with controlled chaos humming all around you, and when the door clicks shut, it’s just you and him.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

A photo.

Faded. Bent at the corners. But unmistakable.

You and him. Teenagers, around fifteen. Covered in dirt and grease and beaming like idiots. You’ve got a bottle of water in one hand and Max is mid-squint, arm slung over your shoulders.

“I’ve had it since that last race before you left,” he says, voice low. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then it started to fall apart, so I moved it here.”

Your fingers graze the edge of the picture.

“We look ridiculous.”

“You look happy,” he corrects quietly.

You don’t ask how often he’s looked at it. You don’t have to.

Because you remember that day too.

The air had smelled like petrol and hot asphalt, and your heart was still pounding from the race. You were grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline. Because for the first time ever you beat Max.

He pulled off his helmet slowly, curls a sweaty mess, and sulked like someone stole his dog.

You plopped beside him in the pit lane, holding out the fries you’d bought from the food truck near the gate. “Truce?”

He gave you the side-eye. “You cut me off on turn six.”

You shrugged. “You left the inside line open. Rookie mistake.”

“I hate you.”

You popped a fry into your mouth. “No you don’t.”

He didn’t say congrats, but the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking that said enough.

You offered him the last fry without looking at him. “For your bruised ego.”

He took it, but didn’t eat it right away. “You’re gonna win a lot of races,” he said quietly.

“So will you.”

“But I’ll always remember this one.”

You turned to him, confused. “Why this one?”

His gaze met yours, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation, like a thought stumbled too close to the surface.

He leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or sudden. It was slow, careful, uncertain.

Your breath hitched. The grease-stained paper bag slipped from your fingers onto the ground. You felt the sun on your skin and the heat of his body so close, his mouth a breath away from yours.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Your noses nearly brushed. His eyes flicked to your lips. You could count his freckles.

But then, footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

You both jolted back like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

His father walked past, barely glancing at either of you.

You looked down. Max rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

And just like that, it was over.

Not a kiss.

Just an almost.

An almost that would live quietly in the silence between you, never spoken about, never quite forgotten.

You didn’t expect to be invited to the RedBull motorhome for lunch. And you definitely didn’t expect Max to sit across from you the entire time, answering questions from media with one eye always flicking back to you.

After the interviews, he corners you in a quiet hallway.

"Come for a drive with me."

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Yeah. I need to clear my head. I think… I think we need to talk.”

You hesitate for only a moment before you follow him out into the sun.

The car is fast, obviously, and expensive, a blur of black and blue. But inside it everything slows.

“I tried calling once… recently, I mean” he says, not looking at you.

You swallow. “I changed my number.”

He nods. “I figured. I just, you were gone. One day you were there, and the next…”

“I didn’t want to leave Max, I was a teenager I didn’t get a say.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but I really didn’t want you to. I wished I could’ve done something.”

“You were just a kid too. It was no ones fault.” You take a deep breath and then add. “I waited for you that last night, you know. I kept thinking… maybe you’d come find me.”

You’d gotten the news on a late afternoon: your family was relocating. New country. New start. It felt like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

You’d ran to him heart pounding with the knowledge that your whole life was about to split in two.

“I need to tell you something,” you’d said, voice shaking.

He looked up instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Then forced the words out.

“I’m leaving.”

Max blinked. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“My dad got a job offer. We’re moving.”

He stared at you. Completely still. “When?”

You bit your lip. “Soon.”

His soda can crumpled slightly in his grip.

You hated the silence that followed. You wanted him to fight it. You wanted him to shout, to say no. Instead, he looked down.

“For how long?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

He nodded once. Too slowly. Too carefully. Like the movement itself hurt.

You waited. You waited for him to reach for you, to say anything, that he’d miss you, that he was angry, that you meant something. But he just stood there, like his body had shut down and left only a shell behind.

So you swallowed your tears, your pride, and your heartache and whispered, “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You wanted to throw your arms around his neck and say you’d fight this, that you didn’t want to leave, but your throat burned and your eyes were wet and you couldn’t force the words out.

Then you turned and walked away.

“I should’ve said something,” Max says quietly. “Anything. I was a coward.”

You look at him.

You don’t say me too.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that lives in the space between memory and regret.

He drives to a lookout over the sea. It reminds you of a place you used to sit together as kids, eating fries from a greasy paper cone and talking about what you’d do if you ever made it.

“You made it,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“So did you,” he replies.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not in the same way.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans against the hood of the car and looks at you like he’s trying to memorise you.

“I thought about you,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“I kept waiting for you to come back. For years, I’d look for your face in the stands. I kept thinking maybe today.”

Your throat tightens. You remember all the times you wanted to reach out, to send a letter, an email, anything. But something always stopped you.

Fear. Pride. Guilt.

“I didn’t know if you’d care.”

He turns fully to you then, and his eyes, older, sharper, but still that same ocean blue burn into yours.

“Of course I’d care. You were everything to me. You still are.”

The air between you shifts.

“Max,” you whisper, and this time your voice trembles. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it means anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But you’re still the only person I’ve ever felt like this about.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He exhales, eyes flicking to your lips before dragging back up. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I needed you to know.”

For the first time in a decade, you let yourself touch him, your fingers brushing against his, slow and tentative.

“I still feel it too,” you whisper.

His hand closes around yours like he’s afraid to let go again.

That night, you sit on the edge of your hotel bed and stare at your phone.

A message from Max.

Come up. Roof bar. Just us.

Your heart is in your throat as you ride the lift.

When the doors open, he’s already there two drinks in hand, back turned to the city view. He turns as you approach, something soft and aching in his smile.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He hands you a drink. “For old times?”

You take a sip. “Something like that.”

You stare at him. At the man he’s become. Stronger. Sharper. Quieter, somehow. But the boy you knew the one who always gave you the last bite of his sandwich, who held your hand during thunderstorms, who whispered secrets to you in the dark he’s still there.

“Do you think we can go back?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the city noise.

He steps close. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you feel the pull in your chest like gravity.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says. “I want to start again.”

His next words crack something open.

“You know how often I used to write texts I never sent. Every race, every flight. I’d delete them before takeoff like an idiot.” His voice breaks, just slightly. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you again?”

You nod, because you do. Because every stupid highlight reel of his wins made your heart ache. Because you once screamed into your pillow after seeing him kiss someone else in the paddock and you thought you’d missed your chance for good.

He reaches out. Not touching you yet, just hovering. “I’m never losing you again.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t.” His fingers find yours. Threaded. Familiar. “Please. I’ve won everything I ever wanted. Except this.”

Your forehead presses to his chest before you can stop yourself, and he holds you like he remembers exactly how to. Like he’s angry at the space between you. Like if he squeezes tight enough, you’ll forget the wasted years and remember everything else.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mutters into your hair.

You don’t answer with words. You don’t even think you just act on instinct.

You kiss him.

Desperate but somehow gentle. A question.

He answers with a hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, anchoring you like he used to when the world spun too fast.

And just like that, you’re fifteen again. And twenty-two. And every version of yourself that ever loved him.

Later, when he walks you back to your room, he doesn’t try to come in.

He just stands there in the hallway, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

His eyes soften. “Stay. In Monaco. Just for a while.”

You bite your lip. “Max…”

“Not just for me,” he says quickly. “For you. For us. Let’s see where this goes.”

You look at him, this man who waited years, who still looks at you like you hung the stars and you know the answer, you’ve always known.

“Okay.”

And when he leans in, forehead resting against yours, everything feels still.

You were always meant to find your way back to him.

It was always Max.

Always you.

Even after all this time

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[honeyandruin]

i think with only in the dark you should write how the readers dad can see how bad her and joel are doing without each other. maybe he slowly makes up with joel but can see he’s not the same, like he’s back to a grumpy lifeless shell of himself without her, and with reader you could carry on with her low key depression and maybe she says she wants to move?? then the dad sees okay they need each other, these are all just suggestions, but i just need to see them happy and together again!! btw the smut is IMPECCABLE *chefs kiss* i rate keep all the same kind of smut

Ooooh, absolutely, yes! Thank you for loving them like I do 💚💚

Without further ado; Only in the Dark, Part Two

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: You moved in. He proposed. You said yes. Now you’re getting married. It’s simple. Small. Sacred. The only thing that matters is that he’s yours—and you’re his.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Established relationship. Intimate wedding. Emotional softness. Joel being the most husband. Love so intense it might make you cry.

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: This is the final scene for the one-shot “Only If You Ask.” Please read that first for all the filthy, filthy build-up. We’ve earned this softness. 🖤

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You don’t realize when it starts to change.

It doesn’t happen all at once—no big speech, no dramatic line drawn in the sand. Just smaller things, quiet shifts in the way people look at you. The way your dad doesn’t stiffen anymore when Joel pulls into the driveway. The way he passes him tools now without comment. The way the world just… settles around you both.

You and Joel don’t hide anymore.

Not from your dad. Not from the town. Not from each other.

He still has rough edges, still gets gruff when the coffee’s not strong enough or when the new guy at the shop misplaces the torque wrench for the third time in a week. But it’s different now.

He smiles more.

Not big, showy grins—nothing out of character—but those small, quiet smiles. The ones that crinkle the corners of his eyes when you lean into his shoulder. The ones he gives you from across the grocery store aisle when you’re holding up two kinds of cereal like it’s the hardest decision in the world.

He touches you more, too. In public. In front of people.

Not possessively. Just… like he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. A hand on your back when you pass him the keys. Fingers brushing your wrist when he hands you a mug. A kiss to your temple before he heads into the shop in the morning—careful, always soft, but never hidden.

And your dad?

Well.

He hasn’t said anything else. Not really. But you’ve seen him laugh with Joel. Watched them stand shoulder to shoulder fixing the front steps like it didn’t take months to get there. He doesn’t linger awkwardly anymore when Joel’s around. Doesn’t avoid the room. Just nods when Joel offers to help and says thanks when he actually does.

It’s not everything. Not perfect.

But it’s more than you thought you’d get.

And now—weeks later, with the heat of summer settling thick on your skin and your heart finally starting to feel like it belongs in your chest again—you have this.

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The truck’s parked off the old service trail, tucked between two overgrown pines that lean just enough to shade the clearing. The engine’s been off for over an hour. The doors still creak when you open them, the metal groaning in the heat, but you hardly notice anymore.

You’re in the bed of it now, limbs tangled in the soft fleece blanket Joel keeps behind the seat for mornings like this. There’s a small cooler tucked at your feet, beads of condensation slipping down the sides, and a half-finished beer resting against Joel’s thigh—gone warm under the sun.

You’re on your back, head pillowed against his bicep, the heat of his body seeping into yours even through the fabric of your shirt. His other hand rests on your stomach, thumb stroking lazily back and forth. Not for any reason. Just because you’re there.

The sky above is pale and cloudless, the breeze soft enough to stir your hair when it shifts, and somewhere nearby, cicadas are humming.

Everything feels still.

Your eyes are half-lidded, toes nudging the edge of the bed, when you murmur, “You think anyone else knows about this place?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Just shifts slightly, the press of his thigh against yours anchoring you to the moment. He scratches his jaw and says, “Doubt it. Last time I was here, I was still listenin’ to cassette tapes.”

You snort. “God, you’re old.”

He hums low. “You like me old.”

You roll your head toward him and catch the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Maybe,” you tease. “But only when you shut up.”

Joel turns his head fully. Meets your gaze.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks at you, that same unreadable expression softening with the way your eyes catch the sun. Then he shifts onto his side, carefully, and props himself up on one elbow. His hand moves from your stomach to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout bringin’ you out here for weeks,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Yeah?”

He nods, gaze flicking across your face like he’s memorizing it. “Didn’t want to bring you out until I was sure you wouldn’t disappear after.”

Your breath catches. He says it so simply, but it hits something deep.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Joel leans in. Kisses you—soft, unhurried, his lips warm from the sun and tasting faintly of beer. His hand cradles your jaw, the calluses gentle against your skin. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders with every second he stays there, mouth moving with yours like this—this—is the only thing tethering him to the ground.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against yours. His breath mingles with yours. And his voice drops to something low and certain.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

The words aren’t dramatic. Not a confession, not a performance. Just a truth spoken out loud because it deserves to be.

You slide your hand under his shirt. Let your palm settle over the beat of his heart.

“Me neither,” you say.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. With both hands in your hair, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t ask for anything more than this moment—sunlight, summer air, and the space between your bodies that finally doesn’t have to hold secrets anymore.

—

Later, when you drive back into town, his hand stays on your thigh the whole way.

And when your dad sees the two of you carrying groceries into the house—laughing about the broken eggs and Joel’s refusal to buy the off-brand cereal—he doesn’t say anything.

Just glances up from the porch, nods once, and holds the door open for both of you.

You kiss Joel in the kitchen after.

Not a secret kiss. Not a stolen one.

Just love. Plain and simple.

The way it always should’ve been.

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It wasn’t a big decision.

There was no packed suitcase, no teary moment of crossing a threshold. No key exchanged with trembling hands.

You just… started staying.

First it was a night. Then a weekend. Then you forgot your favorite sweatshirt, and he washed it and draped it over the back of the chair like it had always been there.

Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Half your wardrobe. Your favorite pan for eggs.

You moved in piece by piece, and neither of you ever said the words out loud—but now it’s been two weeks since you’ve slept anywhere else, and this house doesn’t feel like his anymore.

It feels like yours.

And Joel—well.

Joel’s still Joel. Still grouchy in the morning when there’s no clean mugs. Still muttering under his breath when he stubs his toe on the corner of the coffee table because “somebody moved it.” Still grumbling about the windows sticking when it rains.

But he doesn’t complain when your books end up on the nightstand. Or when you leave your laundry in the dryer for three days. Or when you talk through half a movie just because you like hearing yourself guess the plot.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Steady.

Like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

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It’s a slow evening.

There’s a breeze slipping through the window—barely strong enough to stir the edge of the curtain—and the record player hums somewhere in the corner, spinning something low and worn. Something old. Joel’s hand-picked, of course. You never remember the names, but you know the sound by heart now.

You’re curled up sideways on the couch, your knees folded and a paperback resting open across your thighs. Joel’s behind you—sprawled across the cushions with one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily around your waist.

You’ve been reading for twenty minutes.

You haven’t turned a page in five.

His fingertips trace gentle circles against your side, low and steady, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just following the curve of your hip through the worn fabric of your sleep shorts. His palm is warm. Familiar.

You shift slightly, leaning back into him, and feel his chest rise behind you. Solid. Grounding.

“Comfortable?” He murmurs.

You hum without looking up. “Mhm.”

His thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely.

Not suggestive. Not urgent.

Just… home.

The book starts to slip.

You let it fall onto your stomach, eyes heavy. Joel’s breath brushes the crown of your head when he leans forward to press a kiss there.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” He asks, voice low and amused.

“No,” you lie.

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, into your back.

“You always say that.”

You turn your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I’m trying to read.”

Joel raises a brow. “You’ve been on the same damn page for ten minutes.”

You sigh. Dramatic. Flop the book to the side. “Fine. You win.”

He grins.

You shift again—this time rolling to fully face him. He welcomes you without hesitation, pulling you in, your head resting on his chest and your hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle against the warmth of his stomach.

It’s quiet for a long time.

The music keeps playing. The sky outside slips from gold to gray. And the house feels full in a way you never thought a place could.

Joel’s hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Gentle. Careful.

“You sleepin’ here again tonight?” He asks, like it’s still a question.

You don’t even lift your head.

“I live here, Joel.”

A pause.

Then his chest rises beneath your cheek with a deep, even breath.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

And when he kisses the top of your head again, you feel it in every part of you.

—

You wake to warmth.

Not the kind that pulls you into the day—sunlight or sound or motion—but something closer. Heavier. More alive.

Joel.

Pressed along the length of your body, one arm locked around your waist, the other curled under the pillow beneath your head. His breath is slow against the nape of your neck. Deep. Steady. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with yours, the soft heat of his body wrapping around you like a blanket.

And below that—between you—you feel him.

Hard. Thick. Resting against the curve of your ass, barely contained by the thin cotton of his boxers. The edge of him fits perfectly between your legs like he was meant to be there, like you were built to feel him this way.

You don’t move at first.

Just lie there. Eyes still closed. Breathing him in.

He smells like sleep and cedar soap. Like worn flannel and skin warmed by thick blankets. There’s a soft scratch of his unshaven jaw against your shoulder, and his fingers twitch where they’ve gone slack across your stomach.

You shift—just a little.

Just enough to press your hips back into him.

Joel groans.

Low. Deep. Right in your ear.

His grip tightens reflexively. His cock twitches against you, already straining for more.

You smile, even as your breath catches.

“Joel,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He groans again, deeper this time, like the sound of your voice physically hurts him.

“Jesus,” he rasps, dragging his mouth across your bare shoulder. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You hum and press your ass more deliberately into him. His hips rock without meaning to, the friction making you both suck in a breath.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters into your skin. But he’s already moving—already sliding his hand beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm curve of your belly like he needs to relearn every inch.

“Always wake up like this?” You tease.

He chuckles, low and rough. “When I’ve got you in my bed?”

He palms your breast through the thin cotton, thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp—quiet, needy—and his voice drops to a rasp.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Always.”

You roll your hips back again, and he swears under his breath—fuck, half a growl—and slips his hand down to hook your thigh over his.

The stretch opens you just enough. Your shorts ride up, barely covering anything.

His fingers trail down the inside of your leg, slow and reverent. When they finally brush over your center—light and curious—you’re already soaked.

Joel stills.

“Christ,” he whispers, like he’s been punched. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”

You whimper when he presses in. One long stroke through your folds, dragging your slick across your clit, making your whole body jolt.

He kisses your neck. Breathes you in.

“I don’t even deserve this,” he says, like a confession.

“Yes, you do.”

His hand falters.

You reach back, blindly, and curl your fingers into his thigh. Anchor yourself to him.

“I want you,” you say. “Now. Please.”

He shifts behind you, and you feel him line up—thick and already pulsing against your entrance. He ruts forward once, just enough to drag the head of his cock through your slick, and you shudder.

Then he presses in.

Slow. So fucking slow.

You moan—quiet, long—and Joel swears, burying his face in your neck as he pushes deeper. His cock stretches you inch by inch, and it’s everything. Too much and not enough at the same time. He’s thick, hot, hard as stone and shaking from holding back.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “Tight as ever. Always take me so good, baby.”

You clutch at the sheets. Your whole body arches.

He bottoms out with a guttural sound—hips flush against your ass, arms locking around you from behind like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Feel every twitch, every pulse.

He doesn’t move.

Just stays buried deep inside you. Breathing hard. Grounding himself in the wet heat of your cunt.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed this.”

“You had me last night,” you breathe, smiling.

“Don’t care. Never enough.”

He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, every inch slick and perfect. Then he thrusts back in—deep and unhurried.

You cry out. He swallows it with a kiss to your shoulder.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Please.”

“I got you,” he soothes. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me feel you.”

He fucks you with those slow, deliberate strokes—deep and steady, like he wants to stay inside you forever. One hand slides beneath your shirt to cup your breast again, thumb teasing your nipple until your hips jerk.

The other finds your clit.

You moan when he touches it—light, swirling circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pressure builds fast, sharp and overwhelming, your body tightening around him like a vice.

He groans against your skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Love when you squeeze me like that, baby. So close already, aren’t you?”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked tight.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

You break.

It hits like a wave—long and slow and wrecking. Your body convulses, your cunt clenching around his cock, and Joel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, praising you with every breath—that’s it, baby, so good for me, takin’ me so well.

You’re still trembling when he comes.

Joel groans—fuck, fuck, gonna come,—and thrusts deep, burying himself inside you as he spills. His hips jerk, cock pulsing, hands clutching you like a lifeline.

And then everything stills.

He stays there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being inside you.

Then he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. And another. And another.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”

You reach for his hand where it rests on your stomach.

Tangle your fingers with his.

“I know.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck. Then he says it—quiet, like it slipped out of him without thinking.

“Marry me.”

It’s not a question. Not really. Not the first time.

You freeze.

He goes still, too—like he just realized he said it aloud.

Neither of you moves for a moment. Just the sound of breathing. The slow, sleepy thump of his heart against your spine.

You twist slowly in his arms. Face him. His eyes are open now—barely, sleep-heavy—but watching you. Searching.

You stare at him for a beat.

“Say it again.”

Joel blinks. Swallows. Then brushes your hair back from your face with a hand so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“Marry me.”

You stare at him. At his face. This man. This stubborn, protective, foul-mouthed, good-hearted man who somehow snuck into your life and built a home around it.

And you don’t think. You don’t need to.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

Joel exhales like it breaks him. Like he’s been holding his breath for months. His eyes flutter shut for a second and then he pulls you in, one hand at the back of your head, the other clutching your hip like he thinks you might vanish.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. “I don’t—fuck, I ain’t got a ring. I didn’t plan it. I just… it’s been sittin’ in my chest, and I couldn’t—”

“Joel.” You press your forehead to his. “I don’t need a ring. I just need you.”

His hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“I’m yours,” he says softly.

You smile. “You always have been.”

—

The kitchen smells like toast and melted butter.

It’s hours later—mid-morning now—and you’re barefoot in Joel’s old flannel, standing at the stove with one hand on the frying pan and the other curled around a coffee mug he left on the counter. The sun filters in through the window above the sink, casting gold across the floorboards. Dust motes swirl in the light like they’re dancing for you.

You hum to yourself. Something quiet. Unconscious.

The pan sizzles. You flip a slice of bacon.

And then you feel it.

Joel, behind you—his arms sliding around your waist, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

You smile.

“You didn’t have to get up,” you murmur, still focused on the pan.

“Didn’t wanna miss this.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he hasn’t quite come down from whatever that moment was. Like he still doesn’t believe you said yes.

You lean back into his chest.

He tightens his arms around you. Rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like you in my shirt,” he mutters.

“I like me in your shirt.”

He hums. Then, more quietly—

“Gonna put a ring on you soon.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?”

He nods.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just so everyone knows you’re mine.”

You turn the burner off. Set the pan aside. Then you spin in his arms and loop your arms around his neck, standing on your toes.

“They already know, Miller.”

“Good.”

He kisses you—lazy and soft, one hand on your lower back, the other holding your face like it’s the only thing worth touching in the whole damn world.

You’re still kissing when the toast burns.

Neither of you cares.

—

The trees have just started to turn.

Not fully—just the edges. Hints of red and gold creeping into the green like something secret and slow. The kind of change you don’t notice until you’re standing right in the middle of it, breath caught in your throat, wondering how it happened so fast.

The wind is soft this morning. Crisp. You can smell leaves and distant smoke, the faint sweetness of apples in a bowl by the porch, and the familiar scent of cedar clinging to the flannel draped over Joel’s shoulders.

You picked this place together.

Just outside town. A clearing behind the ridge, where the pine trees break open into a little pocket of wild grass and dappled sunlight. No pews. No aisle. Just a rug thrown down beneath your boots and a few chairs for the people who matter.

There’s no music. No flowers. No white dress.

You’re in a cream sweater and worn boots, a skirt that moves when the breeze catches it. Joel’s in a clean button-down beneath his favorite jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw freshly shaved for the first time in a week.

He looks good.

You think he always does.

But today, there’s something different in his face. Something raw.

Like he still can’t believe this is happening.

You reach for his hand. He takes it without hesitation.

His thumb runs over the inside of your wrist, soft and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of your pulse. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails. A little scratch on his knuckle.

Real life, right there in his hands.

Your dad is the one standing between you.

He didn’t want to at first. Said he wasn’t sure if he could. But when Joel asked—quiet, humble, hopeful—he’d looked at you and sighed, then nodded like the choice had already been made in his chest long ago.

Now, he clears his throat. Glances down at the folded paper in his hands. Then back up.

You don’t hear the first few words.

Not really.

Because Joel is looking at you like he can’t breathe. Like he’s trying to hold it all in—every memory, every ache, every night he laid awake next to you with your name on his lips and fear in his chest.

And then it’s your turn.

You don’t have a vow written down.

Just him.

Just everything you know about his heart.

You take a breath. Let it settle low in your ribs. And then you speak—quietly, clearly, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I don’t know what I thought love was before you. I don’t think I really knew at all. But now… it’s waking up next to you every morning and feeling like I finally made it home. It’s your laugh. Your hands. The way you show up, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

Joel’s eyes shine.

You swallow hard, but your voice doesn’t break.

“I promise to keep showing up, too. Even on the bad days. Even when it’s not easy. I’ll love you with everything I have—for every version of you, in every season we find.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re it for me.”

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Just looks at you like he’s never seen anything more real.

Then—low and rough and thick with everything he’s been holding inside—he says:

“I thought maybe this wasn’t in the cards for me. That someone like me doesn’t get to have somethin’ this good.”

You feel his fingers flex in yours.

“But then there was you. And I don’t—I don’t know how I lived so long without you. I ain’t proud of every part of me. But I’m proud of this. Of us.”

He lifts your hand. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m yours,” he whispers. “Always.”

Your dad clears his throat again—sniffling this time.

“Well,” he mutters, blinking fast, “I guess you two better kiss already.”

Joel laughs. It’s soft, choked, almost broken.

Then he leans in.

And kisses you.

It’s not perfect. Not movie-pretty. His nose brushes yours. Your lips tremble. But it’s real. It’s warm. It’s everything you built in the ruins—hands in the dark, promises spoken between breaths, a love that outlived every reason it shouldn’t have.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t let go.

Just touches his forehead to yours and whispers,

“We did it, darlin’.”

And you whisper back,

“Yeah. We did.”

[earlysunshines]

flower girl

danielle marsh x fem!florist!reader

synopsis: you never expect much from your job at the flower shop but then the most beautiful girl you’ve ever laid your eyes on stumbles in

warnings: litcherslly none i don’t think anything rly ; very fluffy ; reader is awkward and loser and dorky ; danielle’s gorgeous and bubbly and cutesy and dorky too ; two dorky idiots that want each other i fear ; anything else not mentioned ; not proofread

a/n: my writing is so much worse now it’s actually so bad and this is bc i haven’t written in a bit but also haven’t been reading like anthrjng (other than textbooks for class)… ooh.. ALSO heavily based off this song!!!

most people would assume that working at the towns flower shop is all sunshine’s and rainbows—the atmosphere is littered with beautiful arrangements, vibrant colors, and the gorgeous interior always has light seeping in through the windows just right. 

working at the flower shop would be perfect if it weren’t for the fact that you were single. maybe if a lovely girl was waiting for you to clock out, ready to give you a soft kiss to the lips you’d enjoy your shifts more—but no. 

today isn’t different from the others. when is it ever? 

“babe, babeeee~” a girl whines in an uncomfortably high pitched voice that it makes you cringe a bit. your brows scrunch in a bit when you hear her, “pumpkin stop— haha— th-that tickles!” 

pumpkin? gosh, you might throw up into the flowers you’re fixing up. 

the couple that had walked in wasted no time getting all touchy and displaying the pda that no one asked for. 

(“no one” being you and only you because your manager is taking orders in the comfort of her office while you suffer out in the main area) 

the boyfriend pulls her closer, his chest pressing against her back as he peppers kisses on her neck, giggling like an idiot. you have to redirect your attention completely to block them from your peripheral, trying to endure only the sound now. 

“love bug, i can’t help it.” he tries to say quietly, but you’re the only people in the shop, making it increasingly difficult to put up with this. 

you sigh. the only way to get them to stop sooner is to go up to them, put on your customer service voice, flash a friendly smile, and hope for the best.

“hi! did you guys need any help with anything?” he’s still holding on to her when he looks over at you and nods. 

“yeah, yeah. just wanted to buy my girl some flowers. which ones are the prettiest? she likes pink.”

this job tests you everyday.

why would you buy flowers with her here? is it not usually a surprise? why are you using half of your singular braincell to think of a choice for your lover?

you criticize him knowing that he doesn’t really care what you give him, and judging by his tone—plus his ignorance and lack of interest for the vast options surrounding him—you could probably hand him polyester flowers and he wouldn’t think twice about the fact that they wouldn’t deteriorate at all in the next few years.

instead of giving in to your thoughts, your smile grows again. “right. well, a popular selection of pink flowers would be the classic rose bouquet, but we can also do a smaller bouquet of three.” you explain before poining across the shop to another arrangement. “and those are our tulips—another popular choice. as you can see, there’s a variety of colors, but depending on how many you need i’m able to provide a bouquet of pink.”

“okay, cool, cool.” he says, looking around. without thinking twice, he shrugs, then points to the roses. “i’ll take like, five? i don’t know how you do it. just pop ‘em in those little things so we can hold it and that should be it. it’s date night—need something nice for my girl.”

“oh stop it pumpkin… you’re so sweet.” the girl gushes, moving over to peck his lips.

your purse your lips into a forced smile, nodding at them. “right, i can hand you a bouquet of five. give me a few minutes.” 

they nod and offer a “thank you,” before going back to being all loving and everything that manages to make you throw up in your mouth. a groan leaves your lips as you get to work.

once you’re done, you hand the man the bouquet. “these are pretty fresh, so i’d say they’ll last a week if you care for them nicely. make sure the vase you store them in has clean water and whatnot.”

he nods and offers a friendly smile before giving the flowers to his girlfriend. she kisses him on the cheek and says thank you to him like this is the best gift in the world, but you beg to differ. you also don’t get paid enough to judge boyfriends doing the bare minimum, so you simply wave at them and say, “thank you for purchasing!”

once they leave, the comforting hum of your jazz playlist fills the silence. you’re left relieved. 

you sort out a few more flowers, pick up petals that fell on the ground, and clean up other messes from the day before the bell above the door rings.

a “welcome in!” leaves your mouth before you turn around to see who’s decided to stop by. you assume it’s a couple, or maybe the rare occasion that it’s someone elderly or the rarer occasion: a group of teenagers browsing around.

after fixing your hair, you turn around and are immediately met with pretty brown eyes that land right on your gaze.

a girl, the very pretty girl, looks around your age—probably a student like you. she lets the door close behind her and a small flush of wind brushes her hair across her face perfectly.

there’s a shiver that runs down your whole body. the way her lashes flutter when she blinks is like some sort of mind-blowing cinematic movie scene. she smiles, waving at you and tucking a strand of hair behind her ears which somehow renders you speechless.

“hi! how are you?” she greets. her voice is bright and cheery.

you’re already impressed considering no customer has asked how you were today—or at all this week.

(it’s only wednesday, but it still means something to you.)

you smile easily, not a forced one, a genuine smile.

“i’m doing well, and you?” 

“great now that i’m here,” she says, her eyes wandering around the mildly cluttered area. “it’s beautiful inside. must be nice working here, i bet.”

“it is.” you respond, “i never get tired of the scenery.”

“who would?” she says sweetly, her eyes molding into crescents as she smiles again. “i can’t believe i haven’t stopped by… i walk pass this place almost everyday.”

“is that so?”

“mhm,” she nods, “it’s on the way to my work.”

“well, feel free to stop by anytime—even if you’re not purchasing.” you assure, “can i help you with anything?”

she nods again. “i wanted to surprise my friend with flowers, but i wanted it to be special. i needed some expert opinions.”

dusting off your apron, you chuckle quietly, “i can help you with that. is there anything you have in mind?”

she shifts her gaze, the expression on her face that signature “i’m thinking” look—like in the movies but somehow more dorky. 

“my friend has a strong personality… something bright and vibrant would be good. it matches her.” she begins, then walks over to the marigolds and brushes her finger over a petal, “her birthday is in october, so i looked into her birth flowers too.”

“marigold,” you almost whisper, “you did your research?”

“she’s one of my good friends.” the girl shrugs. “i want to get her something meaningful.”

a warmth spreads through your body, maybe from relief and surprise since this is the first time anyone has put any thought into what they’ve asked you to arrange.

“that’s cute.” you smile, giggling lightly, “your friend is lucky to have you.”

she smiles back—you're unsure if the smile ever left but now she’s smiling at you like that and you could really care less—and you make your way over to some marigolds and cosmos. 

“i think, in my opinion, some fall colored flowers and her birth flowers would be good.”

“i trust you, miss…” she trails off, looking at your nametag, squinting at your handwriting, and meeting your eyes again. “miss y/n.” 

your name, from that voice of hers and that dorky grin, sends another shiver down your spine. 

“i’m glad you have that much faith in me.” you joke.

the girl walks around the shop while you fix up her bouquet. the shop isn’t too big, but enough to fit a wide variety of flowers, excluding the special exceptions that decorate the shop outside. occasionally you’ll glance over at her and she’ll be immersed in observing the flowers. she takes pictures, brushes her fingers over the petals, and appreciates them for the same amount of time until she’s decided to stop at the area where you arrange the gift for her friend.

she simply watches. there’s a curiosity that you catch in her eyes, they seem to add a slight sparkle. she watches until you’re finished with the bouquet, eyes on your nimble fingers fixing each petal and adjusting the position to be just right.

“there we go,” you mumble to yourself. you’re too busy eyeing the flowers from each angle to notice the smile of admiration on the girls lips.

you hand her the bouquet, dusting your apron off and fixing your rolled-up sleeves. she holds the bouquet without saying a word, just staring at you for a few seconds before she stops studying every feature on your face like it’s the last time she’ll see you.

“thank you so much. they’re so beautiful.” she says, sniffing the flowers lightly. “you’re so talented!”

“thank you.” you chuckle, “i’m just doing my job, really. i hope your friend likes them.”

you tap at the screen of the register in front of you, calculating the price of the bouquet and feeling yourself shrink in your spot at the feeling of her gaze. you can’t remember the last time someone made you this nervous—warm in the cheeks, fidgety with your fingers, and an idiot fighting back any awkward rambling. this girl manages to do it without trying and it’s awfully humiliating, but also embarrassingly exciting.

before you can tell her the total of her bouquet, she rids of any professionalism you have with one single comment.

“you smell really good.” she says, earning a raised brow from you. “i hope it’s not weird.” she laughs lightly and it works at easing the tension in your shoulders. you feel yourself relax as she continues, “you smell like… well considering you work here i guess flowers would make sense, but you smell like pear and something refreshing. it’s strong, but not too strong. it’s noticeable—but it’s nice! very nice. sorry.”

“i–” how do you even respond to that? your heart is in your throat because she’s flashing an awkward smile—maybe because she’s realized what she’s said or maybe because it’s just the two of you and the room squeezing in—you mirror her expression and bite the inside of your lip before responding, “it’s jo malone. thank you. i, i um, it was a gift from someone. i really like the way it smells. it pairs well with the jasmine.“

what were you even saying? you want to disappear right then and there right after you say it, but you don’t. you don’t because she’s giggling and pulling out her credit card that’s on her phone screen.

you gulp and add, “oh, yeah— um, your total is twenty-five dollars and seventy cents.”

“jo malone… expensive.” she says as she scans her card. “thank you for everything, by the way. they’re beautiful. i have to stop by again.”

“well, i’ll look forward to it.” the ounce of confidence you have in your body seems to spill from your lips and reach your eyes from the way you’re looking at her. your eyes narrowed just barely while simultaneously softening up just for her. “come by anytime.”

“thank you—” she glances at your nametag once more, then puts her hand on your forearm. you feel like you’re in a simulation and being toyed with, or worse: a romance movie and you’re the desperate fool who’s been chosen as the main character. “---y/n.”

she waves and you wave back, then leaves, making the doorbell ring and even that sounds like something from a movie. the bell has never rung that cheerfully.

—

on your way back home, and for the rest of the week, you think about the girl. you’re an idiot for not asking for her name, so you’ve resulted to calling her “flower girl” for the time being.

your friends are also on to you, catching you smiling to yourself out of nowhere. you tell them you were thinking about the events of the multiple corny couples stumbling into your work, the utter embarrassment you feel from witnessing their pda making you smile, but they never believe it.

if you ever told them about “flower girl,” they’d shred you to pieces—verbally, of course—and poke fun at you for at least a week or two. 

what makes it worse is that you’ve been smiling more and thinking more and hoping she’d come back into work, but she doesn’t. a week passes and she still doesn’t, but two days after your one week anniversary of meeting (your friends would seriously tease you to death for what you call it), she shows up again.

the bell rings differently than normal. your ears twitch and you turn your head to see her. your eyes meet hers and so does your smile.

“y/n!” she beams, “happy friday!”

“hi.” you try to sound calm, composed—anything to play cool and hide how delusional you are. “it’s nice to see you again. happy friday.” you greet, continuing on when the silence stretches on for a mere two seconds, “need another bouquet?”

“no, just wanted to browse.” she shrugs.

and so she does, walking around and even crouching to match her level with a few of the shorter flowers. you pretend to go back to work, tending to the flowers and whatnot, really anything to keep yourself from staring at her. 

“how have you been?” she asks out of nowhere, catching you by surprise as you water some dandelions. 

“oh, i’ve been uh, i’ve been good. and you?”

“great. my friend really liked the flowers, by the way.”

“i’m glad. i was really fond of that arrangement. i thought about it the whole week.” and her, you’ve been thinking about more than just that gorgeous arrangement you completely forgot to get a picture of. 

“really? wow, i’m so happy that you liked it as much as i did! gosh, it was so pretty and everyone we met up with was amazed by the vibrant colors and everything. i referred them to you.”

you laugh, fully facing her now after setting down the water can. “thanks for helping out the business. my boss will be thrilled.”

“i hope your boss knows they have the best on their team!”

you laugh again, stepping a little closer to the flowers in front of you. “i’ll let her know, i hope it’ll convince her if it comes from me.” you joke.

she giggles and asks you about the flowers next to her. they’re chrysanthemums, a beautiful shade of yellow. you tell her a brief summary of the meaning, how popular they are, and that there’s a shipment for a different shade. the girl focuses on you the whole time, you catch her eyes scanning each feature of your face unless you specifically point to the flower. you never thought your job would come with the stress of meeting a pretty girl at your workplace who’s oddly eager to talk to you.

“yeah, i really like chrysanthemums, my mom does too. they’re a nice flower, pretty popular.” you shrug, lightly brushing your pointer over the edges of a few petals.

“what are your favorites then?” the girl questions, tilting her head ever so slightly to display her curiosity.

“oh, um.” you think to yourself, then glance around the room. 

there’s way too many to count and so many that you admire—which is why you decided to take this part-time job. 

you respond with the first two flowers that come to your mind. “lilies and daisies, probably.” you nod.

the girl looks over at the lilies in the room, grinning as she says, “i see why. gosh, the one’s you have here are so pretty.”

“yeah, i take care of them extra nicely.” you admit.

“is that so? i might have to invest in some eventually.”

“i’ll make sure they’re well-kept then.”

“hopefully they’ll be as pretty as the person handling them.” 

you blink. a blush blooms over your cheeks and your heartbeat picks up. 

before you can respond, she brushes over her compliment and continues, “i really like sunflowers. they’re so pretty, and they’re a classic.” she looks over to the sunflowers near the window. “my friends always compare me to them too.”

“i’m not surprised.” you mutter, and she catches it. her brows raise ever so slightly as if she’s waiting for an explanation. you catch her eyes with yours again while nervously adding, “you’re bright and… nice to look at.”

you swallow shallowly in the next five seconds that pass by without any response from her. you’re hoping she doesn’t notice how you tense your jaw while you try to hold up the composed act, but it’s really hard to keep it up when her lips curl into an even wider smile of amusement.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

the door rings suddenly, though not in the cheery tune that follows after your “flower girl” walks in. a couple, one that’s showing way too much affection for your liking, stumbles in and looks around curiously. 

a soft sigh leaves your mouth and “flower girl” giggles. she places her hand on your forearm—light and brief, but you’re thinking about it real hard in the two seconds that it happens—then presses her lips together to suppress how giddy she is.

“i have to get going, and i believe you have more company?”

“yeah,” you nearly groan, “excuse me, i have to um, assist them.”

“alright.” she studies the subtle shift of your expression and nods. “i’ll see you again, y/n.”

“yeah, see you.” you respond, watching her brush past the couple and toward the door.

before you make your way to the couple, you pinch your eyes shut and bite the inside of your lip; you forgot to get her name again. 

—-

you catch a few of your friends for lunch after a particularly draining shift. there were multiple people that needed help with picking flowers, which wouldn’t have been odd if it weren’t for the fact that most of them were for birthdays.

(it just had to be everyone’s birthday that day—or week.)

sohee, one of your closest friends, sits in front of you and pretends to look innocent after stealing one of your fries. chaewon and soobin giggle at the playful punch you throw at his shoulder, which makes him groan with the stolen fry still in his mouth.

“ask nicely next time.” you warn.

“you’re such a hypocrite! you took the fruit gummies from my apartment literally last—”

“okay? are you saying you want me to be malnourished? wow…”

“but—

“no.” you quickly shut him down while simultaneously trying to fight back a laugh. “you’re a man, you can’t be doing all that.”

chaewon rolls her eyes at your antics, then steals a fry without a complaint coming from you. soobin chuckles and sohee looks at all of you defeatedly.

throughout the rest of lunch you all catch-up with what’s been going on through the week. sohee’s been trying to convince his roommate to invest in a mini-fridge and chaewon groans as she explains how she’s been considering taking an extra class the next semester.

and while soobin goes over his chaotic month, you start smiling to yourself as you accidentally tune out his voice. your thoughts shift over to your encounter with “flower girl” two days ago. 

it’s incredibly odd how you’re eager to clock in to work now. it’s not that you hated your job, you truly loved it, but the customers were always iffy. now, you have something to look forward to, someone to keep yourself going when it’s slow or dreadful on certain days. 

chaewon flicks your forehead, snapping you out of a replay of her hand on your forearm.

“what the hell are you smiling about?” she asks, “did you hear what soobin just said?”

“uh,” absolutely nothing had processed in the past minute. “sorry.”

soobin nudges your shoulder. “damn… so you hate me.”

“well, yes.” you joke. “sorry, ‘binnie, i was just… thinking about work.”

“i thought you hated your job…?” he responds.

sohee joins in, “yeah, you were just complaining to the group chat about a couple that forgot to stop making out when you came back with their bouquet.”

“oh my god, i forgot about that, ugh… and that was literally a month ago.” the memory makes you cringe. “and no i do not hate my job! i love it.”

“something is up then.” sohee says, pointing at you dramatically. “what’s up with work? did something happen? is this why you’ve been so… giddy?”

“giddy?” you try to laugh off his accusation. “it’s not— i– it’s nothing!”

“she stuttered,” chaewon points out.

“that doesn’t mean shit!” you groan, “i’ve just… okay, works been better. look, there’s this new regular. she’s kind of a regular.”

“oh my god, this girl must be cute then.” soobin chuckles, raising his brows at you. “what, you’ve got yourself some type of flower girl?”

you’re baffled that he somehow read your mind and matched frequencies enough to know that you also call her flower girl. you want to scold him for jumping to the conclusion that you’re happier at work because of a pretty girl—but he’s quite on point, so you can’t really defend yourself.

“oh my god she’s blushing,” sohee mumbles, laughing with chaewon.

“oh shut up i hate you guys.” you groan, “she’s just nice and actually talks to me. i mean yeah she’s gorgeous but that’s not even the point. she’s different than usual customers and… i guess it’s a nice change.”

“so you want her,” soobin says before sipping on his tea. “pretty girl vs. y/n and she’s already losing.”

“i—”

okay maybe he’s right, but you’d never admit that. 

the rest of lunch consists of you getting teased until the topic switches into chaewon talking about kazuha and sakura, who have apparently been way too loud when playing video games late at night. soobin, however, manages to throw in one more teasing comment before you all depart, which earns a few more remarks from chaewon throughout the car ride home.

“everything used to soil your mood,” soobin’s words replayed in your mind over and over, “seems like this ‘flower girl’ is making you bloom.” 

his words were corny mainly because it was him saying it, but he wasn’t wrong. and it doesn’t help that chaewon keeps telling you that she supports whatever you have going on, saying that you’re “not as cranky” and “smiling like an idiot all the time.”

you blush the whole way home thinking about her and it’s ridiculous. this girl that’s shown up twice has you malfunctioning even outside of work.

—

“y/n, could you grab the shipments from the back? i unloaded them, they just need to be restocked. it’s a few boxes, nothing much.” your boss asks. 

“yeah, sure.” you respond, immediately heading to the back and looking around for the boxes she mentioned.

you have exactly one hour until work ends and the only thing on your mind is a nice big lunch since you only had time to eat a banana for breakfast. you feel the energy leaving your body as you carry the boxes, guessing they’re mainly seeds and supplies for the bouquets. the boxes shfit and a subtle sound hints that there’s some pots for people who end up buying something to display their flowers.

with a light thud, you place the boxes on the counter in the front and find the box cutter nearby. just as you suspected—there are a few packets of seeds, tools, and pots inside that you pull out and start restocking.

but in the corner of your eye you catch two people conversing outside. you’d brush it off if it weren’t for the fact that one of them was flower girl, who’s talking to your boss while pointing at the tulips.

your heart beats faster in your chest and a surge of urgency to finish restocking.

you jump at the feeling of a hand on your shoulder not too long later. turning your head, you catch your manager grinning at you.

“hey, i’ve got the rest. there’s a customer that you should help.” she tells you, but the look in her eyes screams something mischievous.

you nod, setting the pot in your hand back into the box before turning to meet the same big brown eyes that never fail to light up your day.

“y/n!”

“flower girl,” you mutter, though very quietly, just under your breath. “hi,” you greet, clear and professionally.

“how are you?” she asks, and it flows like last time; conversation with her is light and easy to ease into.

you tell her it’s a little slower today considering it’s tuesday, and you even drop a little “i’m glad you’re here to keep some brief company,” which earns a smile and a “i find stopping by the highlight of my week, it’s nothing.”

now you’re both trying not to blush and it’s impossible. it’s impossible because you notice that shade of blush she has on matches the carnations that you had to fix up yesterday. and on her end, she can’t help but notice that your hair is a little messier than usual, which adds to how cute she thinks you are.

you two converse in between her questions about flowers. she finds your anecdotes about each and every one interesting, interesting enough that she asks,

“hey, what are you doing later today?”

the question catches you off guard. “oh, um. probably nothing… maybe i’ll go on a walk or visit a friend… i don’t know… why do you ask?”

you can’t curb the blush that heats your face, so you pray it’s not noticeable.

“well, i’m off today and my schedule is pretty empty… i was hoping you’d let me pencil you in?”

you giggle at her response, hoping your manager doesn’t hear any of it because she’s also one to tease you like crazy.

“i’d… yeah, i’d like that.” you sound like an idiot. your mind runs in circles and your heart beats faster than it usually does—even faster than the time she (you’d hope) flirted with you. “i um, i get off in less than an hour… i hope you don’t mind waiting.”

she bites the inside of her lip and it feels like it’s just the two of you in the shop, with daisies sprouting around (metaphorically speaking, of course) to feed the fire that burns in your chest. 

“that’s perfect. do you like sandwiches?”

“i love them.”

“perfect. there’s a place not too far that i love—”

“down the block near the park?”

“yes! how did you—?”

“i go there all the time.” wow, this is perfect, you think to yourself. “we could grab lunch… maybe walk around…?”

she laughs and your whole body relaxes. 

“you’re really cute, you know?”

“i think you’re cuter.” you say without thinking. “and i feel unbelievably stupid that i’ve been calling the cute girl that stops by every week ‘flower girl.’ my friends keep teasing me because i never got your name.”

“you talk to me about your friends?’ she questions with a growing smirk.

“i— maybe.” 

“well, i’m glad i’m not the only one.”she breaks eye contact to look at the ground bashfully. “my friends have been… trying to help me build up the courage to ask you out.”

“really?”

“mhm.” she nods.

“well, i’d love to tell my friends more about you…” you trail off, remembering that you don’t even know her name.

“if i give you my name… would you give me your number?” she asks cheekily.

you chuckle. “i’ll consider it.”

her hand brushes the petal of a flower nearby—a pink hibiscus—before saying, “my name is danielle.”

“danielle,” her name trickles off your tongue with curiosity and wonder. her name isn’t uncommon, but it’s beautiful and a perfect fit for someone bright like her.

her smile grows along with yours.

“i guess i should give you my number then, danielle.” you test the way her name sounds coming from you and are just as content the second time around. it’s better than flower girl, but that’s not stopping you from calling her that again and again in the future.

“i’d need your number just in case i want to see you again,” she says with a light-hearted, teasing tone. “just in case you charm me well enough.”

“i’ll do my best then, flower girl.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞 𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐝 || 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 ||

A/n: girl dad Billy 👏, finally writing it out like I said I would.

It starts with silence.

Not the kind that lingers after a fight or fills the void between words—but a stunned, hollow sort of quiet that falls over Billy Hargrove the moment you whisper those four impossible words in your bedroom:

“Billy, I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t curse. He just… stares.

His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of your dresser, and you can see the panic rising behind his eyes, blue like ice thawing too fast. His breathing gets shallow, uneven, and you reach for him gently—only for him to pull back like your touch burns.

“No,” he mutters, voice cracked. “No, no, no, I can’t—fuck.”

“Billy—” You move toward him again, slow this time.

“I’m gonna end up just like him.” The words fall from his lips like they’re poisoned. “I’m gonna mess this kid up. Like Neil did to me. Like—like I wasn’t supposed to survive him, and now you want me to raise a fucking kid?”

Your heart breaks a little. Not for yourself—but for him. For the terrified boy still living inside the man who’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

You step closer, even when he backs up.

“You’re not him.”

He shakes his head, lips trembling. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you already love more fiercely than he ever could. You’re scared—fine. Me too. But I know you, Billy. I know what kind of father you won’t be. And I know what kind of father you could be… if you let yourself believe it.”

He sits on your bed like the weight of the truth finally crushed him. You kneel in front of him, pressing his hand gently against your stomach. It’s still flat, but it’s real. So is this. So are you.

“I’m not doing this without you,” you whisper. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Day's later.Billy finds himself at your home with a fresh bruise on his cheek, bag slung over his shoulder as he stands rigid at the doorway, a bundle of nerves dressed in his usual denim and defiance. Your dad watches him with that quiet, unreadable stare—before sighing and motioning him inside.

“Come in, Billy. She’s in the kitchen. But you and I need to talk first.”

Billy looks like he might bolt—but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods.

Ten minutes later, your mom catches the two of them on the back porch—your dad with a cold beer in one hand, his other on Billy’s shoulder. Not a threat. Not a lecture. A promise:

“You’re part of this family now. We don’t leave each other behind.”

Billy doesn’t say anything, but when he looks over at you through the kitchen window, his eyes are wet.

Week's have passed and now he finds himself building the crib in your room....his room.

Cursing under his breath, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear, a tiny instruction manual half-crumpled beside him. He doesn’t notice you watching from the doorway until you smile.

“You’re putting the side rails on backward.”

He groans, mutters, “Goddamn stupid screws,” but doesn’t stop smiling either.

Later that night, you find him curled against your belly in bed, talking softly—nervously—to the baby. He doesn’t know you’re awake. He says things like, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” and, “You’ve got your mom’s heart—thank fuck for that.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, and he exhales, grounding himself against you.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Billy.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he presses a kiss just above your navel and breathes:

“Yeah. I think maybe I will be."

Month's have passed and now you were giving birth, the delivery room is in chaos.

Monitors beep in erratic rhythm, nurses move with practiced urgency, and your hand is crushing Billy’s fingers like a vice.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart—so fucking good—”

His voice is raw. Trembling. His forehead pressed against yours as sweat slicks both your skin. You’re panting, sobbing, screaming through the pain, but his touch is there. Constant. Unflinching.

He doesn’t let go. Not once.

“Almost there, one more push!” the doctor says.

You scream again, and Billy’s free hand braces behind your back, holding you steady, whispering, “You’ve got this, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

And then—

A cry.

Not yours. Not his.

A high, raw, brand-new sound that shatters the world and puts it back together all at once.

The room shifts. Slows. The chaos fades into the background as the nurse lifts a small, squirming bundle and says the words that sucker-punch Billy square in the heart:

“Congratulations. You have a daughter.”

Billy freezes.

You’re crying, gasping through exhaustion and joy, but he just stares. His eyes are locked on the tiny thing being cleaned and swaddled, and he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

“Billy,” you whisper.

He blinks, like you woke him from a dream. When the nurse comes to place her in his arms, he hesitates.

His hands hover.

“I—” His voice cracks, hoarse and small. “I don’t want to break her.”

The nurse smiles gently. “You won’t.”

He takes her. Slowly. Carefully.

And then he looks down.

This tiny thing, wrapped in soft pink, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. Her face is red and squished and perfect. His thumb brushes her cheek, and she whimpers, nuzzling toward his chest like she already knows him.

That’s when it happens.

Billy Hargrove breaks.

He sinks into the chair beside your bed, arms curled protectively around her, and sobs.

Full-body, gut-wrenching sobs—tears that have been locked away for years. The grief of his childhood, the fear, the self-hatred—all of it pours out of him in silent, shaking waves.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he chokes, tears soaking her hat. “I don’t know how to be anything but angry and scared—”

You reach for him, stroking his hair, your voice a whisper:

“You’re already doing it. You stayed. You love her. That’s more than he ever gave you.”

He presses a trembling kiss to his daughter’s forehead.

“I’m not gonna be like him. I swear to god, baby, I’m not.”

“You’re nothing like him, Billy.”

She lets out a soft coo, her fingers curling around his pinky like she’s sealing the promise.

And for the first time in his life, Billy Hargrove feels peace.

Not because the fear is gone—but because he’s not facing it alone.

He has you.

And now he has her.

[mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes]

coney island | bucky barnes

summary: on the day of the election, you find bucky at his safe place and he shows you, his assistant friend around.

warnings: kissing, tooth rotting fluff, angst (if you squint) <3 + sexual tension; bucky is a sweetheart; both are down bad for each other; insecure bucky (?) kinda; i made shit up about coney island, i have never been there, sorry; a LOT of obsession over eyes; use of pet names (doll, sweetheart, sweets); no use of y/n; misuse of political jargon? author is clueless about political jargon lol; author thinks the ending is bad; I AM SHIT AT WRITING SUMMARIES SORRY!

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

author's note: this is kind of inspired by @dreamwritesimagines lovely series Declassified and its 6th chapter, but its still completely different. but do give Declassfied a read, because it is my favourite congressman bucky fic! i'm sorry if the ending is weird :/ I worked literally two weeks for this fic, pls show some love!

words: 7.2k (my creativity has been sucked out of me)

masterlist | for my other works <3

divider by @toastray

Bucky Barnes didn’t have time for love.

It’s what he believed; It's what he let everyone believe; It’s what you witnessed everyday.

You knew how tight his schedules were; You knew how much work had to be done; You knew how much stress burdened him. He had absurdly timed meetings, endless galas, campaigns that he had to take care of. The whole Valentina thing didn’t help him either. He had too many things on his mind and you noticed how it affected him. His pretty blue eyes would go dimmer, his left shoulder would start to ache more and you don’t even know how many hours he slept during the night. 

Actually. You knew. 

It was your job to know. To understand how many hours he slept because those eyebags didn’t do well during interviews; to understand how cranky he was going to get during the day so that you could schedule meetings with the more considerate figures amongst USA’s political landscape; to understand whether he would listen to you at least once during the day.

You knew, not only because it was your job as his assistant, manager and manhandler, but also because you have been in the hell that is politics for a long time. He might have been alive for longer than you, but you had more experience in this than him and you understood that the work he was doing, slaving his and your ass off for was worth it. So, yeah, you knew that Bucky Barnes didn’t have time for love. 

But maybe, after sleep deprived and joy filling nights under the crappy office lights, your chest bloomed, just a little bit, as you hoped that there might be a cracked window, a chance, for some space in his heavy heart. 

—

It was the day of the election. 

You were running around with papers in your hand, phones blowing off with god knows what notifications and trying to find where the fuck James Buchanan Barnes is. The office was a whirlpool of chaos; people were sprinting, shouting over phones and all the pots of coffee were empty—and in the middle of this whirlpool, was you. 

And all you could think about was why Congressman Barnes not picking up his goddamn phone. 

You huffed and smoothened out your dress. He could’ve at least texted you, but now you had to resort to asking his driver, even though the poor man was not a reliable source. Bucky couldn’t stand another person driving him, like a chauffeur, like a child, like a handler. You had tried to convince him it was for his safety and that he was the driver’s boss, not the other way around, but he was so fucking stubborn, it made you want to pull out your hair. 

I haven’t got the foggiest clue, ma’am.

Your lips curled a little at the old man’s lingo, but the worry in your heart and the stress in your brain only intensified. You thanked the man and kept your phone aside. You dismissed your manager, who asked you to draft up a speech, one that James Barnes would have to deliver, in case he lost—which was the popular opinion amongst many people. Many people that you threw out of your life, because ever since you started working for him, beside him and by him, and even if he made your life aggravating, you absolutely devoted your time, body, mind and soul to his ideas.

His dedication.

Him.

So, you stood outside his office, his space inside your chaotic office, with a false sliver of hope that he might be hiding himself in there, or maybe a note—tucked under his desk, in the secret crevice that only you knew. 

You opened the door, cautiously walked around his desk and put your hand underneath the table to inspect. A sigh of relief left your body and your shoulder relaxed a bit as your fingers felt the small paper, a note in secrecy, left just for you. You hated to admit it but knowing this part of Bucky, knowing that he would inform you, if no one, even with a piece of paper that was meant for you, made you feel special: a warmth, akin to giddiness, settling in your stomach. 

You opened the note and opened it up, only to have your hopes crash and burn. Your stomach twisted in knots at the blatant vagueness of the message written. 

I can’t be there, but I'm safe. Don’t call for a search party, doll, I want to be alone. 

You rolled your eyes at his teasing remark, but the nauseous feeling in your stomach was clawing away at you. You needed to find him. This was his moment. His and yours. You wanted to be with him, enjoy the night, reap the fruits of your hard work. Yes, maybe you were being too sure of him winning, but you had done everything in your capacity and his to make sure he gets this win. Because he deserved it. Because he was the only one that genuinely cared. Which was why you were attracted to him.

In a professional, ideological way, of course. 

And if he knew anything about you, it was that you were as stubborn as he was. 

So, you almost ran past everyone in your office, ignoring their quizzical, inconsequential looks, your manager’s booming voice and grabbed your coat: because you will not let that man be on his own tonight. You were selfish, perhaps, but he owed you this. After all, you were a team, were you not? 

You called his driver and got in the car. 

“Coney Island, please?”

—

He recognized your perfume, immediately. 

It had notes of lavender, mixed with Jasmine and mandarin: your favourite perfume. At least he hoped it was, considering he was the one that gifted you the YSL perfume on your birthday and since then it was the only one you wore. At least around him. It was sweet and stubborn, just like you. The way you constantly nagged him and bossed him around, never left him alone yet still cared for him in an unconditional, unstaggering kind of way. It reminded him of you: when you calmed him down after one of his panic attacks for the first time, when you fumed at him for not memorizing the speech you had carefully curated for him and when he turned up at your house just for you to yell at him while serving him your sweet, drenched in maple syrup, pancakes. 

You didn't approach him, not yet, still a few steps behind. The abundant breeze was doing a splendid job of flying your hair around and you tugged your coat around you, as if it was second skin.

“I told you not to put up a search party for me, doll.”

“I am not a search party, Bucky.” 

“You are my assistant.” 

There was a pause. A moment of hesitation after his teasing remark, where your heart sank as you spoke up again. 

“Do you not want me here? With you?”

Your words were not accusatory, but rather fragile, a soft question that held your heart. Your gentle tone made him shudder, his heart skipping a dangerous beat. He had your back towards you, which tensed and slumped a little. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, breathing in the salty, sea air. “I don’t want numbers. I don’t want the…office.”

“I am not the office.” You recoiled and Bucky pursed his lips.

“You are my assistant.”

Your heart sank. Yes, you were aware he wanted to be alone, but his words still felt like shards in your chest. Your nose started to sting and you looked away from his back, to the ocean and breathed in. Did he only think of you as his assistant? Was that all that entailed between you?

It was a hit you were not prepared for. But Bucky understood your silence, almost reading your thoughts, your questions, your heartbreaking doubts. Because no, you were not only his assistant. After months of working together, spending every waking moment with each other, which ultimately included you holding yourself back from slapping him after his constant non-cooperation and him teasing you to your absolute flustered state: you were not only his assistant—you were his safe space now.

He opened his mouth again, to speak out, tell you that you meant much more to him, to ease the ache in your heart and the hurt in your silence. But before he even got his words out, you plopped down next to him. He turned to look at you, only to have his breath taken away.

You had taken your hair down from your restricting bun that made him wince after he saw it in the morning: it flowed freely now, your beautiful locks flying around haphazardly, just how he liked it. You had taken off your blazer, leaving you in your pretty blouse with a sweetheart neckline and your pantsuit. Your forehead didn’t hold fatigue lines, which he constantly tried to dissipate. But your face held a soft glow; One that he had seen rarely, only when you and him were alone: moments when he made terrible jokes, gossiped about other senators and congressmen, and made you laugh. Moments where he saw you, raw, vulnerable, unbearably you, under the warm light of the lamp in his living room, when you used to come to his aid and cared for him. The soft glow he believed was only reserved for him. 

His heart softened in his chest. 

You didn’t look like his assistant anymore.

“I am your friend, Bucky.” You gently stated, as if it wasn’t somewhat of a gross understatement. Because you held a place in his heart that was right beside Sam, his other safe space. You turned to look at him, your eyes meeting his, your soft gaze that wrapped him in a hug as it met his clear, stormy blues. You gave him a small smile, easing his heart and looked back at the ocean again. 

“I bet you used to drag Steve here for ill-advised mischief.” 

He scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes at your teasing remark. But his shoulders were relaxed as he gazed at you. Sweet and stubborn. He shook his head and gave out a chuckle which warmed your heart.

“He was the one who got into ill–advised mischief.” He mocked your words. “I was the one who saved his ass.”

“Whatever you say, Sarge.” 

Bucky glared at you, playfully with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. You giggled and imagined a young Bucky alongside Steve, wreaking havoc wherever they went. There was a comfortable silence between you after, only the crashing of waves and the excited yells of children filling you up with happiness. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “How did you find me?” 

You turned at him and gave him a deadpan look. He raised his hands in defence at your pointed look with raised brows. “Just asking a question.” 

“When your boss tells you all the tales about him and his partner in crime at the Coney Island and how it reminded him of simpler times, you catch on.” You quipped. 

“Back to being your boss, again?” He asked. You pursed your lips and glanced at your lap, your fingers fidgeting. 

“You know you deserve it, right?”

He huffed, exasperated. “I thought I told you—”

“I am not talking about numbers, James.” His eyes flicked up at you. You only ever used his first name, but the way you said it made his insides melt. “All I am saying is that,” You breathed and bore your eyes in his.

“You have worked so hard. You care more about these people than anyone I have ever seen, talked to or even worked for. The way you speak for them—the veterans, the soldiers, the people of the city ranging from all the minorities that deserve proper rights, such as universal healthcare—Bucky, I could go on and on.” You completely turned your body toward him, your eyes holding more compassion than he had ever witnessed. You held brain–wracking eye contact with him, your body crackling with sudden butterflies and fuzziness.

“All I know is that you actually care, Bucky. You are not one of those wolfish, perverted, power-lusted people that just crave control. You are the exact opposite—genuine, caring…” You gulped under his intense gaze, his blue eyes carving into your soul as you poured your heart out. “...loving. A completely bonafide candidate…and even if this whole thing was just to get information on Valentina, you were still doing good.”

Your hand reached out to his, reassuring. “You deserve it, more than anyone.”

A loud silence took over you both, but you didn’t, or more than that you both couldn’t escape each other’s gazes. Tension crackled between you both, like a silent bonfire, providing intense warmth in the windy atmosphere. Your cheeks and nose were flushed, from the wind or Bucky’s unrelenting eyes, you didn’t know, because all you could think about is how his eyes perfectly resembled the ocean, under a stormy sky. Yet they provided comfort and you couldn’t look away. As if they were a drug. 

Bucky cleared his throat and your whole face flushed as you looked away from his face. 

“You should be a motivational speaker.” He said quietly. 

“There is a reason why I write all of your speeches, Barnes.” You scoffed. He gave you a small smile, but one that reached his eyes, crinkled around his cheeks. Why was he making you feel giddy? “Come on, you gotta show me around this place. You know I have never been here?”

Bucky stared at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean you’ve never been to Coney Island?” 

“You do realize I work 100 hours a week, right?” You quipped, making Bucky shake his head. 

“I told you, you can take a leave whenever you want.”

“And leave you alone? How would you even survive without me?” You raised your brows at him, challenging him. He just shook his head, giving you an annoyed look, but safe to say, he was elated. To be here, with you. 

“So are you going to show me around or what?”

—

“I am NOT getting on that, Bucky.”

“Live a little, doll. Besides probably isn’t even that hard—”

“Says the super soldier! Did you not see the way that man got yeeted across—”

“He did not get yeeted across—what the fuck is ‘yeeted’?”

You rolled your eyes and stared at the bull ride that they had recently installed at the park—and there was no fucking way you were going to get on that. 

“I’ll pay you 100$! Come on, doll—” He spoke up again.

“I may complain about it, but I get paid enough to deal with you.”

Bucky looked at the bull, the girl on it with a cowboy hat letting out drunken yelps while other people cheered her on.

He moved his eyes back and forth, from the ride to you, and then his eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but you could catch on easily. You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head, hardening your glare at his forming smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing,” He shrugged, nonchalantly. “Just thought you never backed down from a challenge.” He said, in a dangerously low tone, challenging you. Your jaw dropped, just a little, at this man’s audacity! Slowly, a ghost of a smirk formed on your face as well. 

“Okay, fine, I'll go on the goddamn bull, but only if you come with me.” You raised your brows and Bucky rolled his eyes, tilting his head. “Seriously?”

“Oh, okay. I see you are one of the people that easily backs down from a challenge.” You mocked his words, jabbing back at him. His eyes narrowed at you but then a sly smirk greeted his face. The smirk that made you fucking crazy. It was when you knew he was not going to back down. That smirk aggravated you to no end, because that smirk came into display whenever he was not going to listen to a single word you said about the press training and he’s going fuck up everything. That fucking smirk, infuriated you, because you saw it often, especially after he flustered you, made you stutter or even saw a small sign of a blush dusted on your cheeks. That smirk made you go weak in your knees. And it frustrated you. 

Goosebumps arose on your skin as you felt Bucky’s warmth creep up your body, even if he was just walking towards you, agonizingly slowly, as if he was teasing you, hunting you, craving you. He stepped forward, his hands in his pockets, that goddamn smirk paired with those devilish eyes, and did you just notice how hot he looked with just a pair of trousers, shirt and his loosened tie? Fuck. 

You gulped as he towered over you. You could smell his cologne. Your knees almost buckled. What the fuck was happening? Why was he so close? And why did it feel like you just wanted to grab that tie and—

Suddenly, the cheers slowed down, faded away, you didn’t know why—because all you could think about was why he was making you feel hot? Parched? Starved? All because of what, his cologne? The tie? His hands? That fucking smirk? 

Somewhere in the background, the girl got off the bull, more drunk now than she was before, clinging onto her girlfriends, giggling about god knows what.

The host took the mic again and called out for volunteers—all while your cheeks had turned burning red. Bucky started to lean down, getting closer and closer to your face, his pretty pink lips almost brushing your cheek as he pressed them against your ear. You shuddered, restraining the need to hold onto Bucky’s shoulders so that your trembling knees would have some support. 

“After you, sweetheart.”

—

You don’t know how you survived that. But your head was spinning, your body was fuzzy and warm, and your balance—completely uncontrolled. Bucky still had his hands around your waist, steadying you, as he did on the bull ride. You gulped down, the warmth of his hands leaving you trembling, and somehow you found yourself falling again.

Your knees buckled and he held you up, his hands tightening, almost lifting you off the ground, as if you weighed absolutely nothing. It scared you. How comfortable you felt, almost leaning into him, craving more of his touch—not only because of how addicting it was—but also because he grounded you. Comforted you. Kept you steady when you felt like the world was going to disappear underneath you. 

“That was one hell of a ride.” He whispered, near your ear, his breath spanning your face, making you go hot. You hummed, voice strained, afraid of what will come out of your mouth. Because all you do, all you could feel right now were his hands. His body. His warmth. The way his metal hand drew soothing circles on your waist, as if he knew it was the perfect cure to your nausea. The way his chest was almost pressed against your back, radiating the kind of intensity you did not dare to confront. The way his sweet words kissed your neck, smooth like honey, voice like velvet. 

“Are you okay, sweets?”

Sweets. That was new. You tried not to bask in the tooth rotting attention he gave you, the absolute saccharine–like concern laced in his voice, for you. 

You turned around, abruptly, to look at him. His eyes looked at you like as if you were the only person he cared about. Like right now, in this moment, only you mattered. Not the thousand children running around, the women giggling and complaining and the men shouting and groaning. It made you feel…cherished. Something you hadn’t experienced in a long time.

You cleared your throat and looked away, blushing. “Yeah, yeah…”

But he was relentless, determined to hold your eyes, understand how you’re feeling. He bent down, his face looking for your eyes, seeking you out. Your eyes flicked back to him and you almost gasped because those fucking blue eyes, god, they left no room for you to wallow in distress. “I’m perfectly fine, Bucky.” You whispered, your eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips. 

Bucky froze. He followed your gaze and reciprocated it. His perfect blue eyes dropped down to your perfect lips. He licked his lips, as if he craved something. Someone. You. 

Suddenly, a loud bell rang, a loud announcement, a swift yet harsh slice in the middle of…whatever just happened. You both broke apart, his hands ghosting your waist, and you resisted tugging him close to you again, missing the solace his hands provided. 

“The last ride for the Wonder Wheel is starting in 20 minutes!”   

It happened fast. His hands found yours again, gripping them like vice, like he wouldn’t let go of you ever again. His eyes widened as he processed the words said over the microphone.

And you started running.

“What—Bucky!”

“Come on, we can’t miss the ferris wheel!” An impish smile adorned his face, and your heart raced faster than ever before. “I’m wearing heels, Bucky!”

“I can carry you—”

“Absolutely not—” 

Bucky let out a giggle and it was as if time had stopped because right now, it felt like both of you were back in the 1940’s. 

And he was happy.

—

where the fuck are you

and where is the man of the hour

You gulped down the wash of anxiety as you looked at the text. You resisted looking at your watch, but you knew it was time. They were going to start counting the votes. And you both were supposed to be there, at your office, in the conference room, where they had set up a dinner spread. You had insisted on booking the bar that Bucky liked, that all your co–workers liked, but least to say your manager was a bitch. “Keep it professional or you will drown.”

Who even says that?

You internally scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

come here, right now, he looks like he’s about to explode. 

Your nerves and stress were conjoining hands and you could feel it. There was no way they would get to the office, in time. You imagined your manager throwing disapproving glares at you for more than two months, he will probably give you warnings disguised as threats. Maybe throw in some crude insinuating comments about you and Bucky. “Trust me, committing to your responsibilities is more dignifying than ignoring and…sleeping your way up. Just look at Senator Gray’s assistant—”

You shook your head, remembering the lewdness of his comments. Keep it professional.

He would explode if he could see what was happening right now.

You were standing in the line, ready for the next and last ferris wheel ride for the day. There were kids jumping up and down, frustrated workers who tried to calm the complaining parents.

Your body was tensing up because the count was going to start soon. They will announce who got the most votes. Declare whether your hard work paid off. Whether Bucky won. If it was the end to your team, your partnership, whatever you both were. Would Bucky want a new team in DC? Would you have to move to DC? Or was he going to have to hire another assistant—

Bucky squeezed your hand, gleefully. He looked back at you and all your worries melted away, drained from your body all because of that damn smile. He probably had no idea that he was blowing your concerns away. Because, right now, blind enthusiasm was buzzing from his body, almost resembling that of the kids near you. He looked younger, if that was possible. The worry lines from his forehead, long faded away. His posture was more confident. Welcoming. Relaxed. His shoulders no longer slumped from stress, fatigue and paranoia. No longer was he seeking out the ways anything could go even slightly wrong.

He was just there. In the present, without any burdens on his body, without constantly having to stare down the barrel of a gun. With you.

Not his assistant. Not his manager.

Just you. 

You moved ahead of the line and Bucky did not let go of your hand. He kept it, in his, safeguarded, as if he was preventing anyone taking you away. So that you wouldn’t fade into the crowd. So that this moment wouldn’t vanish. 

As both of you got in front of the line, waiting to get entry, Bucky immediately reached for his pocket. “How much for two?”

The operator gave the price and then looked up. You felt Bucky’s hand freeze in yours, his body going tense. The operator was giving him weird looks and stood, almost defensive in front of the booth. “Have I seen you somewhere?”

You quickly answered. “No, you haven’t.” But he just looks you over, dismissively. A few seconds after he tries to wrack his brain, Bucky clears his throat. “Listen, we’re just trying to get on the ride…if you could please move aside?” 

He hesitantly moves aside, letting you both on the booth. “Have a nice ride, I guess.”

You both sit, side by side, thighs almost touching, intensity crackling. The booth starts to move and the wind sweeps through both of you, calmly. You glance at him; Bucky was peering at the sky, as you moved upwards, towards it.

He looked…melancholic. Longing. Almost forlorn. As if he never thought he’d see the sky like this again. As if he would never feel the same wonder he felt when he was just a boy with a childlike laugh and an unnecessary bravery to take on the world. 

But here he was. With you. And it felt surreal. 

“Can I ask you something?” You softly broke his silence. He sighed and looked back at you, nodding to let you continue. “For a man who hates being in the spotlight, hates overbearing attention and certainly hates talking to snooty senators, discussing power moves to win over people’s votes, why did you even step into politics?”

He was taken aback. Bucky looked at you as if you asked him to solve the question of all the why’s in the universe—that would have been easier. His gaze started to become distant, his eyes seeking answers that he did not like to face. 

“Even if you leave Val aside, Bucky, you have more than enough resources and capabilities to spy on her and her plans. Why politics?” You ask, gently.

Your tone was soft. Free. Like sunshine mixed with the kind of care he didn’t dare yearn for in the last 70 years. Like he wasn’t just a ghost; a trauma–filled bomb that everyone was waiting to blast. Like he was a person. Whole. Deserving. Your words didn’t slash through him; They didn’t glare at him, daunting, demanding, as if they were entitled to an answer. Your words, your sweet words were a soft nudge. A nudge that he needed. 

“I–,” His breath shook and you slipped closer to him. Gazing at his eyes, holding his sight, reassuring, that you both were the only one existing there right now. “Amends.” His voice broke. Bucky thought you would flinch, but you stayed put. Not leaving him astray. 

“After the court–mandated therapy ended, I didn’t know what to do with myself. With this,” He looked at his hands. “I felt the obligation, the need to make it right. Wipe it off, all of it, from my hands. After the Flag–Smashers and when I saw the things they went through, I couldn’t just sit. I thought—” He gulped, breath trembling. But then you moved closer, held his hand, as if a sign. A silent promise. You rubbed soothing circles on his hand with your thumb and he grasped your small palm with his rough, calloused hand. You didn’t force him. Pressure him to go ahead. 

“I thought that maybe, this way, I could make a difference. Make lives easier. Safer.”

He exhaled, like he had just let a flood of his emotions flow after holding it for so long with his walls. And you stayed. You didn’t push. You let him exist. Without any judgement. His breath trembled, heartbeat hammering in his ear, brain numbing as he finally let himself feel. And you.

You grounded him. You let him breathe. Understand his emotions. You weren’t prudent around him like you were watching him; observing; stalking: just so you can capture the moment he fucks up. 

A sudden ping threatened to interrupt this. The secret oasis that you both had carved in the night. He thought you would move away to check it, your incessant notifications, abandoning him and leaving him high and dry without your warmth. Your kindness. Your perfume. But you didn’t budge; didn’t move an inch from your place. Your eyes didn’t leave his and it was as if they wrapped him up in a security blanket. You softly smiled at him and lifted your hand, gently tucking Bucky’s outgrown hair behind his hair. You gazed at him with such care, such intricacy, so much affection, that he would have melted right there. 

“You can find a way to make a difference without torturing yourself, honey.” 

He grew shy. “I didn’t realize it at the moment. Thought this was the only way.” You softly chuckled. “I can make a list for you: community service, youth programs, fundraisers for veterans. You can’t make a difference if you suffer inside. If you feel suffocated.” 

He breathed in deeply, taking in your words. 

“Thank you.”

“Bucky—”

“No, hush,” He took your face in his pulsing, warm hands. “Let me say this please.” You nodded, wordlessly. “You—” He let out a shaky breath and smiled at you, oh-so-softly. “You have been here for me, through this hell, like no one has.” 

“You stood by me, helped me, tolerated my uncooperative ass and you still look at me like I deserve something. Care. Hope. Peace…Love. If it weren’t for you…someone who took more than necessary effort to understand me, help me, know me, I wouldn’t have lasted.” You gasped, and his big hands resting against your reddening cheeks started caressing you. He looked at you like you hung the stars up for him. Like you were the only reason. His oxygen. His breath. 

“Thank you so much for everything.”

Tears welled into your eyes. You leaned into his touch, his hands that molded perfectly with your face. You were about to open your mouth to say something, until your phone started buzzing again. “Oh god, it must be the results.” You put your hand on his which was still resting on your cheek. “I won’t ask if you don’t want to know, Bucky. This is your moment,” He pursed his lips, hesitating for a moment. But then he looked at you. 

You. Who has been here with him throughout every step. Through his first media press, through all of the stupid, pretentious galas, through all of the debriefs. You, who sat with him in silence when he could not bear another noise; who held him at his worst, when the nightmares used to come back and he couldn’t stop trembling; who made him mac and cheese at 3 am because he hadn’t had any decent meals. You, who worked your ass off, ensuring his ideas would come into execution; You, who defended him at every corner when Bucky’s career as Winter Soldier came up; You, who was more faithful in him than he was in himself.

“This is your moment as much as it is mine, doll.” He leaned forward and your heart started pacing faster. As if his earnest words hadn’t already made your insides flutter: he kissed your forehead. A long, meaningful peck. That held more weight, that defied every other sign of affection ever. He lingered, his lips still ghosting over the crown of your head. You closed your eyes, reeling in this moment, holding it close, not wanting it to fade away. He sighed and you knew it was time.

“Hey?” You picked up the call. Nerves were firing through Bucky’s body and he squeezed your hand, trying to ground himself. He couldn’t bring himself to eavesdrop on your friend’s words nor was his anxiety sparing any energy for him to decipher your expressions. What if he didn’t win? Would you leave him? Would you find some other upcoming political hotshot to work for? What would he do with his life? 

Almost as if you could read his doubts and anxiety—you didn’t need to, they were literally jumping off his body—you squeezed his hand back and consoled him. A small gasp left you, spreading rapid goosebumps on his skin. He couldn’t understand whether it was a good one or not. Wouldn’t you smile if it was good news? God, what he would give to see that smile…Does that mean he lost? Your hand slipped out of his and his heart broke in two. 

Of course, he lost. 

You quietly said goodbye to your friend and cut the call. He gulped as he saw more tears in your eyes and he hoped for the worst. For a regretful look, a fit of anger. But he got something worse: unfathomable silence. Your silence. Not a peep of a word. Not one indication of what you just interpreted from the call. You slowly raised your tear–filled eyes and Bucky was stumped. He didn’t know whether you were going to sob or kiss him. He wished it was the latter. Wait, what?

But then suddenly, in that cramped space of the booth, you lunged towards him.

His breath got knocked out of his lungs as you pressed your body against him. Quivering. Barely Containing. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his neck and you nuzzled your face into his neck. Bucky froze as you whispered something. 

“We won.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath. “We won?”

You lifted your head. Tears threatening to fall out, your cheeks filled with glee and your wobbly smile giving him more life than anything else possibly could. 

“We won, Bucky. You won.” Bucky completely engulfed you, holding you tighter to his chest, burying his head in your neck. He was consumed. By your sweet and stubborn scent, by your honeyed words and soft sobs of joy. His hands ran from your back to your waist, wrapping them around you as if you would vanish into thin air. He had to cherish you. Hold you. 

You sighed into his body, almost as if your souls were entwined, breathing in each other, as if you couldn’t live without each other. You softened more to his touch, melting like snow in his warmth when he ran his hands from your back to your waist. He smelled like faint citrus and lavender, his woody scent completely enthralling your senses.

You both clutched onto each other, embraced each other, because you found comfort. Both of you found home. 

“You are the only reason.” He whispered.

“W-What?” You asked, quietly between hiccups. 

He cradled your face in his hands and looked at you. He scanned your face, taking in every intricate detail: How cute you looked with your nose red and puffy eyes; How your perfect lips spoke with sweet melodies aligned in every word; Your hair, cascading like an angel’s and your eyes, god, your eyes looking at him like he hung up the moon for you. And to be honest, he would. And you would be worth it.

He locked it in his mind, for safekeeping, because he never wanted anyone else to witness you in your state right now. Because that? That was for him. Just him. And he was damn sure, he wouldn’t let anyone else see you like this. Because right now, even with your eyes, fresh out of tears, your cheeks stained, your face red, and your heaving breaths: you were utter and complete perfection. 

“You are the only reason I am right here. As Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. As a man. I wouldn’t have done it without you, doll. You are my reason. My miracle. My rock. You put up with me, you stood by me, you defended me, you trusted me. Believed in me.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

You processed his words, the fervour in his voice, the great vehemence throwing you off. “We did it, James.”

You pulled him closer, tugging him at his shirt, like you couldn’t get enough of him. Your hands travelled from his chest, to his collar, to his stubble. You looked into his eyes, your hands softly caressing his beard, his cheeks, as if you were holding the object of your desires for the first time in your life. Like what you have been waiting for, yearning for is right here, in front of you, close enough to kiss. Both of you understood that this was more than just a victory. 

You slowly leaned in. Hesitantly, to see how he would react. But almost immediately, Bucky locked his eyes on your lips; gazing at them like he has been wanting to ravish them for months, years. Your eyes were still on his, shy, asking for permission. But you didn’t need any, because according to Bucky’s mind and body, he has been yours to take for longer than he could care to admit.

His lips brushed against yours, like a question. You gasp, just slightly, with feather-like volume, delicate, willing. But that gasp sent a nuclear reaction through Bucky’s body, like fire; Something more sweeter had taken over him and his mind. 

Because then his lips were on you.

Not fast, not rough, not aggressive in any way. But with a slow and agonizing intent. There was desperation, but in a way that said ‘I have been waiting too long for this, so I am going to savor every single second.’ And that, he did.

He tasted you. Gently. Sweetly. Softly. Lightly. Almost as if he kissed you any deeper, he would drown and he would never be able to resurface. As if he was still afraid; Afraid, that you might pull back from him. Feather–like, in case this was just a dream—a figment of his imagination, like paradise—which would make his reality a nightmare. 

But god, he was already addicted. To the way you tasted; the way you slightly gasped when he kissed you; to the way you melted into his touch. You tasted like faint cotton candy that he just bought for you and your raspberry mouth freshener—the one you were so picky about because ‘the regular mint ones left a weird aftertaste’. He was addicted to the way you breathed him in, to the way you let him take you. Because that just meant that you trusted him.

And that you did. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

When you sighed into the kiss, you knew your soul and heart had been snatched. Stolen. Taken away from you. You poured every ounce of your love in the kiss; your heart was palpitating through your chest, your hands and your ears. You could feel him everywhere.

His breath, his kisses, his soft groans and hums. The tingly feeling in your stomach just raged throughout your body. Just because of him. His scent. His hair. His oh-so-perfectly soft lips. 

You felt like you were floating. His lips felt like a dream but also secure. Secure in a way that says ‘I will always be there for you’. In a way that said ‘you are my future’. 

What felt like an eternity that fell too short, you both pulled away, unwillingly. But you didn’t let go: none of you wanted to. You were lost in each other, dazed by each other’s touch. His hands were at your waist, now gripping, almost lifting you from your position, putting you on his lap. One of your palms was resting on his broad chest, unclenching and clenching his shirt, the one on his nape, softly scratching his baby hair. 

Your heads softly banged against each other as you rested your foreheads. He breathed softly and you bit your lip, shying away from his eyes. He lifted your chin with his index finger, searching for your eyes, his intense gaze making heat crawl up your neck.

Bucky leaned down and softly kissed your nose and you let out a giggle. Joy bubbling up both of you, with barely contained smiles. He took his thumb and sweetly caressed your lower lip and pecked you. “You are my everything.” He whispered, content adorned his face. You kissed his cheek, lovingly: “I love you. Bucky,”

“You have been the only person who made me feel safe, made me feel seen, made me feel special.”

“Do you remember that day when I had to skip work because I couldn’t even get out of my bed?”

He frowned. “Because of your period cramps?” You nodded and scanned his face. “You fought with my manager and you skipped too. You came home with insane amounts of chocolate, cold coffee and even a new heatable plushie.” 

“That day, you took care of me, like no one ever had. And I didn't even have to ask you…You made sure my blankets were fresh so I would be comfortable, you put on my favourite TV show and you held me while I cried about a dog I saw on the street.”

“You cooked for me, my favourite meal, that nobody had ever taken the effort to do before. You made sure I didn’t overwork myself and you reassured me again and again. Even if it might’ve been strenuous. How could I not fall for you?” You kissed him again. 

"You're perfect, Bucky. I love your eyes and the way they light up when you're with the people you care for. I love your smile and how raw and vulnerable you are when you are actually happy. The way you make sure everybody is comfortable and safe. You, Bucky, you are so much more than you give yourself credit for, my love. Your existence, Bucky; Every since we started working in that crappy office, you made my life easier, you instantly made all my worries fade. I didn't know I could be this happy in my life."

There were unshed tears in Bucky's eyes.

“I love you so much.” You said, gentle tears welling up in your eyes and Bucky cradled your face again. “I love you more, my doll.” You giggled as he leaned in yet again, kissing you more deeply, more fervently, more firm. 

So, yes. You concluded that: Bucky Barnes did have time for love. Because Bucky Barnes’ heart belonged to you. He was yours and you were his. 

Under that sky, at coney island, on that ferris wheel, you both began. Began to create a life together, for each other and by each other. You both vowed to never let each other go and whatever whirlwinds came in your way, you would face them together.

At coney island, Bucky and you promised each other love, like an oath, never to be broken and always to be held.

if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did —lana del ray thank you for reading! requests are open <3 reblog, like and comment!

[ziminy]

Have I been a bad boy, mrs officer?

How to not take care of five praedators.

Tags: smut, ageless blogs do not interact, f! officer reader, porn with plot, praises, pet names (honey, sweetheart etc etc), threesome that somehow ended in a gangbang, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, making out, marking, size difference, scent play, praedators, handjob, possessive, jealousy, manhandle, inappropriate use of evol (my favorite tag frfr), edging, tomorrow's catch-22 (bit late but whatever), if I forgot something I'll add more later

Author's note: I only got Rafayel's card from the event, so dunno how accurate the others might be. I went more after how they usually act and my own interpretation from the event, an idea based on the few things I heard about the other cards. I might re-write it if somehow it ends up too inaccurate but I doubt it, I'm pretty confident that I nailed this one.

Author's note: I am embarrassed of what I wrote here. I know I'm always embarrassed of what I write but I swear this one is the cherry on top. I don't think I can write anything as filthy as this one, like, I put all my head and creativity into this.

Words count: 5k

Masterlist

Despite the world you live in, your days have been awfully quiet. Your work life being filled with paperwork, no field assignments. And it's a bit boring, what can I say.

But maybe you shouldn't have complained about your oh so boring life, because you woke up being assigned to take care of some praedators. Five SSS threat level beasts, who were put in your care out of a blue without any explanation.

And here was your life now, stuck with these men who were a few heads taller than you, fighting for your attention. Pulling strings and pranks just for a bit of affection.

Usually it was fine, they would behave since they knew you'd get into trouble if things escalated. Today, however, was different. The air was filled with something heavy, like a warning that screams right in your face to run away, that you're in danger, making it harder and harder to breathe as you got close to the research facility where the praedators were supposed to test some new "toys" the agency was developing.

It gave you chills, but you paid no mind. Focusing on your task, which was more important than the bad feeling that left a weird taste in your mouth.

So, here you were, in front of the metal door, taking a deep breath and trying to calm yourself down. There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing will happen, especially inside the agency. After all, who was crazy enough to do such a stunt right here out of all places?

You open the door, being met with a big cage in the middle of the room, no researchers to be seen in sight. Well, you did got here a little later than usual, so it wasn't surprising.

Two praedators locked up inside the metal box, tied up so it would keep them in place. And they were calm. Way too calm, like nothing happened earlier at all. But maybe this was their way of luring you in, to make you get closer, trap you right there in between them and keep you there for fucks know how long.

And you fell for it, walking towards their cage, slowly opening the door and looking at the man in your right, Zayne.

"Oh god, what happened to you?" you rushed towards the dark haired man, trying to take those damn handcuffs off him.

He looks tired, overworked, like he was starved for days with a promise that only he knows about. But if you put aside his physical appearance, you would have noticed the mischief in his eyes, looking at you with a smile only visible to himself, then at the white haired man that was tied up on the other side of the cage, opposite of him.

"I'm alright." he sounded like everything but good. And he was getting off the look you're giving him. You're concerned for him, biting your lip in frustration as you knew you could do absolutely nothing about it, you were no help to him. But he's happy, especially with the fact that you're only paying attention to him.

Like you read his thoughts, you turned around, looking at the white haired man with the same eyes you looked at Zayne, sorry for the fact you had no power to do anything.

"Don't look at him." the dark haired man said, trying to drag you back to him, to stop you from doing anything that might take you away from him.

But you didn't listen, walking towards Sylus and trying to take off any restraints that he might have on him

"She doesn't want you." Tartarus voice made a chill run down your spine, his voice a lot lower than it usually is. "See? She chose me." he barked.

"What are you talking about?" you looked up at him. "I'm here to do my job, not play your stupid games." he looked like he was about to bite you, your words only putting more fuel on the fire.

"Honey." the white haired man lowered his head, his mouth against your ear as he started whispering. "You have no idea how much you're wanted, and it's infuriating." he wanted to laugh at the shocked expression you had on your face, but at the same time he couldn't when you seem to not take his words seriously. "What? You don't believe me?"

"I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"Ask that freak over there then. He seems to want what's mine." you rolled your eyes.

"Yours?" the dark haired man laughed. "Last time I checked she wasn't anybody's." not Zayne too. Seriously, what got into everyone today?

"Sweetheart, he's bullying me." Sylus's hands were on your side, dragging you closer to him as you took his handcuffs off. "Are you going to let him talk to me like that?"

"No fighting." you finally got him all free, no chain in sight that would restrain him from moving freely.

"Look at the way he's looking at me. What if he's going to bite me, hm?" he seemed way too happy about this.

"He's nothing but talk." the warden stepped closer. "He won't make you feel like I do."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise." you were now sandwiched between the two men. "Let me show you. I can prove to you that I'm not just talk."

"What are you two talking about?" you were confused with their attitude, why they're acting like this. But then you felt it, something hard against you, them pressing into you, pushing your body into the other and trapping you in their arms. You gasped, finally understanding why the atmosphere seemed so ominous, and that bad feeling that kept creeping over you.

You're fucked, literally and figuratively. And you have no idea what to do. It was late, there were only a few people left in the whole building, but you won't be surprised if there aren't any at all. You were also planning on clocking out after taking the praedators back. But now you doubt you'll be able to leave any time soon.

"Honey, what's with that expression? You're acting like I'll bite." Sylus's voice was playful, talking like he wasn't planning on sinking his teeth into your skin just now.

"You smell so good." even Zayne seemed to have a plan, just to outdo the other praedator.

"What if-" you gulped, trying to maintain your composure. "I mean. There's still people around here. Who knows when someone might come in." you were welcomed with a kiss pressed on your cheek, making you jolt at the impact.

"You're going to jump from that much?" you could feel Galen's breath on the back of your neck.

"Everything will be alright, don't worry." a hand went to the back of your thigh, lifting your left leg up so Sylus could have more access to you. "Relax, I'll take care of everything."

"You?"

"Ah, I forgot you're here." you're surprised their fight is so docile, only spitting words at each other. But this was better than taking things too far.

"You don't want such a brute, do you?" another kiss was placed on your neck, a way of marking his territory.

"You're the last person who should be talking." rather than stopping them, you're paying attention to how they act. They looked normal, even if their touch, behavior and eyes betrayed them.

Their hands a bit too rough than you'd expect from them, barking at each other, acting like they're in a competition. And their eyes, big dilated pupils, looking at you with something lustful and drooling over your sweet scent that got them biting their own tongues in hope of holding back.

You extended your hand, grabbing Sylus's side and waiting for a reaction.

You thought you'll see more violence for someone who lost control over themselves, but these two men are actually very calculated, their actions precise even in moments like these.

"What is it, sweetheart? Getting impatient?" you were just trying to check his vitals, but your actions seemed to be taken in the wrong way.

You woke up being turned around, your back now pressed against Tartarus. A pair of cold hands running around your exposed skin, then dragging you closer to the dark haired man. "Don't forget about me. I also want your attention."

You looked back for a moment, to see the white haired man pinned to the cage's bars, being chained by some ice ropes and keeping him in place. Away from touching you, being punished to watch as you were taken away, all for the warden to have you.

"Don't get too cocky now just because I'm letting you go first." Sylus's smirk never leaves his face, acting like this is going just the way he wanted. But in reality he was a little surprised to see the other man being like this. Who knew Zayne could behave like this?

With a hand under your chin, the dark haired man turned your face towards him, placing a soft kiss on your lips. Waiting for your reaction, for a complaint. Just wanting to see if you were alright with his actions or if he acted too harsh. "I want to kiss you more." he whispered when you didn't say anything. "Can I?" it sounded like a beg rather than a request, pronounced in a quiet voice just for you to hear.

So what if the other man heard? Sylus was focused on you rather than how pathetic the dark haired man was acting. He was interested in what you had to say, waiting for the moment you reject the warden and come to him. Requesting his touch, because he knows you won't beg, but rather make him do that instead.

He'll do it, he'll get on his knees and beg for your attention, for you to give him whatever energy you had left in you. Just look at him and he'll break out this joke of a cage.

But you didn't look back, mostly because you knew exactly what he was thinking, and how he'll react the moment you do that. Instead, you looked at the man in front of you, whose touch softened the moment you gave him permission.

He was a tough guy until it came to you.

Galen, the oh so feared warden was all scary until you appeared. And now look at him, kissing you so softly, not daring to get too lost, or too crazy about it, afraid of hurting you.

"Stop playing and kiss me." you dragged him by his collar closer to you, smacking your lips against his and making him freeze in place for a moment.

"I'll do it if he won't." the crow was talking like he wasn't the same as the snow man. He'd probably be even worse, letting you do everything, too afraid of hurting you, because of how big he was in general.

Those words however stirred something inside the dark haired man, taking over control, like a switch was flipped. You want him more, right? Not that red eyes freak that was waiting for your attention to move on him.

Zayne's hands were on your body, running around while kissing you like there's no tomorrow. Slowly taking your shirt off, not wanting to part his lips away from yours, but at the same time too impatient to get your clothes off.

One at a time, your garments were now laying somewhere on the floor, left there to be forgotten until their services are required once again. But not at the moment. They're totally useless right now.

The two men were jealous even in this situation of each other. The dark haired man was jealous to see all of you from a distance, to get to observe you in all your glory at once. And the crow was dying to get closer, to get to feel, not just look. But neither of them want to switch places.

"You're so wet." you were very much aware of it. "But it's not enough." you don't believe in empty words, only in actions.

And perhaps he was very much aware of the mischief you had in your eyes. How could he not notice it when it was challenging him.

He could humour you, he could accept the fact that you're testing him and give in. But why would he when there's an audience he haves to impress.

Impress?

Who?

Him?

That freak in the corner of the cage wasn't part of the audience, he was his competition, his opponent he had to outdo at any given moment.

Right, he had to step up the game or he will.

Sylus just couldn't wait for an opportunity to slip in, push the warden to the side and steal you all to himself. It gets Zayne mad just thinking about it.

It also rails him up.

He had to try harder, and he was. Just look at how pathetic he looked now. An arm wrapped around your waist, his lips on yours while his other hand was in between your legs, playing with your clit and teasing your entrance. Giving you the hope that he'll finally slip in and make that aching between your legs to go away, but he won't until you start begging him to.

"Zayne." you whined, tugging at his shirt to get closer, to stop playing and give you what you want.

He's not saying anything, only looking at you before placing a kiss on the side of your face.

The sound of ice breaking could be heard, and a second later, like Tartarus moved with the speed of light, was next to you. Cold hands on your skin making you shiver.

"You're asking the wrong person." and how would he know? "Say my name and see what's going to happen." you're tempted.

"Focus on me." the dark haired man grabbed your face in his hand, moving it to face him. "I'm giving you pleasure, not him."

"And he's not doing a good job." the white haired man is right. "Come on, say my name. All you gotta do is say a simple word."

All eyes were on you, and for a moment you thought about it. Until your mind slipped, and you just got the brightest idea you ever got. Why choose when you can make them compete against each other.

Your attitude didn't go unnoticed, both of them noticing the smirk you got on your face instantly. "Oh? Really?" your amused voice echoed in the empty room.

"Nothing good ever comes out your mouth." no one argues with that.

"Don't act like you don't love me, now."

"Aren't you in a good mood, kitten?" was there anything to be sad about?

Still, that didn't answer the question. What exactly did you want? Were you bored of the warden, were you craving for some action, something real to feel, or..

Or both?

Well, you always have been a naughty one. And from how they see it, you won't get satisfied that easily. But how lucky of you because they won't either.

You suddenly got turned around and placed in Zayne's arms. Your back again his chest, arms wrapped around you like he knew you'd run if he doesn't, or change your mind.

Sylus got down on his knees in front of you, one of your legs over his shoulder while his face was getting closer and closer to your pussy. "It sings to me." he's hearing things now.

"He must be going insane." Zayne's mouth was over yours once again, kissing you so he won't have to hear you moan because of someone else. Jealousy was a disease, and it seems that both of the men haves it.

Red piecing eyes went up your body, searching for yours as Sylus tongue worked it's way around your clit, giving it a few licks and studying your reactions. But instead of finding the pair of eyes he keeps craving after, he was met with two green orbs instead, and the warden smirking as he held your face turned towards him.

Is the doctor not aware he's playing dangerously?

No, he knows what he's doing. And he seems to enjoy this.

Sylus's hands dragged your thighs closer to him, suddenly starting to devour your poor pussy like you were his last meal, making you gasp and grab onto Galen, moaning into his mouth.

As much as Tartarus is doing this out of jealousy, and to show that he has it in him, he could only lean in when you touch him. For a moment he almost forgot what he was doing when you ran your fingers through his hair.

There were hands all over your body, warm, making you shiver because of the cold air in the room. But that didn't stop them from working your body.

Wet, filthy sounds filled the whole room, and soon there was met with another foreign sound that you can't quite figure out just what exactly was it. It didn't come from your body, or the two men that didn't want to let you go.

And then you saw it in the corner of your eyes, something way too familiar, a figure, or two.

Then it hit you. It was people, watching you in this promiscuous position.

You gasped, not only because of the two beats that softly (not so) bite and left marks on your skin. But also because you realized just who those people were, the other praedators you were supposed to look after.

"Don't tell me you are embarrassed." that voice, sounding just as beautiful as ever, only adding fuel to the embarrassment you felt in that moment. "You were clearly enjoying yourself." and what it's bad about that. "With them." the disgust in Rafayel's voice. "Without me."

The cage's door suddenly flew open, being kicked down by Xavier who didn't look any happier.

You suddenly felt lighter, like you were lifted in the air by an invisible force. "That doesn't look very comfortable, pips." that means the whole gang was there.

"What do you even see in them." you don't know yourself.

"That's not the important question. What's more important is why are you here with them." it just happened, what would he know. "I was just a room away, you could have come to me at any time." there were so many eyes on you, and you had no idea what to do.

"You?" Hermit barked. "I'm obviously the better choice."

"And yet she came to see me first." Sylus licked his lips, cleaning your juices off his face as he didn't look too pleased to be interpreted.

"Only you?" the doctor said, still having you in his arms as he didn't want to let you go, especially with the uninvited guests here. "Us. She came for us, and then they auto invited themselves." as much as he hated the white haired man, the warden disliked the others even more.

"That's not important." a shiver went down your spine. "What's important is that we're here." you had a feeling that this wasn't going to end up well.

Your hand went to Zayne's arm, wrapping it around him as a way to get back on your feet, like he was your pillar in this dead end situation. But perhaps your actions didn't make any of them happy, and now you ended up floating in the air again.

"Focus on me." you had nowhere to look anyway. It gets on their nerves no matter what you do.

"I should finish what I start then, no? It's only fair." and you're fearing for your life, because that sounds like a threat.

"Didn't you have enough of him? Don't you want me more?" you're not complaining either way.

That long wet tongue from earlier went back between your legs, giving you the satisfaction that was paused for a moment.

Rough hands all over your body, searching, caressing, marking their territory as it only showed these praedators true nature. Greedy.

The same old greed you are familiar with, because that feeling was way too human to be foreign to you, or any of them. And somehow, it reminded you that even in times like these where they're devouring their prey, they're still part human, in a way or another.

Lips over yours, your neck, and other parts of your body, sucking at your skin. Teeth slowly sinking in your flesh, softly, not to turn you into whatever creatures of the night the men were, but leave a mark on you. To show that they were here before anyone else.

Your trembling hands, grabbing at whatever you could, to hold onto something because this feeling inside you was too overwhelming. This type of stimulant was making you scared, because you never experienced this before. Who knows when your soul would be pulled out your body.

These guys would enjoy it, wouldn't they? To get a taste of your soul. You don't even know what they'll devour first, your body or that invisible thing that's deep inside you, the core of your heart, the so called soul. If you even have one.

Your eyes traveled around you, scanning your surroundings, and the praedators. From their expressions that was a mixture of frustration and lust, to their bodies that seemed to pull towards yours. Except Caleb who was a few feet away, looking down at you with something darker than you ever saw from him.

You're scared, and aroused.

And since you're already in far too deep shit to back down, you could confidently say that you wanted everything that was going on in his mind.

"Did you get bored, kitten?" ah, right. You can't get too lost in your thoughts or you'll get someone mad. "No worries, I'll give you something fun to think about." Sylus's hands were on your hips, dragging you closer to him, in a way to get you away from the others. But everyone knew that was stupid because there was no way in hell anyone would leave you alone, especially with him.

You'd be lucky if you could stand on your own by the end of this, so let's not even talk about thinking. You'll probably need assistance for that too.

You took a deep breath, biting your lips as you felt something cold against your inner thighs. Well, here was it. You have no idea what the future will bring but it can't possibly be any more surprising than this.

"Touch me." Xavier took your hand in his, guiding it to the bulge he had in front of his pants. "Like you mean it." you felt a bit offended by his words. When did you ever do something that you didn't mean it?

"You're focusing on the wrong one." Rafayel took your other hand, guiding it up his body, making your eyes move from one praedator to another.

A big thumb over your clit, slowly circling it as something pierced your inside, making you hiss a little. You can't get a break at all. God, you didn't know what was more annoying, the constant nagging or the fact that Sylus's pace was so slow it was eating you inside.

"You're not even doing it right." he was talking like he didn't share the same braincells with everyone else in that room. "Move your hand." Caleb's fingers were now on your sensitive pearl, and he seems to understand your needs more than anyone else. He did proclaimed that he knows you better than anyone else ever will, so perhaps he wasn't lying.

No, he wasn't lying. While Sylus's cock moved slowly in and out, making you feel every single inch and vein, Caleb's hand was on a different level, moving in such a way that got you gasping and moving around from how overwhelming this was.

No one seemed to want to be left out. And as much as everyone had a different idea of what they wanted to do, they had to adapt to your body, rather than their burning need to be inside you.

Like this, you now have your hands busy, moving them around the cocks of the two men that were on each of your sides. It was either you doing the movement or them moving it themselves.

Even the praedator between your legs seemed to pick up the pace, making you whine and throw your head back.

"Open wide, relax." you couldn't even figure out words, or who exactly said that, but you obeyed. Opening your mouth and being welcomed with yet another fat cock. You saw so many tonight that you're starting to question if the only sizes out there were big and large. But to be honest, you don't want to know. You already know more than you should have.

And now, here you were. Being stuffed from all sides. Everyone keeping you busy just in case you got bored, which you doubt you'll do tonight.

But even so, that didn't stop anyone from touching you, and making you touch them.

The head of Sylus's dick touching your cervix, pressing hard against it and making a few tears appear in your eyes, or that might be Zayne who seems that he too is going for the deepest parts of your throat. Like he was trying to suffocate you for a moment, and you would had believed it if you didn't know him better.

Xavier who was only pulling you closer, not being satisfied with just your hand anymore, but it's not like he was happy about just a limb from the start. No, he wasn't happy about any of this, the fact that these fuckers had to appear in his way, and try to fight him for your attention. His death stare didn't go unnoticed, but everyone chose to ignore it.

After all, you surrounded yourself with such freaks. Who are they to complain about it when everyone happened to be part of that group of unsettling individuals.

A hot hand went on your body, making you shiver at the burning sensation. Can you believe Rafayel is really about to burn you?

"You're squeezing me, so tightly." you would have blamed it on his monstrous size if it wasn't for the fact that you're close.

And oh, everyone seemed to have stopped in place the moment you came. Piercing eyes fixed on your trembling body, something sweet filling the air and making them salivate. Now craving for you and your release even more than before.

This was game on.

Fuck, you have no idea what you just started.

You woke up being flipped around, ass in the air and feet way too far away from the ground, making your heart skip a beat for a moment.

Sylus was now to your side as he was replaced by someone else to get you to the edge, not that he wanted to.

"Relax, it's me." even more reasons to not relax that easily.

You took a deep breath as you were being filled again, making your eyes roll into your skull.

They really don't want to make it easier for you. Do they?

A hand went through your hair, slowly bending you over. And now you woke up in the same position as last time, cocks in your hands, and mouth.

Lots of hands over your body, and all kinds of sensations. Cold, hot, something tickling your skin in a way that got you gasping, crying, moaning at the way it just didn't seem to leave. It was there to disturb you, creep over you and be there with you through all this.

"Like that, just like that. Let it all out." you didn't even notice when everyone left you alone again.

Just like last time, eyes looking at you, at whatever you were going through. At the way you were crying, big hot tears running down your face in a hurry as you kept biting your lips, too embarrassed of the scene you were making.

But they stopped you. Hands across your body and a thumb softly parting your lips apart, to make you even lauder. To make you let out even more tears, to cry your frustration out, to become even messier than you already were.

And perhaps everyone was happy with the outcome, how you were shaking and grabbing the closest person to you as you were being filled with big ropes of cum.

For a moment even Caleb getting too overwhelmed, like your emotions were transferred to him. Making his evol black out at the same time as him, and you to fall forward.

But luckily you were caught immediately.

And now you were suspended in the air once again, because the man behind you recovered faster than you would have ever anticipated.

"Cutie, who do you want?"you can't think at the moment, and it honestly didn't matter.

"It's me. You want me. You don't need them."

"Say the word, and I'm all yours." they're fighting again.

"Ah-" you sighed. "All of you." this wasn't surprising. "I want every single one of you." your wish was their command.

After all, you are what you attract. And you came to the conclusion that you're greedy. So it only made sense when you were craving for something just as greedy as you.

[everythingmp3]

pillow talk

adult!Van x fem!reader

plot: you visit your hometown for summer break and can’t take your controversially older girlfriend with you, so you have to handle two weeks of being apart from her - one night, a phone call turns heated when you both realize how badly you’re aching for each other’s touch

authors note: someome asked if I could write a phone sex fic for her, which sounded fun to me, so this is what came of that :) I think at this point I’m fully a gf!Van writer lol I hope you enjoy <3 (ca. 5k words)

warnings: smut, dirty talk/phone sex, masturbation, me subtly pushing the “Van is a switch who prefers to bottom” agenda

two weeks isn´t that much time. it´ll fly by. it´ll be fine. I´ll be back with her before I know it.

that´s what you told yourself over and over before you flew home to see your family.

the years before, you´d always stayed at your parent’s place for at least a month each summer - if not two - but things had changed: you had fallen in love during fall the year before and weren´t used to spending more than a few days without her, so, to make the separation less daunting, you decided to make your stay a fourteen day affair, enough to make your family happy, but not too much to start going crazy from the prolonged distance between you and Van. 

there was no way in hell you´d have told your parents about her, that you were dating someone who could pass as their sibling, so you just let them believe that your palpable joyful, radiant energy came from a successful year in school, a group of lovely friends, a fulfilling job, instead of a woman who was out there missing their daughter so bad that she thought she might lose her mind.

within a few days of being back home, you and her developed a ritual of talking on the phone late at night, since it felt more intimate than rushed calls during the day while you were both out driving or at a cafe, a pillow talk vibe to your calls during those late hours that lent itself to whispered confessions, muffled laughter, losing track of time til you both had to get some sleep around 1 or 2 am. 

that night it was no different.

you´d spent the day at the lake, being social, meeting old friends, so by the time the sun set, you took a long shower, got yourself all nice and fresh, lit a scented candle in your room, opened the windows to hear the faint buzz of the cicadas and tall trees outside, and felt giddy as you called your girl, finally, splayed out over the bed as you pressed your phone to your cheek, leg dangling off the edge, gazing up at the ceiling, already smiling before she even picked up.

you beat her to the first word when the line on the other end opened up and said “heyyy” in a sweet enthusiastic tone.

“hey there” Van responded, her voice all kinds of cracked and raspy, a sound that was deeply familiar to you from when she woke up after a nap, usually a little disoriented and cranky, so you laughed and said “oh, sorry baby, did I wake you up?”, amused when you heard her clearing her throat and trying to pull herself together.

“no no, I mean not really, was just dozing, resting my eyes, as they say” she explained as she sat upright and found a better position. “ah I see, hope you´re not too tired to talk, I´ve been waiting for this all day” you teased, so she insisted “oh no way, I´m wide awake now, trust me sweetie, feel free to chew my ear off. this is just what happens when you´re not here to keep me up til midnight, makes my body realize how old it actually is.”

“well lucky me that I caught you like this, you sound sexy, very dreamy” you cooed into the speaker which made her scoff to mask her bashfulness at the shameless flirting “took you about five seconds to start hitting on me, huh”. 

you grinned to yourself and nodded as if she could see “oh I´ll make it one tomorrow, just you wait”, Van got comfortable and felt herself relax, immediately soothed by your way of lovingly messing with her, even while thousands of miles apart, “perfect, looking forward to it”.

“so” she said, as if she was just then coming to her senses, louder and clearer than before, “how are you holding up over there? anything juicy to tell me about today?”.

you thought for a second and absentmindedly stroked one of your pillows before you said “not really, no, I will have some juicy drama to tell you about if I ever slip up and mention you though, so who knows”. 

“oh, that would turn into a lovely little family affair if you dropped that during dinner, I can imagine, yeah. have you gotten close?” she was genuinely curious, Van was nosy at heart and it killed her that she couldn´t observe it, how you looked and behaved when you were blatantly lying to your parents faces about being single, whether there were little giveaways or if you were truly just a stone cold liar, unlike her, who would´ve accdientally blurted it all out day one if she was in your spot.

“nope, it´s not that hard to hide our relationship, you know, I can tell them stories about things we did, trips we took together, all that, because I just refer to you as a friend, age you down a bit, easy” you told her, phrasing it that way on purpose to tickle her, which worked, a faux-offended gasp on her end of the line before she answered “oh wow.. I´ve been demoted to the friend status, ouch”.

“but isn´t that kinda hot though? being my secret, hm?” you whispered, lascivious and dramatic the way you delivered those words, trying to get under her skin, which wasn´t entirely unsuccessful, Van joked in return and said “your secret? how scandalous” her voice lowered too, matching your energy, which made you miss the banter you two always shared, the casual back and forth during your days together, the little stolen moments where you were both trying your best to make each other laugh or roll your eyes or both.

“very, we´re doing something so fucked up here, baby, depraved really, perverted” you told her, playing it up, turning yourself on a bit by phrasing it that way, thinking of your dynamic as more forbidden than it actually was, which didn´t escape her, so she interrupted your thought and said “oh yeah, our take out and move nights would have people clutching their pearls, I´m sure”.

you weren´t gonna let up, you were in a mood, which made you wanna push her buttons a bit, - perhaps the fact that you were ovulating didn´t help - so you said “well… if I went into detail about how I´ve had my way with you on the couch you´re sitting on right now, then yeah, they probably would”

Van went quiet for a moment. you hit a nerve. got the upper hand with that one. your words forced some memories back into her mind that made her shiver: vivid flashes of being ruined by you, her hand resting right where she´d once held on for dear life while you´d fingered her within and inch of her life while sucking on her tits to a point of having her beg for mercy. she crossed her legs out of instinct and sighed “damn you´re in heat, huh?”. 

“yes, yes I am” you admitted, unwilling to sugar-coat how horny five days of no touching whatosever had left you, after weeks and weeks of being used to having access to her all the time. 

“so, tell me… what are you wearing right now?” you asked her, which got a laugh of surprise out of her that made you heart melt, a high-pitched sound that made her sound like she was your age. 

“oh it´s so fucking sexy, brace yourself” she said, so you smiled and told her “yeah go on”.

“my big white t-shirt that has a hole at the sleeve and my gray sweatpants. try not to moan too loudly imagining that” she uttered, which did give you an image that was enticing because you could easily picture the rest: her hair effortlessly messy from the humidity of the shower, falling down her shoulders in pretty waves, her face bare and rosy-cheeked, her lips glistening with that vanilla coconut balm she used, the taste of home, of soft kisses before bed, her body at ease in those wide clothes. 

“no bra, right?” you inquired, already knowing the obvious answer, but leaning into the sex-hotline voice you´d been trying on for the past minutes, which was getting to her more than she cared to admit, so she scoffed “yeah that´s right, you perv.” eliciting a laugh from you too that made you break character and fear that your parents might´ve been woken up by it, a grin of success on her face when she heard it. 

“fuck I wish I was there..” you groaned, theatrically rolling over on the bed and flinging your free arm out like a lovestruck teenager in a 90s romcom.

“I wanna feel you up soo bad. bet you´re so warm and soft right now” you whined to her, which made her admit to the same feeling “hm, wish you were here too. I miss how handsy you get, feels wrong not to be groped out of nowhere all day. also, your turn, what are you sporting for the night” she asked, taking the lead.

“well it´s hot as hell here, even at night, so just a thin tank and cotton panties” you told her and caressed your own bare thigh the way she might´ve if she was there in that moment.

she gave a low whistle, which made you shush her “shut up” as your face heated up from the feeling of being cat-called by her, as if she wasn´t your girlfriend, as if she was a hot stranger coming onto you. 

“next time just lie and say you´re in the nude, for my sake” she added, twirling her hair while picturing you like that, naked on top of your childhood bed, glistening from your freshly applied lotion, a glow of sweat and too much sun all over your skin, a sharp hit of desire to her body when she imagined the space where your thighs would part, where she might crawl up on that bed and push her face between your legs, feel and taste and please you. god. she missed you. 

“will do” you said and heard the labored breath on the end of the line, so you took the chance and set your mind on riling her up as much as possible while not being in the same room as her. challenge accepted. 

“you know…” you said, which made her snap out of her fantasies, “yeah?”.

“I´ve been fantasizing about you” you said, matter-of-factly, as if it was just an afterthought, trying to reel her in, peek her interest. 

“go on…” she said, barely hiding her pressing need to hear more.

“been dreaming of what I´ll do to you once I´m back home.” you went on, your voice silky smooth, buttering her up.

“oh, is that so?” she said, trying her best not to give away how much she loved hearing you talk like that, her tone huskier than before, that low, achingly attractive sound you´d come to crave during the day while waiting to speak to her later on.

“hmmm…been getting a bit too worked up actually, it´s intense. can´t help it though, I´m not used to being away from you for so long, my body is in withdrawal.” 

“hm, poor thing” she cooed, deeply pleased by your open admission, so you feigned offense and said “oh wow, thanks for the concern”, which made her smile, the expression audible when she said “oh come on, you know it´s no different for me! I just don´t do anything about it and stoically suffer through it, unlike you”.

you gasped a little “what´s that supposed to mean? you think I´ve been jerking off a bunch?”.

Van had a thing for getting a rise out of you, it wasn´t a secret, so she continued the thought “I know for a fact that you have, you´re a bit more… how shall I put this. efficient? in that regard. I mean it as a compliment, it´s hot”.

she wasn´t wrong, you were defintiely more active than her when it came to masturbation, which had lead to a few moments of her asking to watch, or even walking in on you because you´d purposely left the door cracked before getting yourself off.

“well, you do know me, yeah, I´ve been trying to help myself, more or less successfully…”.

you'd definitely had one or two experiences the days before where you´d thought of her with your hand between your legs, or a vibrator pressed against yourself, giving up mid-session when you could already tell that the orgasm would only leave you disappointed and wanting more.

“send a video next time.” Van said, dead-pan, a dry delivery that somehow sounded hotter than if she´d said it playfully, like it was a demand almost.

“uh, I´m not filming a sex tape in my childhood bedroom, thank you very much” you joked, which didn´t deter her, she just said “go to the bathroom then. or the guest room, or basement, I´m not picky.” you couldn´t tell if she was joking. she coulnd´t either.

“nope, no way, I want you to reallyyyy miss me by the time I get back, so I´m not sending you anything, not even clothed.”

“so cruel” she uttered, “hmm” you agreed, a moment of silence before she felt the boldness get a hold of her again.

“well, I don´t even need visuals, just tell me about it, give me something baby, please, look at it as charity for the elderly.” that made you laugh and give in, you told her “alright, alright, let´s see” while thinking of something to say that would get her hot and bothered.

“well… when I touch myself I don´t think of memories with you, but all the things I wanna do to you when I see you again.” she made a pleased “hmm” sound, urging you to elaborate.

“the moment I´m back, I´m eating you out til you´ve drenched my face and the sheets. won´t stop til you´re shaking and crying.” 

in that moment, you won, big time. you understood her to her core. her one big weakness, always, was being aggressivley pursued, so the second you stopped talking and the words settled in her mind and then in her body, her soul, she let out an almost pained “jesus christ…” a pang of need at her core then, heating pooling at her lower stomach, her face suddenly pink. 

you didn´t waste any time and kept going “hmm, gonna get my fill of you, gonna make you come over and over and over, won´t let you sleep. you´re so sensitive, it´s fucking addictive, you know that? I bet you´d come just from having me grind down against your through my clothes right now, hm?”. you were hitting her in all of her weak spots, as if it was nothing, proving your power over her in a way that made her body burn up.

Van´s breathing was heavy by then, her tone quiet and strained by lust as she tried her best to speak “yeah… yeah probably.. wouldn´t take much at all.. fuck go on please, what else are you gonna do.” you had her right where you wanted her. she was turning needy, desperate, weak, just how you remembered from all those times you´d come onto her before. 

“gonna kiss you and bite you and lick you all over” you were getting aroused from our own words then, so you shifted on the bed and sounded breathy and worked up as well “gonna grab you all over, rub up against you all eager and starved, gonna have you ride my fingers until you´ve drenched them.. my face too.. gonna ruin you, just the way you need, I promise baby” you told her, half speaking, half moaning the words.

“god you´re in heat…” Van groaned, turned on to no end form all the images you were conjuring up in her mind, her neck tingling where she imagined your kisses, her tits aching where she imagined your fingers digging in, her cunt throbbing where she imagined your mouth, your tongue, a strap.

“fuck I wish you were here right now, I wanna hear you whining and begging for me so bad” you confessed, your top clinging to your skin where you were getting damp from violent desire.

“fuck you´re killing me here, you know that” Van cursed into the speaker, so you begged “please touch yourself, please, tell me how wet you are… you´re soaked already, right?”.

Van did as you told her to and pushed her hand down her pants, no underwear in the way to keep her from immediately slipping her fingers over her slick folds, between her lips, collecting the arousal, lazily, but eagerly. 

she let out a whimper that nearly made you choke on your own spit, so you pressed your face against your phone as close as possible and said “oh god, yeah, keep going please, do it the way I would, rub your clit nice and slow, tease yourself the way I would if I was there, do it like me”. 

that instruction nearly did her in. she remembered your fingertips, the motions that always teased wild moans out of her, she imitated them and felt herself growing wetter by the second, so she moaned “fuck baby..” and kept going, legs wider apart then, her breaths and sounds pleasure driving you insane over the phone, your own body twitching with unreleased tension then as you could see it all so well in your mind, Van pressed back against the couch cushions with her hands down her pants, red splotches blooming all over her pretty pale neck the way they did over her whole body during sex.

“feels good right, to do it slow, to ache for more?” you asked, greedy for her whined words, so she said “god…yes” barely coherent, “go a bit faster now, give yourself some more” you told her and heard the result, a sharp cry as she started jerking herself off harder.

“baby.. I wish I could watch you do that right now and then have you rub your pussy all over mine, feel how wet we both are til were shaking and sweating” the words tumbled out without a filter then, you werent thinking, just spilling your thoughts, so she moaned “fucking hell” while trying to get off, you knew she needed more, it was the moment where you´d switch strategies, so you told her “put your fingers in, please”.

Van inched two of her fingers into her aching, soaked cunt and winced a little before it started to feel good, pushing herself in knuckle deep then, telling herself that they were your fingers, gripping the pillow next to her to hold on as she whined and started curling her fingers up.

“Jesus I can hear how wet you are…” you moaned, almost dying then from the sound of her fucking herself like that, faint squelching sounds reaching your ear that made you jealous beyond belief, aching for the feel of her pussy streched around your fingers, desperate to have her rock her hips down to hump your palm. 

without any hesitation you pushed your hand into your panties and started jerking off too, imagining that it was her you were jerking off, her juices, her folds, her clit, her cunt you were feeling slick and pulsating against your hand, mirroring what she was doing and pushing two of your fingers in, fast, no resistance at all, your arousal from before intense enough to leave you wet to a degeee where you could’ve taken a pretty big toy without any pain, suddenly wishing she was there to fuck you, to fill you, take you.

she heard what you were doing and kept moving her fingers in and out of herself, switching to a slower pace to draw it out, to play with herself the way you would.

“I miss how you fuck me, wish you were here kissing my neck while doing this, fuck” she whimpered and lost her composure as you couldn´t keep lying on your back and got up to straddle your hand and ride your own fingers, one hand holding the phone to your ear as the other was being soaked, your hips rocking back and forth, a whiny maon escaping you as you tried to find the best angle. 

“baby I miss you so much” you whined, needy and emotional then on top of being painfully horny, “miss you too god” she groaned in response, “I´m drenched just from listening to you, I´m so fucking wet” you whined to her, which gave Van a final blow to her sanity that made her twist and turn on the couch while adding a third finger to really satisfy her craving, to overwhelm herself the way you might, to come as hard as she was dying to.

“let me hear you please put your mouth right at the speaker” she begged, “you too” you demanded, so you both moved your phones right over your lips as you chased your shared climax and touched yourselves, fucked your own fingers, reached a point of pre-orgasm neediness that made her moan “fuck I´m so close, I´m gonna come” so you pleaded “just a bit more, wait for me, wanna come with you” so she held out as you fell onto your back again and shoved your fingers in as deep as possible, trying not to be too loud, hitting your weak spot over and over until your started clenching around your fingers and whined “I´m coming baby, come with me” which was all it took for her to let go and let the orgasm rip through her so hard she wasn´t sure if she´d squirted or if she had just gotten that wet, riding the high out while you did the same, breathless whimpers and moans echoing back and forth between your ears, until you both went slack, let out a shuddering deep breath at the same time, and felt a dazed, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of your mouths, your eyes still shut, your bodies sticky with sweat, your legs trembling, your arms cramped up from the holding of the phones and the fucking, a moment of peaceful, charged silence before you came to again.

“well.” Van said. “gotta go wash my hand now..” but before she could get up you said “no no wait!” which made her pause and say “huh?”, still reeling, a bit out of it.

“lick it off… it´s what I would do. do it how I would” you told her, which made her laugh in a way that gave away how winded she still was, “jesus youre greedy tonight” she teased and held her hand up before her face, fingers glistening in the dim light.

“I know you taste good, so. do it for me, please baby” you said, vocally batting your eyelashes at her, so she caved and said “alright” and licked most of the cum off her fingers, imagining it was your cum instead, which made her do it more thoroughly, the sloppy sounds pretty audible to you, so you sighed “hmm” in approval.

“you got me good baby. real good. fuck” she sighed and shook her head with a dazed, pleased expression while feeling a few last aftershocks tingling all over her body. 

“feels better, doesn´t it? when you let it out?” you said, feeling a cool night breeze come in through the window then and caress your limp, warm body. 

“yeah I needed that…I´m lucky you´re not as repressed as I am, really helps me out here” she said, only half joking, since she did thank her lucky stars that you weren´t shy and pushed her to yield to her desires in a way she never would´ve with someone else. 

“my pleasure” you whispered into your phone and took a sip of the water from your nightstand. just as you wanted to lay down again, you heard a scratching sound at the door and said “fuck, wait that´s the cat, she won´t give up til I open the door, give me a second” you told her and stood up to go let your little guest in.

Van laughed and said “sweet” as you ushered your childhood cat in, “yeah, she´s an old lady now, gotta help her onto the bed, she can´t jump that high anymore” you announced before you let out a groan from lifting her onto the bed and watched her suss out a good spot to lay down as you did the same.

“well, lucky for her, you loveee having old ladies in your bed” Van said, clearly very pleased with herself for how fast she came up with that out-of-pocket response, a scandalized gasp on your end that made her feel very smug before you chided her “you´re disgusting”, secretly approving of her remark of course.

“here, say hi to my strange girlfriend” you told your cat and held the phone out and to your surprise she actually let out a gentle meow, so Van cooed “ohh that´s adorable. damn I wish I was there to see.. are you petting her? I think I can hear the purring”.

“yeah, she´s getting all the caresses and kisses I can´t give you right now” you answered, smooth enough to make her feel a bit flustered then. “lucky girl” Van mused, endeared by the mental image of you half undressed lounging on a bed with a little creature snuggled up to you.

“but uh-” you said a moment after, trying to be earnest, to say something straight from the heart, so she didn´t interrupt you and gave you the time you needed to gather your thoughts, sensing your shift in tone. “I do miss you a lot. just so you know. like a lot, a lot. especially at night, this bed feels way too big, I don´t even want all this space for myself. ugh. I miss sleeping on your chest.” 

she was quiet for a second because she was too busy feeling her heart melt to respond immediately. “yeah I miss you too. not to make it a competition but I think you´re more miss-able than me, so I have it worse. I keep reaching over at night to put my arm over you, I miss the sounds you make when you nuzzle up to me.” 

“you know, it´s kinda wild…” you trailed off.

“hm, what?” she asked, speaking softly. 

“I used to spend some pretty horrible nights in this exact spot when I was younger, so I kinda wish I could go back in time to tell myself how lovely things are gonna get down the line. I wasn´t very good at being hopeful back then, so. yeah.” 

“aw baby…” she said, clearly affected by it, “breaking my heart here. I can´t take that image of you all upset and alone like that… now I wish I could go back in time too, to help you, or you know, hold you.”

you smiled fondly “of course you´d say that instead of thinking of yourself when you were younger, with way worse circumstances than mine. I love you.”

Van was selfless in love, devoted, loyal to a fault, you knew this, of course you did, but in that moment you were reminded of it in a way that made you tear up, which she heard, so she uttered “you´re making me choke up here, fuck. I love you too, so much.”

she shed a few tears, so did you, perhaps a little raw from the intense release a few minutes earlier, which ended in you eventually laughing, a sniffling sound before you said “sorry for getting all sappy on you, I mean it though, I´m so glad I ended up with you.”

“oh don´t be sorry” she said and wiped the corner of her eyes “happy tears are good, didn´t shed many of those before we met. so yeah. I´m glad too. that´s an understatement, but you get it.”

“I don´t wanna hang up yet…” you sighed, which was a shard sentiment, so she said “sure let´s just stay like this for a moment, we don´t have to talk, we could just lay together for a bit, relax”.

“okay yeah” you agreed, pleased by the idea of just hearing each other breathe.

“let me go to bed real quick, get comfortable” Van said and got up from the couch, which made her groan after having sat in one spot for so long, which made you laugh a little too loudly, so she exclaimed “oh, I`m glad my sounds of agony do it for you, really”.

“oh yeah, always” you whispered and got up from your spot as well “gonna go brush my teeth, I´ll be back in like two minutes” you told her and put your phone down on your blanket before rushing to your bathroom sink.

within no time, you were back, half under the covers, and said “okay, I´m back. my cat is curled up right by my head now by the way”.

Van was laying on her side by then and smiled “she smells good I bet, cats always smell like sweet dust or something”.

“wish you could meet her” you mused while stroking the soft fur, “she´d like you, she´s always been like her mom, prefers the ladies”. Van laughed “ah, a clever one then”.

“maybe I´ll sneak you in here one day, who knows” you whispered, a hint of mischief to your tone.

“oh sure, just have me stay in some nearby hotel like I´m your mistress that you can only invite over when the wife and kids are gone” she joked. “such a storyteller, huh” you teased “go on, flesh that fantasy out for me, will you” you told her, so she indulged you and spun a little tale about her being your side piece in some alternative universe.

by the time it reached 1 am, you both started slurring your words and felt your eyes get heavy, so eventually you said good night and hung up, both of you falling into a heavy, deeply relaxed sleep afterwards, sinking into a world of dreams that were just as soft and soothing and pleasurable as your phone call. 

the next morning, you woke up to a notification that Van had just transferred fifteen dollars to your account with an attached message that said “buy that book you told me about a few days ago, gotta have something to talk about later :)” , so you sent her a few sparkling pink hearts in response before you got up and realized that spending some time apart wasn´t all that bad after all, since it brought out new ways to get close to each other, to be sweet and attentive, even while you were separated by multiple state lines, proof that no amount of distance could keep you apart, ever.

[gatheringbones]

[“As I see it, there are three parts to the creative process: first, the extra vision with which the artist perceives a truth and conveys it by suggestion. Second, medium of expression: language for writers, paint for painters, clay or stone for sculptors, sound expressed in musical notes for composers. Third, design or structure. When it comes to language, nothing is more satisfying than to write a good sentence. It is no fun to write lumpishly, dully, in prose the reader must plod through like wet sand. But it is a pleasure to achieve, if one can, a clear running prose that is simple yet full of surprises. This does not just happen. It requires skill, hard work, a good ear, and continued practice, as much as it takes Heifetz to play the violin. The goals, as I have said, are clarity, interest, and aesthetic pleasure.

On the first of these I would like to quote Macaulay, a great historian and great writer, who once wrote to a friend, “How little the all important art of making meaning pellucid is studied now! Hardly any popular writer except myself thinks of it.” As to structure, my own form is narrative, which is not every historian’s, I may say—indeed, it is rather looked down on now by the advanced academics, but I don’t mind because no one could possibly persuade me that telling a story is not the most desirable thing a writer can do. Narrative history is neither as simple nor as straightforward as it might seem. It requires arrangement, composition, planning just like a painting—Rembrandt’s “Night Watch,” for example. He did not fit in all those figures with certain ones in the foreground and others in back and the light falling on them just so, without much trial and error and innumerable preliminary sketches. It is the same with writing history. Although the finished result may look to the reader natural and inevitable, as if the author had only to follow the sequence of events, it is not that easy. Sometimes, to catch attention, the crucial event and the causative circumstance have to be reversed in order—the event first and the cause afterwards, as in The Zimmermann Telegram. One must juggle with time.

In The Proud Tower, for instance, the two English chapters were originally conceived as one. I divided them and placed them well apart in order to give a feeling of progression, of forward chronological movement to the book. The story of the Anarchists with their ideas and deeds set in counterpoint to each other was a problem in arrangement. The middle section of the Hague chapter on the Paris Exposition of 1900 was originally planned as a separate short centerpiece, marking the turn of the century, until I saw it as a bridge linking the two Hague Conferences, where it now seems to belong. Structure is chiefly a problem of selection, an agonizing business because there is always more material than one can use or fit into a story. The problem is how and what to select out of all that happened without, by the very process of selection, giving an over- or under-emphasis which violates truth. One cannot put in everything: The result would be a shapeless mass. The job is to achieve a narrative line without straying from the essential facts or leaving out any essential facts and without twisting the material to suit one’s convenience. To do so is a temptation, but if you do it with history you invariably get tripped up by later events. I have been tempted once or twice and I know. The most difficult task of selection I had was in the Dreyfus chapter. To try to skip over the facts about the bordereau and the handwriting and the forgeries—all the elements of the Case as distinct from the Affair—in order to focus instead on what happened to France and yet at the same time give the reader enough background information to enable him to understand what was going on, nearly drove me to despair. My writing slowed down to a trickle until one dreadful day when I went to my study at nine and stayed there all day in a blank coma until five, when I emerged without having written a single word. Anyone who is a writer will know how frightening that was. You feel you have come to the end of your powers; you will not finish the book; you may never write again.”]

barbara w. tuchman, from practicing history: selected essays, 1996

[lunarmoonwhispers]

Rhaenyra x Velaryon Oc

Angst

Warning: Smut

Driftmark’s succession had been called into question—Lucerys’ inheritance.

I had been living here since my brother and sister’s deaths. I could not face Rhaenyra or the children. I had not seen them in six years. Ignored all their letters. Took to the skies on dragonback whenever they visited Mother. I even went off to war in the Stepstones with Father just to avoid them. Still, the letters never stopped. If anything, they only multiplied.

I had flown home now to inform Mother of Father’s injuries. And now, I was to fly with her and my niece Baela to King’s Landing. I was nervous—no, panicked. I knew they would be there. I knew she would be there. Luke was her son, after all. Last I heard, she had wed Daemon and borne him two more children.

But I could not be hurt by it. I was the one who left.

My siblings were dead. And my heart—it had shattered. I was haunted by them, haunted by the truth that I could not save either. I could not be anything to anyone then. So I ran.

But I had only been running in circles.

And now I had returned to where it began.

I was in the training yard, speaking with old friends from years ago, those I had known before the world shifted beneath my feet. We caught up. Spoke as though time had not ravaged us. Mother and Baela had run off—no doubt chasing mischief. Baela was ever like Laena. The thought made my heart twist with something close to fondness.

“Fa—Uncle.”

The voice behind me froze the air in my lungs. Luke.

It took a moment before I turned. Slowly. My heart stuttered when I saw them: three boys who looked so much like me.

“Boys,” I said, nodding once.

Jace scoffed, arms crossed. But even he could not hide the hurt carved into his face. It was written all over him. And it broke something in me.

I stepped forward, placing a hand on Luke’s and Joffrey’s shoulders. Jace stood between them, stiff as a blade.

“You’ve been well?” I asked.

Luke and Joffrey nodded, shy and silent. Jace turned away, jaw clenched so tight I feared it might shatter.

“Where is your mother?” I asked, though I dreaded the answer.

“With Grandfather,” Luke replied softly. I nodded.

“Come, then. Let us go see your grandmother,” I said, leading them gently.

Mother was in her temporary chambers. She welcomed the boys with open arms, delighted. Luke and Joffrey lit up at the sight of her, their questions falling over one another—How is Grandfather? Will he recover?

But Jace… Jace stood apart.

“Jace,” I called gently.

He looked over, face unreadable. I tilted my head, beckoning him to the other side of the room. He followed, slowly. I stopped near the window, looking out over King’s Landing.

“You boys have been well?” I asked again, my voice quieter now.

He scoffed. “Now you care?”

I looked at him. His face was a storm of anger, but it was his eyes that betrayed him—red-rimmed, aching.

“Jace…”

“Six years,” he snapped. “Six fucking years you left us. After everything.”

I glanced toward Mother and the boys, still deep in conversation. Then back to Jace. I stepped closer, placed a hand on his shoulder—but he knocked it away.

“I thought you loved us. That we were your sons.”

“I do love you,” I said, my voice breaking. “Nothing about that has changed. My love for you only grows—every second of every day.”

“Then why did you leave?” he choked out. His voice cracked, tears shimmering in his eyes that he refused to let fall.

“My siblings died. And the realm whispered your names like curses. Called you bastards. I thought my presence only made things worse. I—”

“I didn’t care what they said!” Jace shouted, trembling. “I knew. I’ve always known. I didn’t care. I just… I just needed you. And you left me. You didn’t write back. You wouldn’t see me. You acted like I didn’t exist!”

His voice cracked again. His body shook. My face crumpled, and I did the only thing I could—I pulled him into my arms and held him tightly, pressing my lips to his temple.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He cried into my shoulder—silent, but devastating.

I pulled him back gently, my hands on his shoulders, lowering myself to eye level.

“I will never leave you again. You or your brothers. I swear it, Jace. And I swear that you have always been loved by me—and always will be. From this day until the end of all things.”

He nodded, his eyes rimmed with red, barely keeping his composure.

“And Mother?” he asked, his voice small again. Like the boy he still was, beneath all the pain.

I hesitated.

Then I nodded. “Your mother, too.”

I pulled him close again, kissed his head once more, and when I turned back to Luke and Joffrey, I drew them into my arms as well—gathering them like pieces of my own heart.

I kissed their heads and whispered, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

And I meant it, every word.

——————————————————————

I stayed with the boys the rest of the day. They had chosen to remain in my chambers instead of the ones assigned to them—unwilling to part from me.

I watched them as they slept, limbs tangled and sprawled across the whole of my bed. A soft smile curved my lips as I brushed their curls back from their faces. Then I heard a door creak.

I turned, eyes landing on the entrance—only to find it shut. Confused, I looked around… and froze.

She stood by the far wall, shadowed in the moonlight.

Rhaenyra.

My breath caught. My mind emptied. My lips parted soundlessly as a shiver ran down my spine. Gods, she was even more beautiful than the last time I saw her.

She looked like one of those angels my father once whispered about.

“Rhaenyra,” I breathed.

I rose to my feet slowly, her eyes already fixed on me, burning with a fire I knew too well. The same fire I saw in Jace’s gaze. Her body trembled—grief or fury, or both, I could not say.

She moved toward me like a wraith, like she floated above the ground. The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight. I had extinguished the candles to help the boys rest.

As she neared, I stepped forward, whispering her name again.

Her expression twisted. She drew her hand back—and struck me.

Shit.

My head turned with the blow. I grunted, rubbing my cheek. Gods, I deserved that. I turned back toward her, dragging a hand down my face, jaw tight.

She had hard hands.

But it wasn’t the pain that undid me. It was her eyes. They filled with tears—rage and anguish mingled in equal measure. She tried to hide it, but her heart bled through.

“Nyra,” I murmured.

“No.” She shook her head violently. “You do not get to call me that.” Her voice cracked, thick with hurt. I said nothing, struck dumb.

“You left me,” she said, stepping closer. “Alone. To raise three children—our children—by myself. You left me vulnerable, unmarried, with no explanation. I woke, and you were gone.”

Her voice broke, and so did I.

“And still I waited. Gods help me, I waited. I thought… I thought you would return. Until Baela told me you’d gone to the Stepstones. And that was when I knew. You weren’t coming back. You never meant to.”

She was impossibly close now, jabbing a finger into my chest as she laughed bitterly.

“That our love wasn’t enough for you. That I wasn’t. Nor our sons.”

She broke then, sobbing. I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight. I glanced over my shoulder—thank the gods, the boys were still asleep. Without another word, I lifted Rhaenyra in my arms and carried her across the room, away from them. I set her down gently by the couch.

“It wasn’t true,” I said into her hair. “You were always enough. You and the boys… you’re my heart in flesh and blood. But I—I could not be what you needed.”

She pulled back, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“I needed you,” she said fiercely. “I didn’t care how broken you were. How lost. I only needed you to stay. I needed our love to stand against their spite.”

“You would have wanted marriage,” I said quietly. “And they already called the boys bastards. Called you a whore. I would not drag you through more shame.”

“No.” Her voice was cold steel now. “You don’t get to make that choice for me. Or for our sons. None of it would have mattered—if you were here.”

“You seem content enough,” I said.

A mistake.

Her hand flew up to strike me again, but I caught her wrist—then the other as she tried again.

“You have a husband now,” I said tightly. “A man who strengthens your claim. One you can be with openly. Without whispers, without shame. You could be happy, Rhaenyra.”

“I don’t want him,” she spat, tearing away. “I want you.”

She turned from me, pressing her hand to her forehead, trembling.

“What’s done is done,” I said quietly.

She turned back, chest rising and falling with each breath.

“And when this farce ends—will you leave us again?” she asked.

“Never again,” I said, stepping closer. Her gaze met mine, sharp and searching.

“And you could stand to watch me be with another man? Bear more of his children? Be his wife? Let him touch me where only you one did?”

I clenched my jaw, blood hot in my veins. I looked away.

But she stepped in front of me again, refusing to let me go.

“You would let another man do to me what you used to? Touch me the way you did?”

“Must you provoke me?” I growled. “The boys—”

She took my hand and led me toward the wall. There, she opened a hidden door—one I hadn’t even noticed. She pulled me through, shut it behind us, and turned to face me.

“Will you take me? Or be a coward again?”

I shoved her against the door, crashing my lips onto hers.

She moaned, urgent and wild. It was messy—teeth, tongue, gasps—years of longing colliding at once. I shoved her nightgown up, gripping her thighs as she wrapped them around me, grinding down against her.

She broke away, head thrown back, moaning into the dark. I kissed her throat, marking her, claiming her, hips rolling slow and hard. Her cries in my ear set me ablaze.

I pulled her gown down, exposing her breasts. I sucked on one, rough hands squeezing the other, twisting the nipple between my fingers.

Then I set her down. We tore at each other’s clothes like mad things.

When she tried to cover her stomach, I knelt and kissed the soft curve. Plump from childbirth—evidence of the life she gave. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

I threw her legs over my shoulders, kissing her inner thighs before dragging my tongue up her cunt. I sucked her clit, and she cried out, fisting my hair and pulling me closer as I devoured her like a starving man. She came quickly, our bodies too raw with longing.

I stood, pressing my mouth to hers, letting her taste herself. My hand found her throat as her eyes rolled back. I bit her lip and released it, then picked her up again. Her legs wrapped around me once more.

I teased her entrance. She moaned, slapped my hand away, and took my cock in her hand, guiding it in herself.

We both groaned as I entered her. Her cunt clung to me, tight even after five children. I bottomed out with a grunt, holding still to keep from spilling too soon. She whined in protest.

I drew back slowly, then pushed in again. Soft, steady thrusts. Letting her feel how much I missed her.

But soon I snapped my hips harder, faster, until I was a blur—fucking her like it had never stopped, like she still belonged to me.

Her cries grew louder. I kissed her to muffle them, not knowing how thick the walls were. My hand circled her throat again, squeezing lightly.

The pressure built fast. I felt her pulsing around me, and my cock thickened.

“Baby, I’m—” I gasped.

“Me too,” she moaned. “Cum inside me.”

That broke me.

I thrust hard one final time, and we came together. Her back arched, my name leaving her lips like a prayer. We clung to each other, shaking, riding it out, not ready to let go.

I fucked her through it, slowing gradually until I stilled. Holding her to me, resting my head between her breasts as she cradled me close.

Eventually, I dressed her again, kissing her face softly. I dressed myself, then lifted her into my arms once more.

I returned to the room with her, sighing in relief to see the boys still asleep. I laid her down beside Luke, then climbed in behind her, chest pressed to her back. I wrapped my arms around them—my family. My loves.

I kissed the back of Rhaenyra’s head.

There was still much to atone for. I knew that.

But I would never leave them again.

[soldierspidey]

Character: Bob Reynolds (MCU)

Type of request: Imagine, lots of fluff, idk if that end bit also counts as smut????

The very basic idea that I have is; Bob gets home after a long day of work and he can’t seem to find the reader. He goes to their room, and he realises the reader is in the bathroom. Bob gets into bed, and the reader takes quite a while in the loo. The reader eventually joins him in bed and Bob sees that the reader is quite teary-eyed and her voice is wobbly. When he asks what’s wrong the reader can’t keep herself together and starts crying. The reader confesses to have been very dysphoric, especially in recent months. Bob comforts her (and perhaps, just maybe, potentially; with the consent of the reader he feels her up a little 🤫🤫 Nothing too extreme, just in a reassuring way, if that makes sense??). Anyhoo, that’s my cutesy little idea

through her tears

bob reynolds x mtf!reader

comfort/fluff/ ever so slightly suggestive end

A/N ; it’s funny to me how I branded myself as a "male reader only," and my first fic on here is for mtf girlies x) anyhoo! had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you enjoy it spence!!!! (also, i’m sorry if dysphoria depiction isn’t quite accurate. It is for me, and I used my own experiences with it to write this!)

TW : gender disphoria, mental health struggles, kind of suggestive towards the end ??, emotional distress, crying.

1.3k words

Bob had spent the entire day outside the watchtower. It was one of the rare days when he’d feel well enough to go outside and grab groceries for the team. It was a small thing, but for Bob, it was huge. Sometimes he felt useless, barely doing anything while his mates saved the world from extraterrestrial attacks, but there was always someone to make him feel better, to make him feel seen, and that person was his girlfriend.

The two started dating not so long ago, meeting in a bookshop where they reached for the same books, turning him into an awkward mess as he hadn’t planned to talk to anyone. This quickly evolved into something beyond their love for the same author.

She now lives with the Thunderbolts* and Bob in the watchtower, and they quickly accepted her, a quiet, nice girl who was a perfect match for Bob. Yelena loved her.

He came home a little later than usual, getting lost in a bookshop and fumbling with his wallet when paying came. His arms full of grocery bags, he quickly went to put them on the kitchen counter, where he knew John would later find them and put the respective items in their respective places. He walked up to their shared room, expecting to find her there reading or scrolling through her phone, but when he opened the door, she was nowhere to be seen. Bob frowned slightly, a confused look on his face.

His back ached from the day out and carrying all those bags, but somehow, her absence hit harder than any back pain.

He called her name, a questioning tone in his voice, to which she answered quickly that she was in the bathroom, which made the slight tension in his shoulders relax, at least he knew where she was.

This new found relaxed state allowed him to throw himself on the bed, the box spring making a familiar creaking sound. He let out a deep sigh, the ache in his back slowly fading away as he was finally in an horizontal position.

He doesn’t know how long he waited, five, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes, his face buried into the pillow breathing in the comforting and familiar scent of his girlfriend's shampoo.

A few moments later, Y/n finally entered the bedroom, an oversized jumper that might as well have belonged to Bob covering her frame, she quickly got into bed next to her boyfriend, which gave her some space after being sprawled on the mattress like a starfish. He looked up at her, and then at the bathroom from which she'd just arrive, and saw a towel covering the mirror. She rapidly hid herself under the blanket, even if it wasn’t necessary in the current warmth of the room.

His gaze softened with love as he wrapped his arms around her.

“How was your day ?” She asked, but her voice was wobbly, a lump forming in her throat as soon as she spoke, biting her inner cheeks to keep herself from crying.

“It was alright, I bought books..” He said the last part of his sentence in more of a whispery tone, he searched her eyes, wanting to understand the cause of the shakiness in her voice. However as soon as his gaze met hers, a sense of deep protectiveness took over him. Her eyes were red rimmed, her cheeks wet.

He sat up, looking at her.

“What’s going on ?” He asked, his hands still resting on her waist as she sat up slightly, bringing her knees to her chest before completely breaking down, the gates that previously held her tears breaking and letting out a wave of sobs that she tried to wipe away, but it was too much.

Bob’s eyes widened, not instantly knowing how to react, it had happened before, but never this sudden. He pulled her enough to bring her into a hug, one his hand tracing soothing circles on her back while the other gently reached her hair.

“Hey…it’s okay, it's okay…” He started, his voice soft, his touch tender. Y/n didn’t say a word for five good minutes, the only sound coming from her being her sobs. Then she managed to form a sentence along the line of :

“I’m sorry you have to put up with me..” The tremor in her voice is still present and making it hard for her to speak.

“Why are you saying this..” He asked, his brows knitting together, his voice still soft but filled with incomprehension.

“I’m not a real girl Bob, I-” she started but Bob cut her mid sentence,

“You’re pretty much the realest girl I’ve ever met, unless you tell me you’re a hologram…Love, you are a real girl..” He murmured, pressing a small kiss to the top of her head.

“I can’t even look at myself in a mirror without wanting to rip my skin off,” She sniffled, her voice breaking again as she continued sobbing, taking multiple inhales as Bob looked at her, a half-concerned, half-sad look on his face.

“This is so wrong, I feel like it's not even my body..” She spoke as she kept on crying.

She was Bob's everything, and seeing her in such a state only made him want to kiss her gender dysphoria away, but he let her talk.

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore…I’m scared that one day…” She took a deep breath, trying to talk clearly through the tears. “...I’m scared that one day you’ll leave me because you’ll find another girl...”

His brows furrowed.

“Let me stop you right here, my love..” he started, cupping her cheeks with his warm hands, “I would NEVER leave you for another girl.. okay ..? You are genuinely the most amazing girl I could’ve even wished for.” He continued, wiping her tears away with his thumb, his eyes full of love and admiration for his girlfriend.

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with trust, love and something maybe even deeper. Her hands found his on her cheeks, her sobs not stopping nonetheless.

“You’re so beautiful..” he whispered, his eyes searching hers, kissing her softly, his hands slowly sliding down from her cheeks to her shoulders. Her own hands landed on Bob's toned chest.

“Sometimes I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.” Bob smiled, this adorable, almost boyish smile that always made Y/n’s heart flutter.

“You’re so cheesy”, she said, a small laugh escaping her throat through her, now softer, sobs.

He looked at her again, with the kindest type of love and care seeping through his gaze as he continued hugging her.

“You deserve all the cheesiness and all the love in the world” He responded, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead, before peppering her face in small lovey-dovey kisses.

“Can I do anything to help…” Bob asked, his hands falling back to her shoulders. She shrugged, her mouth opening slightly before closing it and reopening it as if she hesitated.

“Just…just keep on touching me…it's…it's grounding” She answered, her head pressing into Bob's collarbone, and he started caressing her shoulder gently as soon as she finished her sentence. His hands started roaming slightly as he kept on pressing small kisses into her hair, he reached her waist, hovering slightly above it before continuing his soft touches, making her squirm slightly, her waist being a sensitive spot.

“Still okay ?” He asked, resting his hands on her hips.

“Mhm” she hummed, tears still flowed but her sobs had subsided, now replaced by an ever so slightly ragged breathing.

“I love you Y/n…and you're the most precious person in the world to me..” He said, kissing her cheek.

“I love you too Bob…thank you…” She responded, looking up at him with earnest eyes. Her breathing steadied slightly after a while, and maybe, just maybe she felt a little bit more like herself that day.

@sparkyspens :3

masterlist | rules for requesting

[shadow-ravin]

Through a (different) looking glass

You can also read or listen to this post on AO3. A couple of weeks ago, I came across a comment on Reddit from a person who refused to listen to podfics that the author wasn’t involved in creating because they aren’t how the author intended the story. That was not the first time I’ve encountered this attitude. There are many out there with the same opinion and many authors who refuse to allow podfics of their works for that same reason.

I want to take a second to acknowledge that if you don’t want people making podfics of your works, that’s your choice, and while I don’t understand it, you are more than welcome to make it. I also want to acknowledge that if podfics aren’t your thing, then you have no obligation to listen to them, even if they are of your own works. That said, this reason, not wanting to consume or allow podfics made because of some desire to preserve the author’s intent, is one that makes absolutely no sense to me.

Now, I could point out how fanfiction in itself is inherently transformative. The fanfic author has already taken someone else’s work and changed it, changed the meaning and purpose of it. Altered it in ways that are beyond the original author’s intent. And thus, disliking podfic on the basis of author’s intent is incredibly hypocritical, but that isn’t what I’d like to talk about today.

I’d like to talk about reading and writing. An author can pour their heart and soul out onto a page and intend many things, but once they put their work out into the world and allow others to read it, the original intent and meaning of it matters very little. To explain why, I’d like to take a second to describe how reading works outside of letters representing sounds and sounds making words.

If you talk to anyone who is involved with teaching kids to read and actually knows what they are doing, you’d find out that there are a number of factors that contribute to a person’s ability to comprehend what they are reading and one of those factors is background knowledge. Children with more varied lived experiences and greater knowledge of the world have a much easier time reading than those who don’t. For example, a child that has never seen a lion or a zebra before would have a hard time understanding what one was. 

In a classroom setting, a teacher would guide the children and help them interpret the text. They might show pictures or videos so that the child understood what a lion was or they might teach them how to use context clues to use the text itself to determine that a zebra is kind of like a horse but wild and with stripes. Now lions and zebras are concrete objects with easy definitions. So what happens when the thing your brain is trying to interpret and comprehend happens to be an abstract idea or complex problem?

It comes back to the same thing. Our background knowledge and lived experiences become the lens through which we interpret the story, but there are no pictures or videos to give us an easy concrete answer to what something is. Add to this that people are unique. No two people have the same life story and no two people are going to interpret the same story in precisely the same way. I had an experience with this in college. 

For a YA fiction class, I was supposed to read a YA novel and create a book trailer for it. The book I chose was Green Angel by Alice Hoffman. For those of you who haven’t read it, it is about a teenage girl who loses her whole family in some kind of tragedy that affects the whole community. The novel never directly states what exactly happened, only that a lot of people died. As an American 90’s baby who’s first real awareness of the greater world came with the terrorist attacks on the twin towers, I interpreted this book as a post-9/11 novel. The unnamed tragedy sounded exactly like a terrorist attack. The mysterious, unnamed, unknown perpetrators sounded like terrorists. The confusion and fear and grief in the aftermath of the event sounded exactly like what the US experienced. This interpretation of the text heavily influenced the way I approached the assignment, and initially, I got a bad grade on it because of that. 

My professor, 30-plus years older than me, didn’t appreciate the way I interpreted the text because it was different from her own interpretation. Instead of a post-9/11 novel, she saw it as a reactionary text about the Cold War. My terrorists were her communist spies. The fear and suspicion of the community, too similar to the red scare. The unnamed tragedy seemed to her to be exactly what the culture of the time convinced her would happen to the US.

In the end, we had a very productive talk about our different interpretations and decided we were both equally right. Neither one of us was the author and neither one of us could possibly know what the author originally intended. Maybe the author intended something else entirely, but we’ll never know and that’s okay.

Every person brings their own self into a story and walks away with something different. What the author intended has very little relevance to the reader when compared to how the reader interprets the story. A man is never going to interpret a story the same way as a woman. A trans person will never see a conflict the same way as a cis person. A LGBTQIA+ person will never look at a relationship the same as a straight person. A child will never grasp the same subtext as an adult. And a reader will never take away the exact message as an author intended.

Restricting or refusing to interact with podfic on the basis of “preserving the author’s original intent” seems not only backwards and pointless, but a way of needlessly restricting fandom and creativity. 

People re-interpret older works and translate them to different mediums all the time. Most often, we see this when books become movies. I’m not going to argue which is better, but instead would like to offer a different point of view: more cake. 

In most fandom circles, it is highly encouraged to write whatever you want even if it has been done before. And if your fandom circle does not encourage this, I suggest you go find a less toxic one. This is because everyone loves more cake. Just because many people have already written a fix-it fic or a everybody-lives-and-nobody-dies fic or a meet the family fic or whatever it is for your fandom, does not mean that you shouldn’t write one too because it will be equally loved and it does not take away from the others just by existing.

Movies are more cake. They don’t take anything away from the book just because they exist. Instead they give fans a new way of interacting with their favorite story or characters. Podfics, like movies, are more cake. They give something new without taking anything away.

In their most basic form, a podfic is just an audio recording of someone reading a fanfic. No different than an audiobook and great for accessibility, but most podficcers don't create podfic for accessibility reasons. Accessibility is an awesome bonus but, as blackglass put it, we create because it is our way of interacting with fandom, our way of putting ourselves into the content we enjoy and sharing our own interpretations of the stories we love.

And podfic is different from the original. In an audiobook, a reader is paid to read a story into a microphone in a way that conveys the original content to the reader in a format as similar to the original as possible. Audiobook narrators not only have less freedom for creativity in what they do, but also they are doing their job not recording the story because they love the story.

Podficcers use tone, inflection, pacing, sound effects, music, and more to share the story the way they read the story. And, just like with reading a fanfic, a podfic is just as open to interpretation. What the podficcer intends is probably not what the author intends and, just like the reader, what the listener takes away from the podfic is probably not what the podficcer intended, but that's the way fandom and creativity and the human mind work. We take an idea and we make it a part of ourselves, we change it, transform it to reflect our own lived experiences and then we share it with others so that they can do the same.

[twinroomies]

Im new here, is there tag/people that can explain icarus meme? Who anonymous icarus that getting warned? Masterpost maybe?

There are explanations, but let's do you one better, I'll write a summary here and we can put a specific tag on it! "Icarus Anon" was a user who sent me about 20 anonymous asks in the span of about a half hour. This was early on in the blog's run, I think maybe even the SECOND DAY of it's existence, and I decided the best way to cut that kind of behavior out of the equation was to be light-hearted about it and address it head on. So I said:

"Careful, Icarus." Now, this isn't my bit, this actually comes from an anecdote that became a recurring gag on the "Craig Fergurson Late Night Show" (which honestly if you have not seen clips from it might be some of my favorite comedy material out there, this show frequently just became live-action Space Ghost Coast to Coast, it was great), after someone responded to the character Geoff Peterson, who's that skeleton gentleman over there, with the iconic two word phrase our joke here stems from as well over on Twitter. Now, this is all well and good, but what I wasn't expecting was that the general audience of Twin Roomies would LOVE this bit as well. Icarus Anon has had asks submitted about them, fan-art most prominently created by the insanely talented @givemenoname, and even requests for me to put them in the main comic*. The problem is, dear anon*, that Icarus was created as a warning, right? While I've begrudgingly accepted this as a bit that my audience enjoys and have even come to embrace it myself, the last thing I want is for more people to start doing things like that in order to create a legacy. The way I handled that situation was, though with good intent, kind of a mistake. This is why Icarus Anon isn't actively discussed, hadn't been given a tag up to now, or wasn't given an explanation in the masterpost. He's not supposed to exist, and he was originally a specific poster that was causing a ruckus. Now, however, the character has become a representation of my audience getting rowdy / people who ask questions who accidentally go a bit far. Questions like: "Can I see more thicc Asriel"? Careful, Icarus. Not to be confused with questions that ACTUALLY go too far, those questions are either ignored or dragged into the streets to made into an example. Like Icarus in the original folktale, an Icarus Anon is someone who, with the best intentions, flies too close to the sun in the joy of their freedom. Not with hate, malice, or spite, but out of passion. But, still... lest the wax melt in the heat of the sun?

Careful, Icarus.

*I personally see the character of Icarus Anon as a 'he' as Icarus himself was a boy, though I have no idea of the gender of the original anon and for reasons I discuss in the main text I firmly separate this character from them now. *For the record, everyone is anon around here even if you ask a question with your name attached.

[darkestheartofmachine]

a few top!male!player/bottom!harley sawyer AU ideas, which idk, if i will ever do something with, but maybe someone else just might? so basically, if someone likes smth in here and wants to draw / write it, feel free. i might one day use those ideas too, but granted, we prob will explore / exploit them differently anyways. so no harm is done. 

anyways. 

priest harley and organist angel. angel is hired to be a new organist, when church's old one fully retires. and harley, who is well, man of ‘god’, so basically a loser old virgin (he’s always been that for me) feels strange things toward angel. at first, he hates him, bc of course, he would. but then the longer angel sticks around, the more harley begins to stare at him with something besides annoyance and he also finds his music talents to be quite breathtaking. and it is considering that he never cared about music. angel is mute in this, but it’s known that once upon a time he was part of a boy choir, when he was a kid. what exactly happened to make him stop speaking is unknown. but he supposedly had a good voice once upon a time. this whole scenario can be set in any timeline. like 80s, 40s or even smth like 1890 tbh. since the main problem for harley here is forbidden lust for a man. which is a sin or smth. this also can go two ways. like forbidden romance or harley going low-key frollo here and ‘hellfire, hellfire’ lol. 

angel is elliot’s son / nephew and when elliot dies, he basically becomes playtime co CEO. harley is harley. in other words, he now has a young boss, who seemingly harasses him for lols. angel can be a spoiled, stubborn brat in this and initiate his and harley’s sexual (at first) relationships, as well as be pretty much aware about all the horror playtime co does to kids, so i guess in this AU, it’s full blown dark!angel, who is just well, bored and evil. and wants to bend one specific doctor over the table. in the end, he’s also the one who gives a command to turn harley into a robot / computer. out of love tho. very twisted love. 

AU, where leith ends up never reached to harley, so he still works at his old job and never steps inside the playtime co factory. angel also doesn’t work for playtime co in this and instead a mechanic at local car fix center. he and harley met, when harley’s car breaks down and well, basically, they maintain romantic relationships throughout all of this. in other words, this is AU where everything is normal and nothing hurts, and harley is a slightly better person than in canon, but only bc no one allowed him to murder people and experiment on children lol. aside from that, he still sucks. 

childhood friends AU, where angel is around the same age as harley and remains his only friend / close person almost throughout his whole life. to the point, where harley’s passiveness and clinginess to him goes full blown nuclear yaoi level. i imagine, that they have the longest slow burn ever, but also that good ole codependency, where angel pretty much gets committed to just being harley’s whatever he wants. harley for his part keeps other people away from angel. including other friends / potential lovers and so on. in this AU, he drags angel along with him to work at a playtime co factory, where angel can be mechanic / janitor / idk anything, that doesn’t connect with deeper levels of the factory. so he’s unaware about what job harley does, actually or what company does to kids. when shit hits the fan, howerer, instead of sticking around and finding out, harley who knows that jig is up and that he’d be disposed of, makes a run for it, dragging angel along. throughout the course of it, angel pretty much finds out what kind of messed up person harley truly is, the full extend of it, but he is still on the run with him, anyways. feeling torn about what harley did and also knowing that the other man is pretty much dependent on him, and seemingly truly afraid, that angel will abandon him. which he doesn’t, bc at this point, he’s conditioned to be there for harley first and everything else later. this one along with priest AU is the most appealing to me, won’t lie. 

AU where playtime co is a psychiatric facility and angel is a patient. harley is a psychiatrist, but i imagine, that he along with others will still experiment on patients. every toy here is an adult and a human, so this can be your cue. like, each of them have disorders, but instead of helping them harley and the co do some stuff with them. idk what specifically, but smth to do with the brain, i think. angel doesn’t speak and appears to have amnesia, he doesn’t remember what he did to get here, and harley exploits it. naturally, unethical relationships are being formed, where angel accidently seduces his psychiatrist, esp since the old fart apparently likes to be smacked around. 

and the last one, angel is part of IT team or someone, who has to maintain sawyer’s systems, when he becomes a machine. they didn’t met prior to this and for his part, angel assumes that harley was just that. a super intelligent machine, not once a human. harley who is bitter, lonely and just generally hates everyone around him, finds himself enjoying angel’s company as well as seeing means to get back at leith and others via him. he can attempt to slowly manipulate angel into doing his biddings, while accidentally getting attached to him as well along the way. 

[00lunect]

★JD with Braces: Take 6★

Translation:

At night…

JD (in thought): I feel ridiculous… I better get some ice cream and go back to bed…

So, here we have the official Take 6! ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧. It was originally going to be a different scene, but after a minor scare where I thought the drawing had been deleted, only for me to recover the sketches by the grace of God, I decided that this new replacement drawing would be Take 6, while the original Take 6 will become Take 7.

And yes, I know not much happens in this Take and that the only character we have is JD, but I wanted to use this Take to practice some things and pose others. The practice would be in the facial expressions. I wanted to try making some different faces because I feel like the characters don't express themselves enough in my art, so I did this mirror thing. I also wanted to try making JD have a slightly more prominent beard. I honestly don't know if I nailed it. I really need to figure out how to improve the facial hair. (⁠─⁠.⁠─⁠|⁠|).

But anyway, I'll talk about the technical part when we're done. Because it's time to talk about the Lore! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

So, yeah, this scene, while simple, shows something new that JD will have to deal with now that he has Braces: his appearance. It doesn't exactly seem like it, but JD actually cares about his looks to some extent. I mean, he WAS in a boy band. Of course, looks are important to him! And look, he's aware that he might not be the most good-looking of his siblings. He's not physically handsome or cute like his younger brothers, and he's not exactly the charming type in personality either, but he always made an effort to have something to offer in the looks department and live up to boy band standards. He cared a lot about his hygiene and physical health (visible physical health, which is why he postponed getting his braces several times, as he didn't think they would look very good), just keeping some tiredness and dark circles under his eyes from staying up late practicing new choreography or writing songs in his teens at bay. However, those were things easily fixed with a little makeup. Nothing he couldn't keep at bay.

But when he left the Tree, he stopped worrying about those things too much. It wasn't exactly necessary for him to look good anymore, because who was going to see him? Who was going to judge him? His plan was to spend time in the forest with a bunch of animals and explore the Neverglades at his leisure, so aside from avoiding dying or eating something poisonous, he stopped paying attention to his appearance. His little brothers weren't there to watch him go days without a bath and imitate him when he rolled in the mud, and there weren't any fans who would start gossiping or saying nasty things just because his armpits smelled.

Of course, JD wasn't a complete pig. He still maintained a minimum level of hygiene (what was possible in the middle of the forest), trying to bathe when he could and keeping his hair clean and combed. He also tried to brush his teeth occasionally, but only had enough toothpaste for a few weeks before he had to improvise with other things and then the whole underbite issue came to kick him in the ass two or three years later. However, things like his clothes, hairstyle, and even hair removal were left aside. He didn't mind walking around with his clothes all ripped and torn (as long as they served the purpose of covering him and protecting him from cuts and heatstroke), his hair badly cut with his machete, and his beard growing out, only shaving when it got too hot or bothered him. When he returned to the Troll Tree and believed his brothers were dead, this continued. He spent most of his time in the Neverglades and rarely traveled to civilization to look for things, so many Trolls saw him as a kind of oddball wanderer who came around from time to time. At most, his appearance became halfway decent when he got new, more weather-resistant clothes, and only because his old ones were already in tatters.

However, when he received the letter from V&V about Floyd's rescue, he got a bit more motivated about his appearance. At first, he was going to go find his little brother, as hairy as his body had been, but after looking in the mirror when he went back inside Rhonda's to finish brushing his teeth and get going, it occurred to him that the extra hair might make it difficult for his little brother to recognize him as John Dory. The truth was, the beard made him look even more like a different Troll, so he shaved like he hadn't done in years while Rhonda took him to Mount Rageous, and thus ended up with the appearance Floyd had given him at the diamond.

After the rescue and reuniting with his brothers again and of course being more present in civilization, John Dory continued shaved his beard often because he no longer wanted to be that wild, mangy troll who lived in the Neverglades. He bathed more often and started using more deodorant (yes, he'd stopped using it completely before, but when he had Rhonda, he started using a little again because his favorite girl had a sensitive nose), and he also started styling his hair properly to at least look presentable. Sure, he didn't groom himself as much as he had in his boy band days, and unsurprisingly, his younger brothers looked MUCH better than him, but he still put effort into his look and anything that people would look at and that he could actively do something about.

This went out the window when he started his dental work.

It's not that he neglected his hygiene again, no. It's just that things like shaving and styling his hair became exhausting once the pain in his mouth became unbearable, even with the medication. Once he was put on bed rest after his braces were installed, he no longer had the will or energy to try to fix himself. He was just exhausted and in pain all the time, and the only thing he could really do for himself was escape from his brothers when it was time to take his medicine and brush his teeth as instructed after every meal.

He also hadn't seen himself much after his braces were installed. The Bunker didn't really have many mirrors, except for the one in the bathroom, but JD didn't look in that thing much when he brushed his teeth. However, after some of the brothers settled inside the Bunker and Bruce started visiting occasionally, they put a slightly larger mirror in an empty spot for anyone who needed to check themselves out. JD walked past it a lot, but he didn't look at himself in it either until one night a week or two after he got his braces.

Once again, he'd snuck out to steal ice cream from the refrigerator. Even after taking his painkillers, JD couldn't sleep and his swollen face was throbbing, so he went in search of something comforting. Along the way, he stumbled upon the mirror again, and that's when he finally looked at himself.

And he looked terrible. His beard was starting to grow back, his hair was a mess, his bags under his eyes were so dark he could see them even in the dark hallway, and his face was unpleasantly puffy and flushed with pain. He looked like shit, just like he felt. But seeing it and analyzing it was a real blow to himself. Seeing himself as a piece of sh!t made him feel worse in a way, even if he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He tried, as he had done before, to take it in stride and ignore it. You know, just take the feeling and sweep it under the rug. Still, it wasn't the first time he'd been self-conscious about his appearance.

So he smiled in the mirror to cheer himself up, but immediately regretted it when he saw those stupid braces peeking out. John Dory looked genuinely ridiculous with that mess in his mouth. He looked horrible, it made him LOOK horrible, and it made him FEEL horrible.

He felt embarrassed. And people had seen him like that? Ew.

That really brought his spirits down. In fact, remembering his whole situation brought his spirits down a lot. The pain, the swelling, the tiredness, the bitter taste that still lingered in his mouth from his medications. It only took that small slip in his self-esteem, and suddenly his brain was pummeled with all the stress and exhaustion of the past few days.

And so, in the darkness, JD's colors became a little dull, and he felt sad. He didn't realize his colors, but he did realize what he was feeling. And he was pretty sure he felt a little worse than when he got up, so he decided to get his ice cream right away and go back to bed.

The next day, his brothers noticed he was feeling less energetic than usual, and Branch was the first to notice the dullness of his colors. Obviously, everyone was concerned, but there was nothing wrong with John other than the usual, according to the doctor. The dullness in his colors was simply a delayed response to stress and discomfort, nothing serious. John Dory would be bright again once he got through this phase of his recovery.

…

Probably.

But anyway, that's about it. (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

Wow, this post was even longer than the last one, haha. I guess I had more to share despite the simplicity of the drawings. Speaking of which, I'm sorry, but when I thought I'd completely deleted the original scene, I felt sad, so to process it, I decided to make the replacement take of John having mild self-esteem issues because I wanted to project my grief of losing my art onto someone, and that someone was John Dory. And you won't believe it (or maybe you will), but I made these drawings in just one day, although I guess it shows. Literally I started the sketches last night and finished them this afternoon, so excuse me if they didn't turn out so well or didn't have much to offer.

Or maybe they did. Actually, this drawing of JD blushing turned out really nice (without the dark layer so his colors can still show up, but I didn't remove the mirror thing. Sorry. XD)

And in case you were wondering or didn't notice, yes, JD loses a bit of color in his drawings. Here's the last image without the dark layer so you can compare.

But don't worry about him! The guy won't lose his colors or anything. It's just his troll biology responding to the whole situation he's in. ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ As I said before, he'll eventually be brilliant again once his face stops being a throbbing mass of flesh and his brothers have something to say about it, but that'll come later.

For now, I'll just enjoy making Johnny's life miserable. (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠). And I know you'll enjoy watching it all.

And yes, I made John Dory have some self-esteem issues. It's not something too big that affects him all the time, but it's something that bothers him from time to time. I don't know, it's something I've been thinking about for a while. Like, back in Brozone's time, he was just "The Leader." The guy who led and was in charge, which isn't... much for a character. If you compare him to his other brothers' roles, they had more play in that regard because they had other things to offer within their roles, while John was just the guy who was supposed to guide them. And that's it. For the rest, I like to think the guy had nothing he could give people. His voice was standard for a Troll, his appearance was the same, and he was moderately charismatic and sociable with people. He could write songs, yes, but that could be done by anyone else who didn't necessarily have to sing with them.

They're Trolls, hell, anyone could make a song. So the whole boy band thing seems to me more like... doing a reality show. If that makes sense. It's just listening to what a bunch of normal Trolls sing, but more outlandish to attract people and hook them. And I don't think John Dory would have seen himself as interesting enough for that, even if he came up with the boy band idea. That's why he would have taken the role of Leader, because he was the oldest, and well, it was his duty to take care of his siblings, right? It sounded like something even someone not very interesting like him could do. Because people wouldn't be too interested in him talking about camping or nature, right?

Well, no, so it stayed that way, but deep down, it felt a little weird without anything special. And then the whole looks thing comes down. Part of the idea of a boy band is that everyone is good-looking, right? And forgive me, John Dory fans, but compared to the rest of Brozone and from a Troll perspective (in my opinion), I don't think John is that attractive. XD I mean, I love John Dory and all, but in my headcannons and for the Trolls, John is like that guy you'd find on the corner in the neighborhood trying to fix his perpetually broken-down car. Same with Clay, but even serious, he still has charisma. Plus, anyone would love someone who knows their way around the dance floor.

So Braces JD has a bit of low self-esteem, guys. He's very aware of how he looks these days, and while he usually ignores those feelings, you already know what its like. Those intrusive thoughts are like maggots in rotten flesh. >:v

But anyway, that's all for now, so I hope you enjoyed this new Take. ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧. Here are Take 1, Take 2, Take 3, Take 4, and Take 5.

Thanks for reading!

[jessesluvr]

heyyy! i am the same anon that asked the prompt that became "first, not mine" and yeah i LOVE it and i also am happy that ppl appreciate it too bcs you did great!!!!!!!! sorry for taking long to thank you for writing something amazing, i have been a little busy lol but yeah i came back to bring something new and angsty to the table.. so imagine later on jesse and reader settle and jj turns idk 5 and they decide it't time to try for their on baby. and after trying for like a year plus suffering from an miscarriage she decides to talk to jackson's doctor who says she might be infertile...... how would this go? i am so sorry for that i only have angst ideas and also sorry bcs ik it's hella messy

ashes in bloom | jesse x reader

author's note : hey, so i know i usually like put a funny a/n, but i just couldn't do it with this one, you know? please hug and care for those close to you who have experienced miscarriages a little tighter than usual. ps. stop making me write angst. (m.list to find the other parts)

warnings : miscarriages, infertility. please read at own discretion.

summary : jesse and reader experience the heartbreak of a wanted pregnancy ending in miscarriage, navigating the crushing weight of grief, blame, and silence. through shared pain and quiet love, they slowly begin to heal together, even as the loss lingers in everything they do.

word count : 4k

you don’t cry at the hospital.

not when the doctor clears his throat, not when he lowers his eyes, not when the silence between his words starts to scream. jesse’s hand tightens around yours the way a drowning man clings to driftwood, but even then, you just sit there. still. unmoving. there’s a part of you that thinks if you don’t blink, if you don’t shift or shudder, you might not hear what comes next. that time will keep holding its breath with you.

but it doesn’t.

they tell you it was early. that it’s common. that these things happen and it’s no one’s fault.

jesse whispers something like, “it’s okay,” under his breath, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

you only start to feel it on the ride back to jackson.

jesse drives the horse slow. neither of you says anything. the road looks the same as it always has, but it feels wrong now—like the world’s been shifted just slightly out of place. the trees lean too far. the birds don’t sing. even the wind that lifts your collar feels colder than it should be.

your hand falls to your stomach once—out of instinct—and you jerk it away like it burns.

the first night home, jesse doesn’t leave your side.

he helps you change out of your boots, kisses your temple so softly it nearly breaks you in two, and whispers, “i’ve got you, okay?” again and again like it’s a prayer. like if he says it enough, it’ll keep the grief at bay.

but it doesn’t.

you lie in bed, curled on your side, and stare at the wall until the sky turns gray. his arms around you feel like they belong to someone else. you feel numb. empty. like your body isn’t your own anymore.

there’s blood in your sheets.

you don’t tell jesse.

three days later, you visit the doctor again.

it’s routine, they say. just to make sure everything passed.

but the questions come too quickly. have you had trouble getting pregnant before? do you remember how long it took the first time? any irregularities? family history? the nurse’s eyes don’t meet yours when she asks them. she’s careful. gentle.

that’s how you know it’s bad.

when they say the word infertility, jesse is the one who flinches.

you feel it. his fingers, tight against your knee, suddenly lose all their strength.

there’s talk of scar tissue. of “low chances.” of “not impossible” but “unlikely.” you hear the words, but you don’t feel them—not yet. they wash over you like water on stone, and all you can think about is the sound of jesse’s breath catching in his throat.

you don’t speak until you’re back home.

and even then, it’s only because you hear him crying.

you’ve never heard jesse cry like this before. not for joel. not even when he thought you’d left him for good. it’s a low, broken sound—choked and quiet, like he’s trying to muffle it in his hands.

you step into the living room.

he’s on the couch, hunched over, shoulders shaking.

“jesse…”

he looks up so fast it knocks the tears right off his cheeks.

“i’m sorry,” he says immediately. “i didn’t want you to see—fuck, i didn’t want you to—”

you cross the room in two steps and fall to your knees in front of him.

his arms come around you instantly, like it’s instinct. he buries his face in your neck and holds you so tight it hurts.

“i wanted this so bad,” he whispers. “i wanted you. i wanted everything.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until your tears are on his skin.

“i did too,” you manage. “i still do.”

time doesn’t heal.

it just dulls the edges enough that you can walk around without bleeding every time you breathe.

people don’t ask questions. they know better. maria drops off stew and doesn’t comment when it goes untouched. ellie brings you a new coat, says she “found it” on patrol, and leaves it folded on your porch. dina hugs you once—tight, trembling—and doesn’t say a word.

but jesse… jesse stays.

every night. every morning. every hour in between.

he never pushes, never demands, never expects you to be okay.

he just loves you.

and somehow, that hurts the most.

because he never once blames you.

and you blame yourself every single day.

you snap the morning you see another woman in town pregnant.

she’s glowing—beaming like the world hasn’t ended. her hand rests on her bump like it’s the sun, and you feel like you’re made of shadows.

jesse catches the way your eyes drop. he touches your shoulder.

“let’s go,” he murmurs, and you let him lead you away like a child.

you don’t cry until you’re inside your room with the door closed.

“i should’ve stayed away from you,” you whisper through clenched teeth. “you could’ve had this. you could’ve had a family, jesse.”

his eyes blaze.

“don’t,” he breathes, stepping toward you. “don’t you fucking do that.”

“you deserve better—”

“no,” he cuts in. “i deserve you. i love you. you think i care about anything else?”

your chest trembles. “you have jj, and i can’t give you anymore..”

“i wanted us to be parents. together.”

you don’t kiss him—you crash into him.

all the grief, all the guilt, all the love still alive under the ashes—it burns through you. you grab his face, kiss him like you’re drowning, like he’s the only thing that’s real. he holds you against him and whispers, “i’m not going anywhere. no matter what.”

you believe him.

that’s what makes it hurt worse.

you stop trying.

not for lack of love.

but because you can’t survive another loss.

and jesse knows.

he never says it out loud, but you see it in the way he looks at you—every time your hand drifts to your stomach, every time you flinch at the sight of baby clothes or look away from a mother walking by.

he never pushes you.

you think maybe he’s protecting himself too.

and then… it happens.

three months after you stopped thinking about it.

a missed period. then another.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you think your body’s just broken. still reeling. still trying to heal.

but the symptoms come anyway.

nausea. dizziness. sore breasts.

and then—against all odds—you feel it.

life.

tiny, fragile, flickering like a candle in a storm.

you wait a week before telling jesse.

you expect panic. or disbelief. or guarded hope.

but he smiles.

wide and boyish and bright through the fear.

“you’re serious?” he asks, voice cracking.

you nod.

and jesse—your jesse—drops to his knees, buries his face against your stomach, and cries.

you don’t get excited this time.

you’re careful. you’re cautious.

you don’t count days. you don’t make plans. you don’t let your mind wander to baby names or nursery colors. you don’t let jesse talk about cribs or lullabies or what they’ll look like.

you’re terrified.

but he believes.

and for a while, that’s enough.

you let his hope carry you when you can’t hold it yourself.

you’re nine weeks when it happens again.

it’s the same night jesse strings up fairy lights across the bedroom because he says, “you deserve to feel like there’s still magic in this world.”

you wake to a sharp pain and a warm wetness between your legs.

you’re shaking—your thighs slick and warm, and when you lift the blanket, it’s everywhere. blood. thick. dark. pouring down your legs like your body is trying to expel every last hope you clung to.

you scream.

jesse is already by your side before the second one escapes. you don’t know how he moved so fast, how he’s holding you now, wrapping a blanket around you even as his voice breaks with panic.

“shh, baby, i got you. i got you—i’m right here—i’m taking you to the infirmary—don’t close your eyes—look at me—”

you don’t.

you stare at the blood. the warmth that should’ve meant life.

but this—this is death.

you know it in your bones.

you know it in the way something inside you suddenly feels gone.

he carries you through jackson in the dead of night.

you’re barely conscious, and still, people come to their windows. lanterns flicker on. maria steps out onto the porch in her robe. you see her face drop.

she doesn’t even ask.

she just opens the gate.

at the infirmary, they speak in hushed voices.

too hushed.

they whisper behind curtains.

you already know.

but jesse’s holding your hand like he still thinks there’s something to save. his other hand clenches in his lap until you notice the blood on his knuckles, like maybe he punched a wall. or the ground. or just couldn’t bear to let the grief stay inside his body.

you whisper, “it’s over, isn’t it?”

he doesn’t answer.

just looks at you with tears in his eyes and shakes his head, like denying it could change anything.

a nurse confirms it fifteen minutes later.

there’s no heartbeat.

you hear your own scream echo down the hallway.

they try to sedate you.

you rip the needle out of your arm.

you throw a tray against the wall. collapse onto the floor, fists pounding into it, nails clawing at tile like maybe if you dig deep enough, you can crawl into a hole where none of this is real.

they have to restrain you.

it takes jesse and two others to hold you down.

even then, your voice is hoarse and breaking when you shout, “get off me! don’t touch me!” and when jesse finally lets go, you shove him with every ounce of strength left in your ruined body.

he doesn’t fight it.

he just backs away, arms at his sides, jaw trembling like it’s taking everything in him not to fall apart too.

you don’t speak for two days.

you turn your face toward the wall, flinch at every creak of the door.

jesse visits every hour, on the hour.

he brings your favorite tea. you don’t touch it.

he brings you socks. your feet stay bare.

he brings a book. you throw it across the room.

but he still shows up.

over and over.

until the third night, when you finally say, “why are you still here?”

he stands in the doorway, silent for a long time.

then, softly, “because you’re still here.”

you go home.

but it’s not home anymore.

you sleep in your clothes. you flinch when jesse walks past. you don’t want to look at the kitchen table, where you used to lay out names for your baby. you don’t want to look at the baby blanket tucked behind the couch. you don’t want to look at him.

because jesse is still looking at you like you’re whole.

and you’re not.

you’re not.

he gives you space.

sleeps on the couch.

you don’t ask him to.

but he knows.

you stay in bed for days.

then you sit outside for hours, watching a garden that’s gone to rot.

you pluck dead petals off sunflowers that never got the chance to bloom.

you don’t cry.

you just exist in this slow, hollow ache.

like you buried your soul along with your child.

one morning, jesse finds you in the kitchen.

you’re scrubbing the floor.

not just cleaning—scrubbing.

knuckles raw. tears in your eyes. blood has long since been wiped away, but you keep going, muttering, “i can’t get it out. i can’t—”

he grabs your wrists gently.

you jerk away.

“don’t touch me,” you whisper.

jesse flinches like you hit him. “please, don’t shut me out. i’m hurting too.”

“you didn’t lose everything.”

he stares at you like you’ve shattered him.

and maybe you have.

he says nothing.

just walks out the front door and doesn’t come back until after dark.

that night, you break.

fall to your knees in the bedroom and sob into the floor.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into the dark. “i’m sorry i failed you. i’m sorry i couldn’t protect you.”

you don’t know if you’re talking to the baby.

or to jesse.

or to the version of yourself you’ll never get back.

jesse sits by your side in the morning, silent.

you don’t speak either.

but he reaches out. brushes your hand. doesn’t press when you don’t take it.

instead, he says, “i picked up patrol again.”

your stomach twists.

he hasn’t gone out since you got pregnant.

“okay,” you whisper.

“i needed to do something that hurts.”

you close your eyes.

because that’s the only thing that still makes sense.

ellie visits one afternoon.

you don’t open the door, but she talks to you through it.

“i’ve never been through what you’re going through,” she says. “but i’ve lost people too. and i know how easy it is to want to shut everyone out.” you press your forehead to the wood.

“i didn’t just lose them,” you whisper. “i lost me.”

she goes quiet for a long time.

then, “if anyone can survive that kind of loss, it’s you. but not alone. don’t make jesse pay for something neither of you could stop.”

you cry again that night.

and this time, you crawl into jesse’s arms while he sleeps on the couch.

he wakes with a sharp breath—and when he realizes it’s you, he wraps you up so tightly you almost can’t breathe.

but you don’t mind.

you don’t mind at all.

you stop bleeding after another week.

but the damage doesn’t feel over.

every mirror is a battlefield.

every moment of silence is loud with what-if.

jesse starts brushing your hair again.

it’s the only thing that calms you.

you sit between his knees on the porch while he untangles the knots, and when he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, you almost shatter all over again.

but this time, it’s from love.

you find the onesie you’d hidden in the drawer.

hold it for hours.

then bury it under the tree in the backyard.

you plant flowers over it.

you don’t tell jesse.

but later that night, he places a single wild daisy on the mound.

and you realize he knew.

you wake to a dream one night.

your child in a field.

sunlight. laughter.

their tiny fingers reaching for you.

you reach back.

but just before you touch, they vanish.

you scream yourself awake.

jesse is there before you can fall apart.

he doesn’t ask what you saw.

he just pulls you into his chest, rocks you gently.

and whispers, “i’ll carry the weight with you. as long as it takes.”

it’s been three months.

the first thing you notice is how quiet the house has become. not peaceful. quiet. in that heavy, suffocating way — like sound itself is mourning. like the walls know what happened here.

jesse still walks lightly. still closes doors without sound. still gives you space.

you wish he wouldn’t.

you wish he’d scream.

some days you pretend you're okay.

you go to the market. you help maria catalog weapons. you even laugh once — a sound that feels foreign, too loud in your throat, like it doesn't belong to you anymore.

but then you see a child in the street — maybe two, three years old — tugging their mother’s hand with a gap-toothed smile.

you freeze.

you forget how to breathe.

you feel the blood again.

you see it on your thighs, in your bed, on your hands.

you hear your baby’s heartbeat fade into nothing, the memory of it flatlining in the back of your skull.

and suddenly, you're not in the street anymore.

you're crumpled on the ground, gasping, nails biting into dirt.

jesse finds you minutes later.

he doesn’t ask what happened.

he just lifts you into his arms and carries you home like something precious — even though you’ve never felt more broken.

one night, you find him crying.

he doesn’t know you’re awake.

he’s sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands over his face.

he’s whispering something.

you listen from the stairs.

“i should’ve protected you better,” he says. “i should’ve done something.”

your chest caves in.

you never realized he was blaming himself, too.

you step down slowly, quietly, until you’re in front of him.

he startles when he sees you, tries to wipe his eyes, tries to smile like he isn’t falling apart.

you don’t let him pretend.

you kneel between his knees, take his hands away from his face, and rest your forehead against his.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he closes his eyes.

“i didn’t mean what i said. you didn’t fail me. you didn’t fail them.”

his breath shudders out of him like it’s been trapped in his chest for weeks.

he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap, like holding you might save him from drowning.

you both cry.

you cry until the salt of your grief is soaked into his shirt and your throat is raw and your hands shake with the weight of everything you’ve lost.

a week later, you go to the tree.

the one you planted the flower over.

jesse follows, silent.

you kneel by the dirt, fingers brushing petals now bloomed with life.

it’s the first time you’ve spoken about it out loud.

“i thought i felt them kick once.”

you swallow, throat tight.

“i remember that moment more than any other. just... that flutter. like something was alive inside me. like hope had a heartbeat.”

jesse kneels beside you. takes your hand.

“me too,” he says softly. “i used to watch you sleep and talk to them. stupid things. like which cereal is better or what name sounded good.”

you smile through tears.

“did you ever settle on one?”

he laughs quietly. “nah. every time i thought i picked, i’d imagine you making fun of it.”

you lean your head on his shoulder.

“they would’ve had your smile.”

he nods. “and your fire.”

you close your eyes.

it hurts. god, it still hurts.

but somehow, it helps to speak them into the world — to make them real, even if the world never got to meet them.

spring comes late to jackson.

but when it does, the town erupts in green.

the flowers bloom.

the air softens.

and you feel something shift — not a healing. not yet.

but the possibility of healing.

you start going on walks again.

you let jesse hold your hand.

one night, you sit on the porch, watching the stars, and say quietly,

“i miss who we were before this.”

he doesn’t answer at first.

then, “me too.”

you let the silence stretch between you, thick and heavy.

“but i think i love you even more now,” he says.

your eyes sting.

he turns toward you, voice raw. “i’ve seen you shattered. i’ve seen you disappear. but i’ve also seen you crawl your way back to the light. even when you didn’t want to. even when it hurt. i’ve never been more in awe of you.”

you break.

you hide your face in his neck and sob into the safety of him.

because you’ve felt like a ghost for so long. like your soul stayed buried in that hospital.

and yet, here he is.

still loving you through the ashes.

you go back to the infirmary once.

just once.

you ask to see the records.

the nurse is gentle. hands you the file with a quiet nod.

you sit in the corner of the room and read the words like they belong to someone else.

fetal demise.

no heartbeat detected.

maternal distress.

you close the folder.

you don’t cry.

you just sit there with the weight of it pressing into your ribs like a brick.

when you get home, jesse doesn’t ask how it went.

he just opens his arms.

and you fall into them.

there are still bad days.

days where you snap at him for leaving the dishes out.

days where you see a mother rocking her baby on a porch and have to run back inside.

days where your hands wander to your lower stomach, pressing against the flatness that remains like maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel that flutter again.

but there are good days too.

like the time jesse builds you a swing behind the house.

or when he catches you staring at the stars and says, “if they’re watching from up there... they know they are loved.”

or the first time you smile without guilt.

he sees it.

doesn’t say anything.

just grins, leans in, and kisses the corner of your mouth like it’s something sacred.

tommy stops by one afternoon.

he doesn’t ask questions.

just places a small box in your hands.

inside is a wooden carving.

a tiny fox.

the one you and jesse joked about naming the baby after.

you run your fingers over the smooth edges and feel your throat catch.

“figured it was time to bring them home,” tommy says quietly.

you cry.

not a sob.

not a scream.

just tears — quiet and grateful and aching.

jesse wraps his arm around you.

you press your face into his shoulder and hold the fox between you like it’s a heartbeat.

months pass.

grief changes shape.

it doesn’t disappear.

it just... softens.

becomes a shadow you live beside.

some mornings you wake with a weight in your chest and don’t know why.

some nights jesse wakes from a dream and pulls you closer, like the absence still lingers too close to the surface.

but you begin again.

together.

one morning, you find jesse in the nursery.

you haven’t stepped foot in it since the night you bled.

the mobile you made still hangs above the crib.

dust has settled over everything like a shroud.

jesse’s sitting in the rocking chair, the tiny fox carving in his hand.

he doesn’t look up when you enter.

just rocks.

you walk in slowly. kneel beside him.

“i think it’s time,” you whisper.

he nods, eyes glassy.

together, you pack the nursery.

fold the blankets. tuck away the clothes.

place the mobile gently in a box, along with the books, the booties, the ultrasound.

at the bottom, you add a note.

you don’t read it to each other.

but you both write something.

then you seal the box and bury it under the tree.

that night, jesse holds you closer than he has in weeks.

you lie there in the dark, heart aching, body curled into his.

and for the first time, you whisper,

“do you think we’ll ever try again?”

he’s quiet for a long time.

then his voice breaks,

“when you're ready.”

tears sting your eyes.

“what if it happens again?”

he pulls you closer.

“then we’ll break. and we’ll bleed. and we’ll mourn. but i’ll still love you. and we’ll survive it. together.”

you bury your face in his chest.

“i’m scared.”

“so am i.”

he presses a kiss to your hair.

“but i’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

the next morning, the sun rises through the windows.

it’s the same as always.

but it feels different.

softer.

you sit on the porch with jesse, your hand in his, watching the light break over jackson.

the pain is still there.

but so is the love.

and maybe — maybe that’s what survival really looks like.

not the absence of grief.

but loving fiercely in its presence.