#wild winds: snippets

[instructionsnotincluded]

Oh miss ma’am can we have a snippet of my favorite couple during the holidays? 😍😍😍

Yessss!

18+ MDNI | Rafe’s POV, heavy flirting, language, explicit sex, pregnancy sex, references to rough sex.

Rafe leaned back onto the palms of his hands, watching his wife slowly untie the red silk robe, an early Christmas present from Amy. The floor length fabric slipped off her body and pooled at her feet, Rafe’s mouth going dry as he took in her new lingerie.

The bra tied at the front, as if it were a present with a big satin bow, the material the only thing keeping him from seeing her gorgeous breasts. Her chest rose and fell, excess cleavage spilling out now that her breasts were growing, and he groaned as his eyes drifted down her body, taking in the sheer high cut matching g-string, the thin straps resting just over the curve of her hips, leaving very little to the imagination. And while all of that was absolutely hot, it was her slightly rounded stomach that had him hardening, her skin stretching to make way for the baby they created about four months ago.

He never thought he’d have a breeding kink. In all the times they role played it before they were married and before they discussed having kids, it was never the idea of actually reproducing that got him going. But now that she was full from him—now that he’d actually given her a baby, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop the way his dick throbbed when he pictured her pregnant, couldn’t stop staring as she walked towards him.

“Does it look ok?”

Rafe’s swallow was audible, nodding as she slipped her fingers over his bare shoulders, his own hands curving over her outer thighs, skimming her body until he reached her stomach, holding it gently on either side as he lifted his eyes to find hers.

“You look so good, Lo.” Rafe shifted to press his lips to the space just below the large bow, “So beautiful, so fuckin’ hot, baby.”

He knew she was self conscious, that she hadn’t expected to not be able to wear her clothes at this point in her pregnancy and she hadn’t gone shopping for maternity clothes yet, opting to wear her looser clothes or some of his. “The bra is on its last hook, just hanging on for dear life.”

Rafe snorted, shaking his head as he flattened his hands out, caressing her stomach before he ran them up her body, teasing the edge of the bow, “S’good thing you won’t be wearing it long.”

He almost lost it right there, lips parting as he unwrapped his present, watching her gorgeous tits fall into place, cupping them in his hands, he dropped his head to give them the attention they deserved. Gently licking and kissing, nuzzling his way around her very sensitive nipples, making sure not to cause her any discomfort as he teased her piercings between his teeth, squeezing them together before he fell back against the bed, taking her with him.

Logan giggled and Rafe grinned lazily up at her, watching the future mother of his child get comfortable, he made quick work of unclasping her bra before what little of it remained fell from her frame. Rafe enjoyed the view, enjoyed the feel of her hands lightly tracing the muscles along his abdomen, enjoyed the feel of her shifting and not so subtlety grinding onto his covered cock. He slipped his hands up her thighs and over her waist, gliding them along her stomach. Her bump was most noticeable like this, a little round, a little low, and he wondered what it would look like in four more months, when she was weeks away from delivering.

She was still about three weeks away from her anatomy scan, and the baby had so far refused to cooperate when the sonogram technicians tried to see if it was a boy or a girl, which seemed fitting. A baby with both Cameron and Maybank DNA was bound to be strong willed and, as JJ so proudly declared at the dinner table that evening, difficult.

All thoughts of his brother-in-law and their Christmas Eve dinner at JJ’s new house flew from his mind as Logan leaned down and kissed his neck, her nose brushing his head back as she kissed and nibbled at his ear, his hands running over her hips before they cupped her ass, his long fingers digging into the soft flesh as she sucked her way down the front of his throat and over his chest, her body shimmying down his until she reached the elastic of his boxer briefs, her hand palming him through the thin material, a damp spot darkening the color from where they both got a little too excited.

She kissed him through the material, stroking up his thigh as she teased his head, moaning softly when he gathered the hair at the back of her neck, the strands longer and falling over her shoulders now—blonde curls keeping him from seeing her beautiful face. She gently pulled his underwear down, that pink tongue that sent him to new heights swiped across her lips as he sprung free, her hand wrapping around him almost immediately.

Another thing about Logan’s pregnancy was that she was now in that ‘horny all the time’ phase. She thankfully just got out of the morning, or in her case, all day sickness and was now insatiable. Evidence of that being her trying to coerce him into the Maybanks’ powder room, those painted lips attached to his ear, moaning about how badly she needed to taste him.

He wanted to let her too—the number of times he’d heard or walked in on JJ while he lived with them had him ready for payback, but he also didn’t want the entire party to hear his pregnant wife gagging on his cock. The guestlist was long and the powder room was not far enough away and there was zero chance of Logan stopping after a blow job. They’d been going three, sometimes four rounds lately before she was satisfied and he didn’t really want to explain to Ellie why her brand new good Christmas towels needed to be thrown out. Or why he needed to know where her mop was.

“You’re so big, daddy,” Logan purred around him, her long nails sending goosebumps up his legs as she toyed with him, dragging the nail of her index finger down his shaft, “so red—so hard.”

“Need it, baby.” Rafe’s hips bucked when she kissed his head, “Been thinking about it all night after you mentioned it.”

“Should have let me make you feel good,” Logan hummed before she took him into her mouth, tongue swirling as she stroked where she couldn’t reach, eyes lifting to meet his.

“Too many people, doll,” Rafe groaned when she started to bob, teeth grazing his sensitive flesh, although not enough to cause any real pain, “your noises are all mine.”

Logan gagged, obscene noises filling their spacious bedroom and Rafe moaned, neck extending as he tilted his head back, trying to keep his hips still as she quickened her motions, his girl moaning around him when he kissed the back of her throat.

She pulled off after several blissful seconds, stroking his wet cock purposefully, free hand moving to cup his testicles, her lips sliding along his dick until she reached them. “Fuck, Lo…” Rafe bucked and she giggled, “So fuckin’ good at that.”

“I’m so wet, daddy,” Logan shifted, her free hand releasing his cock before she slipped it between her legs and inside her underwear, “so turned on and ready to be filled…”

Rafe moved quickly, Logan shrieking as he pinned her to the bed, careful of the baby, as he kissed her deeply, passionately before he ripped the thin fabric from her hips, his own fingers sliding in to feel just how wet and ready she was for him. “You’ve been this way awhile,” Rafe groaned, kissing across her shoulder and between her breasts, making sure to love on and kiss his way across her stomach until he reached her hips and pulled his fingers out, immediately sucking them into his mouth. “My baby needs it, huh?”

“All the time,” Logan sighed as he shifted again, pushing his underwear off fully before he lifted her legs, taking a moment to stare down at her as he licked his lips, the taste of her still lingering there. “I’m so hot, daddy. So desperate for your big, thick cock.”

“Fuck, Logan.”

Rafe guided himself to her, both of them sighing as he teased her opening, his eyes moving to her face when he slipped inside. It didn’t take long for him to bottom out, Logan clawing her way down his back as they moved together. “Need it, need it, need it,” Logan babbled as he rocked into her over and over again, “Harder, Rafe. Please baby, fuck me so good.”

Rafe would be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned about how hard he could rail his pregnant wife, Logan drifting closer and closer to that rough sex line the further along she got, one instance a few weeks ago where he’d nearly smacked her ass raw coming to mind, his girl sobbing for him to do it again and again as she rode him hard. He already made a mental note to run it by the doctor during their next visit. He definitely didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t good for the baby, even if it’s mother wanted to be fucked so hard she couldn’t walk.

He moved harder and quicker, hips snapping as their headboard shook, probably denting and scuffing the wall further, and he was just glad that no one was staying with them now, Wheezie opting to go to Sarah’s rather than come back with them. Logan gripped his back, shoulders, and neck, trying to get as close as she could to him, eyes all but rolling back into her head as she pressed her mouth to his, nails scratching up the back of his head as she got closer and closer to the edge.

It didn’t take long. Not that it ever took Logan long to come undone, he knew what buttons she needed pushed and when, but another side effect of the pregnancy hormones was that she came quick. Her body was already partly there before they even started, his girl only taking a few minutes to climb the rest of the way, that gorgeous pussy squeezing him so hard he tumbled right after.

“Rafe, Rafe, Rafe…”

He kissed her down from her high, loving on her neck and shoulders as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as they breathed together, hearts beating in time together.

“I love you,” Rafe drug his lips across her shoulder, breath still coming out in short pants, hand sliding between them to caress her stomach, “both of you.”

“We love you too,” Logan breathed back, nudging his face up for a sweet kiss, “Merry Christmas, baby.”

[rebornofstars]

Cracking open pistachios (the bestest of best snacks) and thinking of Grandpa Wind struggling to pry the shells apart and having to ask one of the Chain for help and then they won't let him live it down because he got so mad that the Old Man Fingers wouldn't let him eat his pistach >:) It made more sense in my mind lol

unfortunately, i don't eat pistachios, so i cannot relate to your pain 😔

"What are you doing?" Legend asked. Wind snarled indistinctly. "Suffering." "What?" "I'm suffering." "He's suffering," Wild repeated, a grin in his voice. "C'mon, keep up, vet." "Do you need..." Legend paused. "Help?" Wind turned on him with a look of utmost fury. Wild snickered. Legend raised an eyebrow. "...Yeah," Wind admitted, deflating. He thrust out a hand. "I can't open my pistachios." "You must have gotten arthritis in your old age," Wild said unhelpfully, as Legend took the little nuts in his hand and surveyed them with an expression of extreme bewilderment. "For the last time," Wind said. "I'm not old. And I definitely don't have arthritis." It wasn't even a lie. "Well, what's wrong, then?" "My fingers are too big," Wind grouched. "Too big?" Wild echoed. "What does that even mean? Too big?" "Yeah, too big," Legend said, thrusting the handful of now-shelled pistachios back at Wind. Then he added spitefully, "c'mon, keep up, Cook."

[occasionallyprosie]

I'm thinking of adding a tenth Link to one of my fics...

[stottlemorgan]

A Dog is a Dog / Low Honour Arthur Morgan x Female Reader (Smut 18+ MDNI)

Summary: Arthur returns to camp in the middle of the night after being gone for weeks. Will this time be any different? Tags: Smut, 18+, MDNI! Angst within smut. P in v mostly, kissing, grinding, Arthur bring a rude bastard and not in a fun way. He's a little bit pushy and very aloof. Word count: 4,250. Author’s Note: This fic is purely self-indulgent but after posting snippets, I've had people very interested in it, so thank you my loves! <3 I'm not suuuuper enthralled by parts of it but my enthusiasm at my own writing tends to wax and wane quite rapidly. I hope you enjoy, my dears. Ao3 Link. All photos above are sourced from Pinterest.

Blankets and pillows unbelonging to you grow heavy with the floral musk of your sheened skin in the early summer warmth. Yet another sennight has passed and the cot you doze in feels as though it belongs less and less to the man who owns it. Days spent growing quieter with each morning that you wake alone; your stomach clenching alongside your fists as you anticipate the abrupt return of the wild dog who has so firmly locked his jaws into your rump.

The camp is draped in a slumbersome blanket of indigo; the communal campfire bidding the previous day a farewell with its last lingering smoulder. The warm whispering breeze weaves between the strong legs of a Hungarian Thoroughbred as it slows to a thumping trot before halting, followed by equally heavy boots meeting the dirt. The clunk of spurs and the whip of reins being thrown over a hitching post disquiets the still night air. Two firm pats to the horse’s neck sound out as a hand sinks into the satchel at its side, retrieving an apple and guiding it to the horse’s mouth with a satisfying crunch. Steady steps soon follow, working a purposeful path through the camp and into the tent where you lay amidst your dreams.

“Girl.”

A baritone voice grates through the gentle sough of the soft summer wind and your sleepy breaths.

“Girl.”

The word is reiterated, low and impatient as hands move to pull off boots, dropping them loudly one after the other. A brief furrow of your brow is met with a deep nasal huff and a palm coming to roughly shove your shoulder, “Up.” Another shove of your shoulder streamlines your senses further. Blurs of bronze and blue blend through your fluttering lashes as you stir. Your upper lip curls, a weak grumble croaking through your throat. Yet another rude shove into your arm strengthens your gentle grousing into a truculent groan. The rustling of the sheets as you turn over toward the object of your annoyance clashes uglily with the shucking off and discarding of a jacket.

“Mmhn– Arthur?” You rasp, inhaling deeply, your hands coming up to rub some focus into your vision before your muscles tingle with the urge to stretch. A slow shudder streams up through your body as you reach above your head, your back and hips arcing. As a quiet strained sound leaves you, your blinking eyes are greeted with the sight of Arthur unbuttoning and pulling off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

Through the dim and fuzzy night, you drowsily register the soft and strong shapes of his body. The faint gleam to his unwashed skin, the hug of his jeans around his thighs as he pushes his hips forward to unfasten his gun belt and lets it drop with a clank. The slight plushness of his stomach that bunches at the waistband of his jeans as he takes a hefty seat on the cot beside you. The warm, thick veins that snake through the skin of his hands and arms as he unbuttons his jeans with one hand and reaches out with the other to palm greedily at your hip through the blanket before moving to your waist, then your breasts. A surprised, shaky gasp fills your lungs and he subtly responds with a low hum as he clumsily lifts his hips, yanking his jeans and drawers down in a few jagged motions before kicking them off to the floor. You bring your hands down to bat his away but it quickly moves from your chest to pull the blanket draped over you down, his eyes trailing over your wrinkled chemise.

He shifts to face you more, taking a deep breath, savouring the special way your flowery musk mingles with the sharp remnants of his own. Your attention is drawn to the peek of his flushed cock as it bobs upwards from between his thighs, and then to the tug of a smirk which bares his teeth for the briefest moment.

“My bed comfortable enough for you, Miss?” A tilt of his head and a raise of his brow only adds to the cattish tone of his voice. Your mind lags, snagged on slumber, on the rosy tip of his cock, on the acrid scent of his sweat as he leans in over you, his hands grabbing the hem of your chemise. “Up, sit up.” He grumbles and before you can properly follow, he tugs the garment up, bringing you with it.

“Arthur.” You protest, your voice cracking, but he keeps pulling, forcing your arms up and taking it off over your head, baring your upper half. He presses the bunched up chemise to his face for a moment, his eyes closing. The quiet meaning behind the covetous gesture muddles your annoyance with a hot flash of yearning and you very almost whine. He throws it to the floor and leans back in. A strangled sound bursts from you as his mouth opens against the softness of your stomach. You sit up further, swaying a little as you push a palm into his head, knocking his hat off in the process. He glares up at you and bites down, his teeth smarting your flesh.

“Arthur!”

“Quit your whinin’.” Arthur warns as he climbs onto the cot, it dipping greatly with the added weight. He pushes your thighs apart and ducks down, mouthing at your ribs. You writhe and sigh, a hotness flowing from his mouth down through to your core, your drawers starting to stick to your skin from more than just the humidity. With a huff, you push yourself up the cot with your feet but he’s quick to grab your waist and firmly pull you back down as if you’d not even tried. You grunt and push his head but he grabs your wrist and thumps it back into the cot. His eyes flit up to meet yours and they’re dark, the usual springy hues of his irises clouded over by a familiar and nasty hunger. Your hand twitches, about to move again but the way his eyes widen slightly gives you pause.

“Stop.” He breathes against the skin of your breast.

“You drunk?” You whisper as he closes his lips around your soft nipple, swirling his tongue until it grows hard. Your mouth drops open and you shudder out a sigh to which the edges of his mouth curl into a smile. He continues until he draws a whimper from you. Until your head lolls to the side. Until he feels your back delicately bow. He teases with his teeth briefly, and his hands squeeze low on your hips, dipping into your skin. His breath draws and releases, deep and shaky through his nose, and a quiet rumble of triumph vibrates in his throat when he feels the faintest buck of your hips. Gotcha.

He releases your nipple with a quiet pop and licks his lips, “No.” He murmurs and palms about your sides, fiddling with your drawers until he pinches the fabric and drags them down. You huff as he unceremoniously bends your leg and pulls the drawers to your knee, and repeats with the other leg. He then slips your drawers from your calves in one move, throwing them away, and uses the moment where your legs are raised to press down against you, your underthighs warm against his solid chest. His cock throbs as he presses the underside flatly against your clit, his balls resting warm and heavy against your ass. A sigh seeps from his chest, tired and low, soothed.

“Then what–”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head, his brow furrowing and you let out a little vexed breath in response. A moment passes quietly between you. He thumbs at behind your knees, his head tilting as he just watches you. Your flushed, aggrieved expression. Your chest rising and falling that bit quicker. Your arms resting either side of your head, no longer making any attempts to move. He loves it when you wait for him. He loves it when you accept what he so desires to give you. You feel his cock twitch and he feels the tension move through your legs as your toes curl. He takes in the faint wince that curls your upper lip and pinches your brow. A lazy smirk pulls at his mouth and in tandem with how his grip on your legs tightens, so does the ticklish want coiling through your gut. It takes you another moment to find your voice again, 

“Where you bee–?” He thrusts and your eyes roll back, a tight whimper bursting from you as he warms his thick cock between your slick folds. He groans quietly, rocking his hips languidly, his hands finding your breasts. He circles the pads of his thumbs gently over your nipples, the sensation drawing the hairs on your skin towards him as your skin tauts and prickles. “Where–” You huff out but cut off with a sharp gasp when he laps at the sensitive skin behind one of your knees. Your corresponding foot kicks in the air, your leg seizing and he hums into your skin, the roll of his hips picking up.

“Where I’ve been don’t matter.”

Pleasure and aggravation swirl in your stomach, making you feel drunk with both the want for Arthur and the burning urge to smack him. You find yourself reaching for his head, trying to pull him down, to kiss him, but the column of his neck stays locked straight as he watches his cock glisten with your arousal, his lips parted. You join him in peering down at the sight and a shaky moan slips from you before you look back up to his steadily flushing face. Through the haze, you notice that his beard has grown, the scar on his chin buried beneath bristling hazel hair. You also notice that his hair isn’t in fact pomaded back as you’d thought but tied back.

His eyes flit to yours and immediately back down in response to the sudden doting look on your face, “I miss–” you squeak only to watch him swiftly press down onto you, catching your mouth with his. Stop talking. Stop looking. Light traces of rum and something savoury coat your mouth as Arthur’s tongue licks at your teeth and curls against your own, moving in sloppy tandem with each thrust of his twitching cock between your folds. Your hands grasp at his hair, feeling the leather strap tying it back and pulling him ever closer, letting him in as you always do, as he always hopes you will. The both of you moan into one another’s mouths, so similarly heated that his breath shakes at the vulnerability of the moment. You feel his hands squeeze your waist before one trails down to stroke your swollen clit, teasing the building pressure between your thighs. The way your thighs push at his inner arms, trying to open further, and the huff from you that warms his mouth draws a strained gasp from him as he pulls back. He brings that same hand to your mouth, palm up, resting the tips of his fingers against your bottom lip.

“Spit,” he orders breathily, and you lift your head a bit, pooling some saliva into your mouth before dribbling it onto his flattened fingers, “Gonna need more than that for me, darlin’.” He gives a slow thrust of his hips and you shiver, having to force yourself to pay attention in order to drool into his hand further. He grunts in appreciation before brushing the remaining spit from your lips and moving to slather his cock with it, his gaze drawn to your soaked core. He returns to slowly rocking his hips, his now fully slickened cock pulling a gasp from you as your slightly cooled saliva makes contact with your tingling warm tissue.

“Arthur, please, it’s been–”

“You know I ain’t here to talk.”

Arthur takes hold of your underthighs yet again, holding them apart and pushing them upwards until your knees brush your shoulders. You yearn to pull him down again, to hold him close, but the set of his jaw stops you. He arches his back, pulling his hips back a little more with each thrust, his cock slowly sliding down your centre until his tip notches into the rim of your core.

“We can talk some other day.” His hands come to hold your shoulders. Despite the gulp that thickens in your throat and the way your hands grip the blanket as you realise what’s coming, you snark up at him, 

“When’s that, then?”

“God, just shut up–” He bares his teeth as he pushes his cock slowly but firmly all the way in, a growl in his throat underscoring the keening moan that slips from your gaping mouth. Your mind blanks, your thoughts simmering down to just feeling as he uses your shoulders to keep you steady and carelessly starts up a rough rhythm that makes your feet bounce either side of his head. His body rolls against you, the soft ridges of his length rubbing against your plush walls with each eager thrust. A whine shakes in your throat and your head falls back into the cot, your core squeezing around his cock and your back begging to arch. Arthur bites down on a curse, his hands sliding down your chest to massage your breasts, pinching your nipples between his thumbs and the sides of his forefingers. “S’nice, ain’t it? You shuttin’ up for a second?” He stickily mouths his way up your chest to your neck. Your response is a breathy mewl, your hands snaking around his shoulders and threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums into your skin, suckling and steadily biting harder and harder until you cry out. He keeps his teeth locked into your purpling flesh as he picks up the pace, the familiar buzzing pressure forming in your stomach causing you to dig your nails into his scalp.

“Oh, Arthur–”

He releases the skin of your throat with a wet sound, his voice ragged, his teeth tacking against your glowing skin as he speaks, “Better not be another question, girl–”

“Don’t stop!” Your voice comes out loud and pleading, your toes curling. Arthur feels your walls starting to pulse and a shivering groan tears through his chest. Driving himself deeper, enough so that his cock meets your sweet spot, he circles his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit. His curly pubic hair burns at the soft tissue and your moans only louden. The cot beneath squeaks and groans along with you, growing egregiously noisy when Arthur grasps the top edge of it, pulling and using it to keep both depth and speed. A sonorous whimper bursts from you, out into the quiet of the night, and Arthur licks his lips,

“Yeah?” He breathes, his cock throbbing as he grinds into you.

You give a dumb low-lidded nod, your hands clammy and pawing around to grab hold of his face. His lips press into a thin line and he growls, so close to release that he quells the ache in his chest at the feel of your affectionate and needy gaze flickering about his face, instead roughening his movements and forcing you over the edge.

“Arthur– Oh, my Arthur!” You keen breathlessly, squeezing his cock with your walls and his head with your hands. Your hips rock as much as you can muster in an uneven rhythm as your orgasm snakes through your spasming muscles, tingles of bliss gracing your sheeny skin. Arthur almost looks pained, his lashes fluttering, his breaths strained as he maintains a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the cot. He draws out his thrusts, deciding to fuck out the sweet feeling threatening to bloom in his heart. Each whimper you let out, the way you let him carry on, your shaking thighs, the glimmer of tears in your eyes– he finds himself itching with the compulsion to evade the tenderness but he can’t.

His orgasm strangles him, a shuddering groan searing his throat and you take the chance to tug him down into a messy kiss that very almost makes him spill within you. With a panicked gasping moan into your mouth, Arthur arcs his hips back to quickly slip out of you before slamming forward, his warmly slickened cock sliding up your centre and spurting his release over your stomach as his balls tighten against your clit. His weight drops to his elbows and he partially smothers you as his heaving chest brushes your own. Your legs fall open as he releases them and slips his hands beneath your back. He cradles you, lost in the sensation of your lips gliding against his again and again. You gently hold his face, feeling his jaw muscles flickering as he kisses you and a small laugh puffs from your nose when you feel some of his hair fall forward and tickle your cheeks. He feels the smile in your lips against his own and he pulls back, a stuporous expression melting the usual tension from his brow. Your smile fades slightly, a stirring of worry in your gut, the usual question suffocating you both.

Will he leave?

Arthur lifts himself with a grunt and moves to kneel back on the cot but, as he’s halfway there, he gives a heavy sigh and ducks back down. He plants a singular, firm kiss to your mouth before pulling back again, standing up. You remain where you are, your lips slick with his spit, your skin tightening with his drying spend as you blink up at him. A nervous hope spindling around your spine, you quietly watch Arthur wipe himself down with his shirt before he passes it to you. You clean yourself up as much as you can, casting him the occasional glance while he unties his hair and runs his fingers through the knots. He lifts his head and gives a scrunch of his nose, avoiding your attention as you sit up and drop his shirt to the floor. His voice is slurred and overly casual,

“Ain’t got nowhere to be ‘til Sunday.”

“Sunday?”

“Mhm.”

You recall how you had laid in bed that morning, having woken to the sounds of Uncle playing the banjo and to the dull aching yen in your lungs at the thought of being three days from yet another Sunday parted from the man who seems to not fully understand that he tucks your heart into his satchel along with his revolver each time he leaves. Three days until Sunday. Is he suggesting that he’ll be staying for three days? Arthur sinks back down onto the cot and you watch his throat undulate as he tries to form actual words in place of snapping, “I know it’s been a while–”

“Just over a month,” you answer and shift, curling up on your side, facing the canvas of the tent, exhausted and ever used to his excuses. You let your eyes flutter shut, letting the gentle throb in your core and the tingling of your mouth remind you of the fleeting affectionate embrace Arthur had held you in moments ago.

“Don’chu start with me, woman,” he grouses firmly, climbing into the cot with you and grabbing the blanket that had made its way to the bottom. His tone makes you tut, sensing his already thinning patience that, despite its innate fragility, wears slower when it comes to you.

“Start what? Ain’t nothin’ to start when you keep endin’ things,” you peck back at him, and barely a second passes before he sighs irritatedly and forces his arms around your waist, pulling you back against him.

“You’re lucky I didn’t end what was just happenin’, darlin’.” His chest hair tickles your back as he pushes your hair out of the way with his face, whispering lowly against your neck, “Lucky you kept your mouth shut long enough to give us both a good time.”

He begins to mouth slowly at your throat, one of his hands grasping your hip, the other coming up to knead your breast. In spite of your enjoyment of his touch, you frown, slapping his hand. You let your head grow heavy against the pillow as you grumble,

“You’re a bastard.” His shoulders shrug with a quiet chuckle as he continues his ministrations and speaks between lapping at your neck,

“I been tellin’ you that, sweetheart.” You sigh, your mind and body aswirl with tiredness, hurt, and the bubbling arousal that lingers in your loins at the presence or mere thought of Arthur. Your voice softens into a slur as his repetitive movements and warmth begin to lull you into sleep,

“Whatever, Arthur.”

“Mm, whatever, darlin’,” he responds quietly. He rests his head on the pillow behind yours, letting his focus glide up and down your spine, seeing the way you tuck your feet up, the way your hands lay against the cot. He feels the rise and fall of your chest as sleep fully takes you, relaxed and deep. He takes a bigger breath in and holds it, savouring your soap and the sweet tang of your sweat. A cold guilt settles into his bones before it freezes into a stiff and sick self-loathing. He sighs out the breath, and it blows gently into the back of your hair, along with the spark of desire he had to stay. He can’t do this. 

Taking a sliver of your dreams along with him, Arthur is uncharacteristically careful as he quietly detaches himself from you and collects some fresh clothes from the chest at the foot of his cot. As he dresses, he casts half-glances over at your sleeping form, your mussed hair and the way your cheek is smushed into the pillow drawing a soft curse from his lips. Longing flows through his chest, heavying his breaths as he pulls on his boots.

Steady steps exit the tent, working a purposeful path back toward the Hungarian Thoroughbred. With two firm pats to the horse's neck, the whip of reins being retrieved from the hitching post and the clunk of spurs sounds out into the quiet of the night as Arthur mounts the horse, landing weightily with the burl of his stature but also an awful load of feelings and questions choking him of much thought other than get out of here.

“Girl,” he grunts, tugging the reins and guiding the horse away from camp, gradually falling into a trot.

An inappreciable breeze breaks through a small gap in the tent flap, creeping up your bare back and through the hair at the nape of your neck as if to mock the touch of your lover. You fight the heaviness of your eyes as you rouse, the muggy summer heat already having set in for the day, blinding your bleary vision with the vivid bluish hues of the tent canvas. Kneading at your oily face, you lift your hips to turn over only to halt with a whine when a familiar string of discomfort threads through your abdomen. “Bastard,” you whisper to yourself, an equally familiar upset flooding your limbs and soon enough your eyes. Your watery gaze drifts about, steadily picking up on a few unwonted items strewn about the floor.

Arthur’s gun belt. His hat. His jacket. The shirt and pants he had stripped himself of are sprawled across the grass. For once, the tent looks lived in, as lived in by Arthur as your heart is. Dreamy visions of the night before begin to dance through your mind as well as warm your sticky and sore body.

The kiss he gave, awkward but filled with something. How he held you until you fell asleep. How he held his tongue more than usual, lacking the venom but maintaining the usual aloofness. A gentle whirl of tentative affection flurries in the depths of your chest, shaking your breath. He has left behind things which he knows he’ll have to come back for within a day. Within the stifling summer heat, which pales in comparison to the overwhelm of your realisation, you lay back into the cot. Unfocused, you stare up at the canvas, wondering whether these hiccups in his usual behaviour were due to anything in particular, wondering about the permanence of them. Overhearing the early morning goings on of your fellow camp mates, you debate whether to exit Arthur’s tent so soon. You know there is no way you hadn’t woken anybody with your mewling pleasure, with the creaking cot, with Arthur’s grunting and the smack of his skin against yours. You have done many, many times before to the displeasure of some and the ardent curiosity of others.

You shift onto your side, facing out to the rest of the tent, trailing your sleepy focus over Arthur’s belongings and dangling an arm toward the floor. You graze your knuckles over his gun belt, your nails catching on the bullet casings with a quiet, twinkling rhythm beneath which the distant thumping trots of a nearing horse sounds. The thwip of reins followed by a wary greeting call of his name from John brings your heart into your throat; whether it be from excitement or dread still remains elusive to you but one seed of hope nestles itself into the far too long barren garden of your stomach.

He’s come back to you.

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @frillydolle @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3

[bumblesimagines]

For Life

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The Wolverine was unmatched in the fighting ring, until a new face arrived and turned his life upside down.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical X-Men Warnings, lots of blood mentions, violence/fighting, both fluff and angst, Logan being as whipped as he was for Jean with (Y/N), age gap cause Logan is super fucking old lmao, more so snippets/a concept over a full fledged fic.

divider by cafekitsune!

~~~

Wolverines generally avoid humans in the wild but are known to be particularly aggressive and even dangerous when cornered or provoked, prompting them to put those sharp canines and claws to work. Wolverines are known for their incredible strength and stamina, but mostly for their infamous ferocity. Despite their reputation as ill-tempered loners, wolverines are known to be social with others and will form lifelong relationships with their mates.

It'd been a cold evening in Laughlin City and most of the bar's patrons had shuffled into the establishment with their faces nearly hidden behind hoods and scarves as they scrambled to get out of the snow and chilling winds. The occasional gust of wind blowing in whenever the door opened left patrons simultaneously groaning in complaint but the heater emitting warm air kept their grumbling and huffing to a minimum. The nipping cold had soured many moods, and Logan could see many men itching to forget about the cold with an adrenaline-pumping fight. He was just eager to make an easy buck.

He braced an arm against one of the cage's support beams and watched with a hint of a smirk as his latest opponent staggered out of the cage, his buddies narrowly catching him before he could plummet onto the hardwood floor and further batter his face. The locals eyed him with a certain disdain, certain suspicion, but he put up good enough entertainment for them to tolerate him. He sniffed, hardly phased by the punches he'd taken during the fight, and nodded to the referee. 

"Does anyone else dare-" 

"I'll have a go." 

Logan immediately craned his head to eye the voice's owner, foreign and new to Laughlin City. He'd been participating in cage fights long enough to begin memorizing the locals, and the fresh face staring back at him was an utter stranger. Passing by Laughlin City, Logan assumed, but he lacked the particular smell of gas, car air freshener, and look of exhaustion to be a trucker like most of the patrons taking up seats around them. He observed him, taking in every inch of his new opponent as he rounded the cage. He seemed young, but then again, so did Logan. 

"Name's (Y/N)." He said, staring Logan in the eyes as he shed his jacket and shirt. Someone nearby took both articles of clothing for him, likely eager to see what he'd do, or how he'd go down. Logan had managed to break two noses and chip a few teeth already, one could only wonder what he'd do next. "Nice to meet you, Wolverine."

Logan simply grunted and pushed himself off the support beam, rolling his neck and curling his fingers into tight fists. (Y/N) grinned at him, almost arrogantly, but not with the usual cockiness of a man who thought himself the toughest guy in Alberta. He appeared... too calm for Logan's liking, but once the referee stepped out of the cage and closed the door, he decided to focus on beating his face in instead. 

They circled each other first, eyes raking over the other from head to toe in search of a weakness to exploit, of a twitch that'd give away their next move. Logan could hear the muttering of the crowd, the impatient tap of fingers and boots, and the intensity in their stares. His eyes flickered away briefly, and he immediately cursed his mistake when (Y/N) lunged. Despite a part of him urging him to dodge or block, he remained still, expecting (Y/N)'s knuckles to break upon impact but instead, his fist connected effectively with Logan's jaw and he nearly stumbled onto the floor.

Managing to catch himself as scattered gasps echoed from the crowd, Logan grazed his fingers over his aching jaw and raised his head to look at the man. Mutant. No human had ever taken a swing at him without immediately spraining or breaking something, let alone been able to make his head turn with a punch. The corner of his lips twitched up into a smirk and the crowd erupted into cheers, primarily egging (Y/N) on to beat him to a pulp; Logan wanted to see him try.

The ache in his jaw faded swiftly, just in time for Logan to take a swing at (Y/N) and see how much he could tank. (Y/N) dodged his quick swings efficiently, taking steps back each time before he caught Logan's forearm and swiftly spun, his back pressing to Logan's chest before Logan was promptly hauled over his body. He collided with the floor, the cage trembling as if an earthquake had struck, and Logan doubted it'd be able to take the weight of his body a second time without damage. (Y/N) flashed another little grin down at him but instead of taking advantage of his momentary shock, he took a step back and allowed him to get up. 

A professionally trained mutant, Logan deduced when he got to his feet, intriguing. And worrisome. He hardly needed a group of mutants on his ass begging him to join them. 

"You ready to give up your title of champion, big guy?" (Y/N) questioned with a hint of a mocking coo, his words rowdying up the same crowd who'd turn on him if they learned of his mutant abilities, although Logan guessed they likely already suspected and merely wanted to see him hurt for a change. Challenging in his tone but his eyes studied Logan with a degree of curiosity he typically never saw in others.

"We're just gettin' started, bud."

"Even better."

Everything afterward felt like a whirlwind of punching, kicking, dodging, and blocking; Logan's favorite sort of dance, and one that'd hopefully end with some cash in his pocket and a well-deserved cigar. He managed to maneuver (Y/N) around, his arm coiling around his neck to put him in a headlock most wouldn't survive. (Y/N) pressed back against him, forcing them to stumble backward until Logan's back collided with the cage's wall that miraculously managed to stay put without giving out on them both. Logan released a guttural groan when (Y/N)'s short blunt nails dug into his skin, leaving bright red marks behind with specks of blood that only made him tighten his hold.

"Anything goes, right?" (Y/N) wheezed, his palm pressing against Logan's arm, a chill shooting down Logan's spine when it slowly moved on its own and gave him enough space to catch his breath without the pressure on his throat. 

"The hell-"

Straightening his knees and tossing his head back into Logan's face, Logan cursed and released him fully to bring a hand to his nose. He covered it, waiting for it to heal without catching the eye of the people around but (Y/N) gave him no time to recover. He spun on his heel and took another swing at him, bringing his knee up into Logan's stomach when he doubled over and then slamming the bottom of his boot into the side of his face. His head slammed against a support beam and he groaned, the aches and pains healing rapidly but before he could stand up, he realized his body refused to follow his wishes. 

"Giving up yet, big guy?" (Y/N) asked with a tilt of his head, eyes glinting with newfound warning. "We'll be here all night at this rate."

Logan swallowed, a hint of panic surging forward at his inability to move and the mystery surrounding the powers being used against him. Some sort of mental ability, he guessed, but whatever it was he disliked it tenfold. Logan grinded his teeth in frustration and begrudgingly nodded. "Fine," He grunted and sighed in relief when (Y/N) released whatever hold he had on him, allowing his body to relax and slump.

While, yes, losing a fight was a bruise to his pride, Logan found himself more intrigued by the fellow mutant, if not more cautious. With the sky darkening outside, Logan retreated from the cage to collect his belongings and ordered some beer while he watched (Y/N) at the other end of the bar. Once the bartender placed the beer down, he scooped it up in his hand and rounded the bar toward him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the men who clapped (Y/N) on the shoulder as if he'd done everyone a service. He waited, though, for everyone to be out of earshot. 

"How'd you do it?" Logan questioned quietly, chugging back some beer and smacking his lips as it flowed down his throat. (Y/N) fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, sparing him an amused glance and an arched brow. "The whole- the whole body thing. What is it? Some sort of telekinesis?"

"How about you walk me to my motel and I'll tell you all about it?" (Y/N) grinned again, eyes crinkling despite the way they'd been going at each other moments prior, and he turned toward the exit with a beckoning nod. Reaching into his pocket, Logan jingled the keys to his old, busted RV and watched his grin widen.

Out in the cold night, semi-trucks passed them by on the icy roads beside the snow-tipped bar. (Y/N) tugged his hoodie over his head, keeping it on when he sat in the passenger seat and relished the light heat that filled the RV once Logan turned it on. Logan glanced at him, eyeing his light attire once more but keeping his questions to himself despite curiosity knawing at him insistently. He kept his eyes on the road, careful to avoid going at a speed that'd have them sliding into the forest around them. 

"It's not telekinesis." (Y/N) muttered, reaching out and fiddling with the radio dials until he found a decent station. "I.. I controlled your blood. It's not as, uh, clean and pretty as telepathy or telekinesis but it's pretty useful in most cases. I can sense when someone's sick, too, or even help with cuts and infections. I'd make a pretty decent surgeon, honestly." He gave a small chuckle.

Logan snorted, though some unease settled in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah? How'd you figure out you had it?" Logan glanced at him again and immediately noticed the way his features fell. 

"It's not a pretty story." He sighed softly, his head tilting to watch the trees and snow pass them by in a mixed blur. "Let's just say, some of my blood got out of my body and I panicked.. and it started levitating... anyways, enough about me, big guy. What's your thing? It can't just be that super-healing thing, right?" 

Pursing his lips, Logan clutched the wheel with one hand and curled the other one into a fist. From the corner of his eye, he watched his claws slide out and then swallowed when (Y/N)'s features brightened. Gentle fingers wrapped around his hand and Logan retracted the claws, an unfamiliar feeling swirling in his stomach as he felt (Y/N) run his fingertips over his skin, tracing his knuckles and then the veins along the back of his hand. It'd been a while since he last left a gentle touch, and a quiet part in the back of his mind almost considered him unworthy of it. 

"My name's Logan." He grunted softly, the typical tension he always carried fading with each delicate caress.

"Well, Logan," (Y/N) lifted his head with a cheeky smile on his face, his thumb pressing into one of the veins and drawing Logan's eyes toward him. "You mind keeping me company tonight? Or do you have someone you have to get back to?"

"No," Logan's lips tugged upward. "I've got time." 

The motel was as rundown as Logan expected, dimly lit hallways occasionally plunging into darkness when the light flickered above them, and the curiosity surged forward again, prodding him to question where the mutant had come from or why he'd chosen Laughlin City of all places to stay in. But (Y/N) gave him no time to dwell further on it, the back of his foot kicking the door shut behind them before his hands grasped the collar of Logan's coat and pulled him in. 

There was a dangerous addictiveness and allure to (Y/N), from the way he effortlessly danced the line between sweet and rough: a kiss full of tongues and teeth and nips but smoothed over by gentle fingers massaging the muscle of his biceps when Logan slid his coat off, only for those same fingers to slip through his brown strands and tug. It triggered something within Logan, a growl emitting from his throat as broad hands grasped at the other's hips and drew a breathless laugh from (Y/N). 

As much as he enjoyed considering himself a lone wolf, the brief connection with others during one-night stands always reminded him he was still partly human, even when others considered him a savage brute. He savored it, savored when he had (Y/N) on his lap, his chest rising and falling with heaves and lips parted to release low grunts and groans. He savored the feeling of (Y/N)'s arms wrapped around his shoulders loosely, his breath fanning against his ear and allowing Logan to hear every noise he exhaled. He savored the ability to dig his fingers into soft flesh without worry, or sink his teeth into (Y/N)'s collarbone and feel the mark heal beneath his lips. He mostly savored the addictive warmth encircling him and the pleasure that made his thighs tremble. 

His arms tightened around (Y/N), pressing him close to his chest, and captured his lips to swallow another whine. For the first time in who knows how long, he found himself hoping he'd see more of (Y/N) around. 

But after a few days, the mutant disappeared from Alberta, and a week later Logan took a girl by the name of Rogue under his wing. 

"You may see another familiar face here." 

Logan turned his attention away from the mutant children, trying to ignore the way his heart warmed at the sight of them living happy lives without the threat of danger from those who despised them for simply existing. He searched the outer yard for any sign of Marie, but he assumed she was likely still getting acclimated to her new home at the school, and finally peered down at Charles questioningly. Charles smiled knowingly and motioned off to the side. 

"While I prefer having (Y/N) here for his safety, he enjoys venturing out to help others. I hear you two became acquainted while he was away." Charles spoke, and without thinking twice, Logan's head snapped in the direction he'd pointed in, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of (Y/N) walking toward him with that godforsaken grin that'd plagued Logan's thoughts and dreams for weeks. "(Y/N) has called this school home for many years, and he often helps with the more severe injuries. I'll allow you two a moment to... catch up." 

(Y/N) nodded to Charles as they walked past each other before stopping in front of Logan and crossing his arms over his chest, his head tilting playfully to the side and eyes drinking him in. "It's nice seeing you again, Logan." He stepped closer, eyes lifting to meet his once more. "Here I was thinking about taking a drive back to Alberta. Guess you must've read my mind." 

"Pretty sure that's Charles's thing," Logan replied, pressing this thumb into (Y/N)'s chin and curling the rest of his fingers under it. He had to, otherwise he would've convinced himself he was imagining things, that the mutant who'd managed to make him laugh and smile was still miles away someplace else. "What were you doin' in Alberta?"

"I heard rumors and whispers about a man down in Laughlin City and thought I'd see what all the fuss was about. I would've asked you to come back with me but.. that didn't seem like the type of pillow talk you'd appreciate." He explained softly, leaning into Logan's touch and closing his eyes briefly when Logan pressed his palm fully against his cheek, still caught in the fleeting worry he'd wake up and find himself on the side of the icy road with Marie nowhere in sight. "You're here now, though." His eyes opened. "Are you staying?" 

"I don't-"

"Oh, come on," (Y/N) scoffed lightly, warmly, and moved in even closer. "It's nice here, Logan. I can finish showing you around and we'll find something for you to do. The food's good, the rooms are nice, and it's... freshening to hear the laughter of kids finally being happy. You'd make a helluva teacher, I bet. Everyone's favorite." His genuine tone shifted into a teasing one, laughing softly when Logan rolled his eyes. 

Lifting his brows, Logan smirked and brought him close, itching to close the distance despite a heated voice in his head telling him he didn't deserve the warmth and acceptance. "We can start and end the tour in the dorms-"

"Only if you promise to stay." (Y/N) cooed, tilting his head away to dodge a kiss but he allowed himself to be tugged into an embrace. His arms curled around Logan's shoulders, lips drawing back into a wide smile before he planted a kiss on the corner of Logan's lips. "If you stay, we can finish what we started... and see where it goes." 

Logan leaned back, his brows twitching down into a furrow but (Y/N)'s grip around his shoulders tightened, forcing him to stay and not flee from his words. He swallowed, conflicted in the way his brain and heart battled. Half of him screamed at him to leave, to go before he could mess everything up but another part desperately clung to the idea of staying and finally having a place to call home, finally having a person to call home. 

He noted the flicker of uncertainty in (Y/N)'s features following his silence, felt him beginning to draw back from the embrace. Logan secured his arms around him and allowed a ghost of a smile to slip. "Yeah," He murmured, weakly at first. "I'd like that."

Truthfully, Logan hadn't been fully listening to what Scott- or well, what Cyclops had spoken about in the briefing about their latest mission. He'd heard the usual 'group of anti-mutants' and promptly tuned out afterward in favor of soaking in how (Y/N) looked in the dark suit, though noted somewhat glumly how it didn't allow him to wear the engagement ring. His staring hadn't gone unnoticed given the amused glances Jean stole and the exasperated exhale from Cyclops before they were dropped near the location of the warehouse. 

"Good luck, Lo." (Y/N) whispered to him, planting a kiss on his cheek and dragging his fingers over Logan's beard with a mischievous glint in his pretty (E/C) eyes.

They'd separated pretty soon after, splitting up to cover more ground given the amount of people working with the group. It hadn't taken long at all for the fighting to begin, and despite Cyclops pushing for them to use as little force as possible, Logan couldn't help bruising and cutting a few people up. He managed to knock out a gunman when he heard the distinctive clap of thunder. Amusement had him cracking a grin followed by pity toward whichever fool dared face against Storm, but then he heard her shriek:

"(Y/N)!" 

Too high-pitched, loud, and full of horror for Logan to brush aside as a warning call. His footsteps thundered throughout the halls as he moved, shoving and swinging his claws at anyone who stood in his way until he stumbled upon the sight, eyes immediately finding (Y/N) on his knees with Storm beside him. Logan beelined toward them, dropping into a crouch and promptly feeling a wave of nausea pass over him at the sight of (Y/N) blood-stained hands grasping desperately at his throat. 

"They-" Storm swallowed thickly, her chest rising and falling with panic. "They shot him. He- He can't heal with the bullet-" 

"Darlin'," Logan exhaled shakily, pulling him swiftly into his arms and attempting to keep his composure despite the wheezy exhales and gurgles filling his ears. Blood spread across his throat, blobs of it levitating only to lose their perfectly round form and fall onto the floor with splatters each time (Y/N) grimaced. "I know it hurts but you have to focus on gettin' the bullet out. Baby, hey, focus."

(Y/N) stared up at him, wide eyes filling with tears and shoulders shaking with his hiccups and trembles. The red tint of blood on his lips filled Logan with a familiar sense of dread, his arms holding him tighter so (Y/N) wouldn't feel him trembling as well. He watched the blood oozing out of the wound rise, oddly shaped and raised while he worked on shoving the lodged bullet out of his throat before he choked to death on the very thing he could control. He wheezed and coughed occasionally, droplets of blood flinging onto Logan's cheek and coloring his beard but he paid it no mind.

Storm fiddled with her earpiece, stuttering out explanations to Jean and Cyclops and urging them to move quicker. Logan thumbed away the tears that slipped down his (S/C) skin, forcing himself to give encouraging nods and smiles despite the hurricane threatening to break within his chest.

(Y/N) tilted his chin up toward him and Logan swooped in eagerly, kissing him despite the blood that danced on his tongue afterward. He heard the familiar clatter of metal falling onto the floor and leaned back, eyes flickering around frantically until he spotted the bloody bullet rolling around beside them. 

"Hey, hey, you did it. You-"

Storm exhaled shakily. "Logan."

Logan's head snapped back toward (Y/N)'s face, first noticing the dullness in his eyes and then the way blood continued freely oozing from the wound. He stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend the limpness in (Y/N)'s body and the stillness of his chest, the world around him slowly coming to a standstill. Storm's sniffling cries and the frantic questions from Jean and Cyclops as they finally arrived became distant, unable to focus on anything but (Y/N). 

"Hey..." Logan exhaled, cupping his cheek as his brows furrowed into a tight-knit. "Hey, hey, hey, you- you can't do this." He furiously blinked away the tears that glazed over his vision, rubbing his thumb into (Y/N)'s cheek and waiting for him to nuzzle into his touch as he always did, but it never came. "You can't do this. You can't-" Logan cradled his body against his chest, burying his face into his collarbone as he'd done dozens of times before. (Y/N) remained unresponsive, his arms falling limply at his sides from Logan's movements. 

"You can't do this to me. You promised you'd never leave."

[hearts4pbaz]

The Eras of a Dream

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Words: 5k

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Before the roar of the crowd, there were pivotal moments of self-discovery, defining relationships, and relentless dedication that paved the way into an extraordinary future for Paige Bueckers.

Notes: this is unlike anything ive ever written before so idk if it's any good or if i'll write anything like it again but hope you enjoy

Era 1: The Hopkins Spark 

The Minnesota air, crisp even in summer, carried the rhythmic thud of a basketball long before Paige Bueckers truly understood its siren call. In Hopkins, a suburb that hummed with the quiet energy of family life, five-year-old Paige was a blur of motion. Raised by her single father, Bob, their small world was built on routine, laughter, and an unspoken understanding that they were a team. Bob, a man whose own athletic days were fond memories, juggled work and fatherhood with a steady, loving hand. He was the fixed point in Paige’s universe, the one who made a scraped knee feel like a minor inconvenience and a good day at kindergarten feel like a triumph.

It wasn't any single moment that marked Paige as different, but a collection of small observations. On the playground, while other children her age were still mastering the art of not tripping over their own feet, Paige moved with an uncanny grace. She could outrun, out-jump, and out-maneuver most, her small frame surprisingly agile. Bob noticed it first, a quiet pride swelling in his chest as he watched her scamper up climbing frames or effortlessly catch a wayward ball. He saw the flicker of something special, a raw, untamed athleticism.

The true awakening, however, began with a bright orange sphere. Perhaps it was a hand-me-down, or a birthday gift, but once a basketball found its way into Paige’s small hands, it rarely left. Their driveway, modest and unassuming, became her first court. Bob, often weary from a long day, would find a second wind watching her. Initially, it was pure, unstructured play. Paige would chase the ball, hurl it towards the rusty hoop he’d installed, her tongue poking out in concentration. There was no technique, just an intuitive connection. The ball, almost too big for her, seemed to listen to her.

"Like this, Paigey?" Bob would demonstrate a clumsy (by his own admission) dribble or a simple chest pass. He wasn't a coach, not then, but he was an encourager, a rebounder, a steady presence. He’d praise her efforts, the wild shots that sometimes, surprisingly, swished through the net, and the determined way she’d retrieve the ball after a miss, her brow furrowed.

Her knack for basketball became undeniable. 

By six, she wasn't just throwing the ball; she was aiming it. She started to mimic players she might have glimpsed on TV at a neighbor's house or in snippets from games Bob watched. A little crossover dribble, a hesitant jump shot – her body seemed to instinctively understand the movements. The joy she found in these moments was palpable. It wasn’t a chore; it was an extension of her being.

Life in their single-parent household had its unique rhythms. Dinners were often simple, conversations flowing easily between father and daughter. Bob helped with homework, read bedtime stories, and always made sure Paige felt secure and loved. There were challenges, of course – the occasional pang of wishing for a mom at a school event, or Bob’s tired sighs after a particularly demanding week. But their bond was a fortress. And basketball was becoming a cornerstone of that bond. The driveway sessions weren't just about sport; they were about connection, shared laughter, and the quiet pride of a father watching his daughter discover something she loved.

As she neared eight, the playful interactions began to take on a more focused edge. She’d pester Bob to play "one more game" of H-O-R-S-E, her competitive spirit already fierce. She’d practice dribbling around imaginary defenders on the cracked pavement, her movements becoming smoother, more confident. Sometimes, other neighborhood kids would join, and Paige, though still small, would often surprise them with her skill and tenacity.

Her early dreams weren't yet of WNBA stardom or championship trophies. They were simpler, more immediate. She dreamed of the satisfying swish of the net, of making a shot Bob thought was impossible, of the feel of the worn leather in her hands. She dreamed of the sun setting over their Hopkins driveway, the orange glow matching the ball she cradled, her father's encouraging voice the soundtrack to her burgeoning passion. Basketball wasn't just a game; it was becoming a language she understood, a place where her natural talents could sing, nurtured by the unwavering support of the most important person in her world. The spark had been ignited.

Era 2: The Blueprint of a Dream 

The transition from playful driveway games to the more structured, demanding world of competitive youth basketball was almost seamless for Paige Bueckers. By nine, the raw talent that had blossomed in Hopkins was being sculpted, refined. Her movements on the court, once instinctive, were now imbued with a burgeoning understanding of the game's geometry, its rhythm, its subtle deceits. She wasn't just a kid who could shoot; she was a player who could think.

In Hopkins, as Paige moved through late childhood, her name began to circulate beyond the local playgrounds. Bob, ever her steadfast supporter, navigated the burgeoning world of youth sports, seeking out opportunities that would challenge and nurture her growing abilities. This often meant joining travel teams, facing tougher competition from across Minnesota and eventually, the Midwest. The squeak of sneakers on polished gymnasium floors became a familiar soundtrack to their weekends.

It was in these more competitive arenas that Paige truly began to distinguish herself. While other players her age were still mastering fundamentals, Paige was executing no-look passes that threaded needles, her court vision almost preternatural. She developed a lethal crossover, a quick release on her jump shot, and a defensive tenacity that belied her still-slight frame. She wasn’t just scoring; she was making everyone around her better. One savvy travel team coach, a grizzled veteran named Coach Henderson who’d seen hundreds of hopefuls pass through his program, pulled Bob aside after a particularly dominant tournament performance. "That girl," he’d said, pointing a calloused finger towards Paige, who was already back on the court shooting free throws, "she’s got it, Bob. The kind of it you see once in a decade, if you’re lucky."

This external validation only fueled the fire within Paige. Around the age of ten, a new, specific dream began to take root, nurtured by grainy TV broadcasts and stories of legendary players: the University of Connecticut. UConn wasn't just a college basketball team; it was an institution, a dynasty. She’d watch their games with her father, mesmerized by their precision, their teamwork, their relentless pursuit of excellence. The idea of wearing that Huskies jersey, of playing for Geno Auriemma, became a powerful magnet, pulling her aspirations into sharp focus.

And beyond UConn, a grander ambition shimmered: the WNBA. It was the pinnacle, the ultimate stage. The thought of playing professionally, of making basketball her life, was no longer a vague childhood fantasy but a driving force. This ambition shaped her days.

Her training regimen intensified, though Bob was careful to ensure it didn't consume her entirely. Early mornings before school often meant ball-handling drills in the driveway, cones set up under the pale dawn light. After school, it was team practice, followed by more shooting, more drills, sometimes just her and her dad rebounding for each other until dusk. He taught her the importance of fundamentals, of repetition, of outworking everyone else. He wasn't just her father; he was her first coach, her chief motivator, and her unwavering believer.

Balancing this burgeoning athletic career with schoolwork and the typical activities of a pre-teen was a constant juggle. There were missed birthday parties for out-of-state tournaments, homework completed in the backseat of the car on long drives to games. The pressure to excel wasn't just internal anymore; coaches expected her to lead, opponents targeted her, and the whispers of her prodigious talent created a subtle weight. Yet, through it all, Bob ensured she had space to just be a kid. He made sure there were movie nights, trips for ice cream, and time for friendships that weren't centered around basketball. He understood the pressures, having been an athlete himself, and his calm, steady guidance was her anchor. He’d remind her, "Play hard, have fun, be a good teammate. Be you. Be great."

By twelve, Paige Bueckers was no longer just a promising local talent. She was a young athlete with a clear vision, a blueprint for her future meticulously drawn in her mind. The courts of Hopkins had nurtured her, her father’s unwavering support had fortified her, and the twin dreams of UConn and the WNBA were now the stars she navigated by. The journey was just beginning, but the trajectory was undeniably upward.

Era 3: The Crucible of Adolescence 

The leap from late childhood to the precipice of teenage years was, for Paige Bueckers, like launching from a well-worn local court into a roaring arena. At twelve, her basketball trajectory was near-vertical. Hopkins remained home base, but her name was echoing far beyond Minnesota’s borders. Tournament MVPs, highlight reels that buzzed through youth basketball circuits, and the growing whispers of "future star" became commonplace. The dreams of UConn and the WNBA were no longer quiet internal hums; they were bold declarations, sometimes voiced by coaches, sometimes by Paige herself with a newfound, albeit still youthful, confidence. Local sports reporters occasionally sought out Bob for a quote about his prodigy daughter. The spotlight, once a distant flicker, was now undeniably brightening.

But beneath the polished veneer of the rising basketball phenom, a more complicated, internal drama was unfolding. Puberty arrived, unceremonious and awkward, bringing with it a cascade of changes that felt both alien and intensely personal. For any young girl, this is a period of upheaval, but for Paige, navigating it without an older female figure in the household added layers of bewilderment. There was no mother or older sister to confide in about the strange new landscape of her own body, no one to ask the embarrassing questions that burned in her mind.

Her dad, bless his heart, tried his best. He was a rock, as always, but this was uncharted territory for him too. There were clumsy conversations, initiated with a well-meaning but flustered, "So, uh, Paigey, things might be... changing a bit for you soon?" He bought books he thought might help, fumbled through explanations gleaned from pamphlets, and made awkward, solitary trips to the pharmacy for "girl things." Paige, though she appreciated his efforts, often felt a profound sense of isolation. She’d retreat to her room, feeling a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and a longing for a kind of understanding Bob, for all his love, couldn't quite provide. The locker room, once just a place for pre-game chats, now sometimes felt like a minefield of whispered conversations and shared experiences she wasn’t part of.

Adding to this internal maelstrom, new, unsettling questions began to surface regarding her own identity. As her peers started to navigate the tentative world of crushes and early adolescent romance, Paige found herself on the periphery, an observer rather than a participant. The typical boy-girl dynamics didn't resonate with her in the same way. A quiet, persistent voice in the back of her mind began to wonder why. This wasn't a clear understanding, just a nebulous sense of difference, a subtle disharmony with the narratives unfolding around her. It was another secret to hold, another layer of introspection in a mind already crowded with basketball strategy and adolescent angst. The word "sexuality" wasn't one she would have used then, but the nascent stirrings of questioning her orientation created a quiet undercurrent of anxiety.

The mounting pressure of her basketball success intersected sharply with these personal turbulences. Expectations were sky-high. Every game felt like an audition, every practice a test. Coaches, while supportive, also pushed hard, recognizing the once-in-a-generation talent they had. Peers sometimes viewed her with a mixture of awe and envy. And Paige, her own harshest critic, felt the weight of her own ambitions keenly. The court, often her sanctuary, could also feel like a pressure cooker. There were days when the joy of the game was overshadowed by the fear of not living up to the hype, of disappointing Bob, her coaches, or herself.

The balancing act was immense. Schoolwork demanded attention, intense training sessions ate up hours, and travel for tournaments consumed weekends. Her social life, already impacted by her dedication to basketball, became even more constrained. Friendships were often forged on the court, but the deeper, more vulnerable connections that adolescent girls often build were harder to come by when so much of her energy was focused outward, on performance, and inward, on navigating profound personal shifts.

Her dad remained her constant. He saw the shadows under her eyes, the moments of frustration, the flashes of vulnerability. He couldn't fix everything, couldn't magically make puberty easier or untangle the knots of her internal questioning, but he could listen. He could offer a hug, a reminder of how proud he was, not just of Paige the basketball player, but of Paige the person. He’d encourage breaks, try to inject normalcy with pizza nights or a silly movie, moments where she could just be a kid, not a phenom.

These pre-teen years in Hopkins were a crucible. Paige was being forged in the fires of intense competition, adolescent change, and nascent self-discovery. She was learning not just how to execute a perfect pick-and-roll, but how to navigate a world that was becoming increasingly complex, both on and off the court. The girl with the dazzling smile and effortless game was also a young soul grappling with the profound, often confusing, journey of growing up, all while the world began to watch.

Era 4: The Meeting

By the time Paige Bueckers stepped onto the polished hardwood of the Under-16 USA Basketball tryouts, she had already begun to understand that talent wasn’t enough. The gym at the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center in Colorado Springs buzzed with intensity – every girl here had been the best player in her city, maybe even her state. Now they were all vying for the same red, white, and blue jersey.

At 15, Paige had just started to feel the burden of potential, of expectations. She carried herself with a quiet fire, not the loudest or most physically imposing, but undeniably magnetic on the court — her court vision, her creativity, her sheer command of the game. Still, this was different. The stakes were higher. She needed to prove herself all over again.

That’s when she noticed the girl from Virginia.

Azzi Fudd, just 14, had the kind of shot that made coaches stop talking mid-sentence. Everything about her form was immaculate – smooth, effortless, almost surgical. Rumors had preceded her: daughter of Tim and Katie Fudd, a basketball family through and through. But Azzi didn’t walk around like a prodigy. She was focused, head down, eyes fixed on her own goals. Still, there was something quietly intimidating about her – precise, controlled, and deadly consistent.

Paige found herself watching Azzi more than she meant to. She noticed the way Azzi never reacted to pressure, how she laughed only when she meant it. And Azzi, for her part, had certainly noticed Paige – the intensity in her passes, the fire behind her competitive streak, how her personality seemed to stretch wide enough to fill a room but shrink down in quieter moments, like when no one was watching.

They both made the team. That wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising – at least to Paige – was being assigned the same room for the duration of the training camp. The U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center didn't offer much in the way of privacy, but the two girls found a rhythm. At first, it was basic courtesy: rotations for the bathroom, playlists on low volume, mutual respect. But high-stakes proximity has a way of collapsing distance. And the space between them began to vanish.

Late nights after grueling practices turned into quiet conversations about more than basketball – about families, injuries, what it meant to be seen only for what you could do, not who you were. Paige, always a little louder, found herself grounding in Azzi’s calm presence. Azzi, guarded and meticulous, felt safe letting down her walls with Paige’s warmth.

They started finishing each other’s thoughts on the court. Off the court, the walls between their beds became less symbolic and more real – Paige’s socks on Azzi’s side, Azzi’s phone charger always missing, the smell of eucalyptus from Azzi’s lotion becoming part of Paige’s memory of the room. There was no clean break between teammates and friends. And before long, there was no line at all between friends and something more.

It happened slowly and all at once. A hand held too long. A shoulder leaned on after a hard day. Laughter that dissolved into silence that neither of them wanted to break. The first kiss was quiet – nervous, charged, and unforgettable. They didn’t talk about it right away. But they didn’t need to. Something had shifted.

For Paige, who had spent months, maybe years, trying to name feelings she didn’t yet understand, this changed everything. It didn’t solve all the questions about who she was, but it gave her a new one: What did it mean to be in love – real, heart-thudding, can't-look-away love – with the girl sleeping four feet away?

They had games to win, drills to survive, reputations to uphold. But in that small Colorado room, under fluorescent lights and beside scuffed luggage, they found something unexpectedly fierce and tender.

Paige would never forget the feeling.

And neither would Azzi.

Era 5: Navigating New Realities 

By the time Paige Bueckers turned sixteen, she and Azzi Fudd were no longer just teammates or summer-camp sweethearts – they were something deeper. Something steadier. Something tested. Even from opposite ends of the country, they were still very much “attached at the hip,” as Bob liked to half-joke, though now their bond lived mostly in texts, FaceTime calls, and carefully coordinated visits squeezed between brutal practice schedules and school obligations.

The long-distance wasn’t easy.

Paige was in Hopkins, juggling her rising stardom, schoolwork, and a growing awareness that the eyes of the entire women’s basketball world were firmly trained on her. Azzi was back in Virginia, going through the same thing – though with her own quiet intensity. Their phone calls were often the only calm in the chaos: stolen hours late at night, earbuds in under blankets, voices low. They talked about everything – bad games, awkward interviews, coach drama, algebra tests, the unshakable pressure to be perfect.

There were fights. Of course there were fights.

Missed calls. Misread texts. Misplaced jealousy. At times, the distance carved valleys between them. But the reunions – God, the reunions – those made it worth it. Whether in hotel rooms during Team USA events, or during carefully orchestrated weekend visits, when Paige would hop a flight to D.C. or Azzi would show up in the bleachers at one of Paige’s home games, the gravity of their connection always snapped them back together like magnets.

They talked – often, and seriously – about college.

The dream, once whispered at fifteen, took on new weight now that recruiters were knocking down doors. UConn loomed large in Paige’s heart, a goal she’d carried since before she could drive. Geno Auriemma called. He made it clear: she was the future of the program.

Azzi had her own courtship, with her own list of elite programs. Coaches wanted her, not just for her insane shot, but for the way she moved – disciplined, unshakeable. It wasn’t just her game that drew attention anymore. She and Paige had become a kind of phenomenon. Fan accounts popped up overnight. Grainy game clips went viral. Articles speculated about their next steps. Rumors swirled about their relationship, sometimes lovingly, sometimes cruelly. The internet, with all its power, saw them. And it didn’t always look away kindly.

They tried to shut it out. Mostly, they succeeded. But they were still teenagers.

Some nights, Paige would scroll too long, lingering on comment threads she knew better than to read. "Overrated." "Too emotional." And other more negative words that caused that slimy type of anger to fester deep in Paige’s soamach. Not because people were saying those things about her per se but because they had the gall to throw those names towards Azzi. Her Azzi. 

The doubts, of course, found cracks, even in her titanium self-belief. Azzi had her own demons, her own critics who questioned her composure, her durability, her leadership. But they leaned on each other, as they always had. They reminded each other who they were when the world tried to write new definitions.

When Paige finally committed to UConn, the moment was a mix of joy and ache. It was everything she had worked toward – everything she had dreamed. Azzi was the first person she called.

"I'm proud of you," Azzi said. And she meant it. But the pause after hung heavy.

They had talked about it – about being a package deal, about chasing greatness side-by-side. But in the end, they each had to make their own choices. Azzi wasn’t sure yet. She needed more time. More clarity. Paige understood. She had to.

The distance between them, once just measured in miles, began to feel like a countdown clock.

And yet, through it all, the bond held.

Senior year brought more chaos. Media days. Honors. McDonald’s All-American announcements. Zoom interviews. Public personas had to be shaped, honed, protected. But in private, they were still Paige and Azzi. Goofy. Tender. Ridiculously competitive in ways that made their friends roll their eyes. They found each other in group chats, in shared playlists, in Polaroids taped to bedroom walls.

They were figuring out how to be young women in the spotlight – and in love.

It wasn’t always graceful. But it was real.

And when Paige finally zipped up her suitcase for Storrs, Connecticut, there were tears, of course. Not just from Bob at the airport, but from Azzi, who pressed a note into her hand before she left. Paige read it on the plane. It said:

“No matter where we go, I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

Paige did.

Era 6: Becoming 

The moment Paige Bueckers stepped onto the Storrs campus, it felt like stepping into a dream – one shaped by a decade of driveway drills, highlight reels, and whispered ambitions. UConn wasn’t just a college. It was the pinnacle. It was Geno. It was legacy. It was everything she’d worked for.

But dreams, she quickly learned, could be heavy.

College life hit fast. There was barely time to settle into her dorm before the reality of Division I basketball set in – 6 a.m. lifts, double practices, film sessions that dissected every missed rotation, every lazy closeout. Coach Auriemma expected excellence – not potential, not flashes – consistency. Paige, always the competitor, rose to the challenge. But the pressure was unrelenting. She was no longer just the girl with handles from Minnesota. She was The Next One.

Classes were another gauntlet. Managing deadlines between national TV games and recovery sessions felt like a second sport. Her days were a blur of movement, her nights a quiet race against exhaustion.

And then there was Azzi.

They’d made it – together.

After all the uncertainty, the dream of playing side-by-side in college had somehow materialized. Azzi chose UConn, too. Maybe for Paige, maybe not solely – but whatever the reason, the result was the same: they were finally sharing the same court, the same jersey, the same grind.

But being together didn’t make things easier. In some ways, it made them harder.

There were new eyes on them now – more invasive, more entitled. Whispers about their chemistry, their “closeness,” spilled into online debates, message boards, even press questions. They never made a public statement. They didn’t need to. But the scrutiny added pressure to something already so precious.

They learned, quickly, to protect it.

Some nights, they’d crash onto one of their beds, not talking – just letting the silence between them do the healing. Other nights, they’d sneak out for late walks near campus, hoodies up, fingers brushing. They knew they couldn’t outrun the spotlight. But they could at least claim pieces of privacy, moments that belonged only to them.

On the court, they were electric.

Paige’s game matured – her vision sharper, her leadership undeniable. She became the heartbeat of the team, balancing flare with discipline, swagger with sacrifice. Every pass had intention. Every game was a building block toward something bigger.

Azzi, as always, was the cool counterbalance. Her shot as pristine as ever, her movements honed like a dancer’s. Together, they played with a rhythm that was almost telepathic – years of trust distilled into basketball instincts.

Still, even greatness wasn’t a shield.

There were injuries. Slumps. Articles that praised one while questioning the other. Days when neither felt good enough, despite what the stat sheet said. Paige, especially, wrestled with the growing disconnect between who she was and who people believed her to be. To the world, she was the golden girl, the flawless star. Inside, she was just trying to stay afloat.

Azzi reminded her who she was.

Not with big speeches, but in the little things. A hand on her knee during a tough film review. A dumb meme texted at 3 a.m. The quiet knowing that came from being loved completely, even on her worst days.

Together, they kept dreaming.

The WNBA loomed ahead like a distant shore – tantalizing, inevitable. Paige felt its pull, especially after big games, when scouts would linger and fans would chant her name. But she also knew: this chapter mattered. UConn was more than a stepping stone. It was shaping her – teaching her how to lead, how to lose, how to rebuild.

And beyond all that, she was growing into herself.

As a student. As a partner. As a woman figuring out how to live boldly in a world that kept trying to define her.

By the time Paige reached the tail end of her sophomore year, she was no longer just chasing greatness. She was becoming it – in her own way, on her own terms. And whether the road led to championships, draft nights, or something entirely unexpected, one thing remained true:

Azzi was always there, in the crowd or on the court, still steady. Still home.

They had made it through adolescence, distance, doubt, and the roar of rising fame.

Now, in the glow of early adulthood, they were building something real.

Something that could last.

 Epilogue: Draft Night

The lights were brighter than they’d ever been. The kind of brightness that seemed to blur the edges of everything, making even the sharpest memories feel like dreams. Paige sat near the front of the room, dressed in a crisp black suit that made her look every inch the professional athlete she’d fought to become. Her name was everywhere – on mock drafts, on banners, on the lips of analysts filling airtime with praise and predictions.

Next to her sat Azzi, also in black to match – classic, understated, radiant. She looked calm. She always did.

But Paige knew better. She could see the slight tension in Azzi’s jaw, the way her hands were folded too tightly in her lap. They were both waiting. Both holding their breath.

A flashbulb popped. Cameras swept across their row. Somewhere on a nearby stage, the commissioner took her place behind the podium. The room hushed.

It was finally happening.

The journey that had started in Colorado Springs – two teenagers with duffel bags and nerves – had led to this moment. All the 6 a.m. workouts, the torn ligaments, the championship runs, the nights spent cramming for exams after practice, the long talks whispered under dorm blankets… it all pulsed beneath the surface now, a silent electricity in the air.

Azzi reached over without looking and found Paige’s hand. Their fingers locked like they always had, like they always would.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

The name rang out and the room erupted. Cheers, applause, camera shutters. Paige barely heard anything. Her heart was pounding too loudly.

She stood slowly. Smiling, stunned, trying to breathe.

She glanced at Azzi, who mouthed, “I love you.”

And those three words hit Paige harder than they ever had.

She walked onto the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey for the cameras. Her face beamed out on the big screen, and for the first time, she wasn’t chasing anything anymore. She was here. She had arrived.

Back in her seat, Azzi wiped away a tear.

But it wasn’t sadness. It was pride. Pure, fierce, aching pride.

Later that night, after the interviews and the handshake gauntlet, after Paige had posed with her draft cap and answered questions about leadership and expectations and the “legacy she hoped to build,” they found each other again in the quiet backstage hallways.

No lights. No cameras.

Just them.

"You did it," Azzi whispered.

"So did you," Paige said. "You're next."

They stood in the soft hum of the arena's back corridor, arms wrapped around each other, two futures unfolding side by side. And for a moment, time slowed. The noise faded. It was just like it had been in that room in Colorado Springs – two girls trying to figure it all out.

But now, they weren’t trying anymore.

They knew.

Whatever came next – different teams, new cities, more pressure – they would navigate it the same way they always had.

Together.

[kit-williams]

Resending sfw fluf scenarios for writers block part 1. This one works as Husbandry or Reverse Husbandry.

The Night Lords look on in utter confusion as Konrad Cruze lets a tiny baseline girl child braid brightly collored paper flowers into his hair.

Alright

Husbandry Tags @egrets-not-regrets @liar-anubiass-blog @barn-anon @bleedingichorhearts @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@ms--lobotomy @nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog @felinisnoctis

Father had returned! It had been a month since the Primarch of the Eighth had vanished. All of the psykers of the legion had tried to figure out what happened even beseeching Magnus to help with it. Either the Primarch of the Thousand Sons succeeded or it simply returned to normal... perhaps the Emperor himself caught wind of it. But both Sheng and Sevetar knew something was different... wherever the Primarch had been sent had disturbed something inside of him far more so than the normally disturbed Primarch.

The changes were almost instant as the wretched state of his bedchambers was immediately changed. It was cleaned before he would enter it again. Curze was jumpy and hissing at anyone getting too close... not too different from anything not until the medicae were called to his chambers. Which revealed the small child that he had returned with, ill with everything and anything as unknown to his sons... her little immune system was unable to deal with all the wild new strains of illness but lucky for her... everyone was terrified to fail the Primarch for his request on "fixing her".

Sheng and Sevetar would overhear them speak to each other in a language unknown to either Night Lord though she would speak snippets of Gothic in a strange accent. It was Sevetar who finally had the nerve to ask one day as he entered his father's chambers, again they spoke in the strange language as she combed the long black hair, looking healthier than when he went missing, before starting to braid the strands and inserting paper flowers.

"How long were you actually gone." He said to the point in Nostroman as she looked at him unaware of what he said.

"Years." Curze sneered, "Perhaps Decades even."

"Who is she?"

"My ward... my charge... my bonded." The Primarch tried to find the right words to explain what he experienced. "An unloved thing waiting for someone to care about her." He remembers the lonely look in her eyes before stealing her from the Foster Center, wasn't really stealing... it was simply taking what was his.

"I was on what many thought to be ancient Terra." Curze says unprompted, "There were thousands of Astartes there... all from different times... night lords that have yet to meet me... and night lords made after I am long dead. Though that future is less than certain."

Sevetar's brow furrowed as his black eyes glanced over at the child who was still braiding with a smile as she was humming something. Curze had been interacting with his Legion more and properly all because of some child? Sevetar was skeptical and yet... all the things Curze had bemoaned about his legion he finally was taking an active role in his own legion and his own destiny... "Well what does the little princess need then?"

Konrad seemed to grin at that, hiding the malvolence in his smile before her tiny hug told him that she was done. "There we go Nacht! All done."

"Thank you little one." She was swallowed by his embrace.

"Nacht? Can I go out soon?"

"When you're better little one. I also need to make sure others know not to hurt you. When the medicae clears you and I get things in order."

"Okay. I can't wait to meet the other Night Lords!"

"Mhmm and I will make sure they all behave... or else." He whispers the final part in Nostroman as he carries her over to his bed before tucking her back in and watching her drift off again.

"There are many things that need to be done Sevetar." He skulked over to the Astarte and loomed over him, "I trust I will have your support?"

"Always my lord."

"Good."

[honeyryewhiskey]

mirrored souls

or, dean dreams of what he believes he can never have. warnings ! angst, hurt/some comfort, dean's feelings are hurt, unexpected pregnancy, tough conversations, two ppl with the same fears j's note ! hey so let's not even talk about the fact that this is neither of the two fics i posted snippets of lol idk what possessed me to write 5k fucking words for this i'm sorry i just want to baby trap dean winchester erm idk enjoy? it's sad but maybe pls dont take my word for it i'll continue this and let them be happy also i stopped proof reading half way through bc it is my bed time <3 5k words

He’s had this dream every night for weeks. 

The sun is golden, thick with warmth, stretching over endless fields of green. It settles on his skin like an old friend, seeps into his bones, loosening the ever-present tension in his shoulders. The air is clean, carrying the scent of wildflowers and summer, and for the first time in his life, he feels safe. Like he could lie back in the grass, close his eyes, and let the world move on without him.

Then, he hears her.

A laugh—small and weightless, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—rings through the stillness. It stops him cold, strikes something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He turns, and she’s there.

She can’t be older than four, standing barefoot in the grass, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes—green as polished emeralds, too big for her little face. His eyes.

But everything else—her delicate nose, the slope of her cheekbones, the way her wild hair frames her face—that’s you.

She tilts her head, smiling in a way that makes something inside him shatter. Then she reaches for him, small fingers wrapping around his calloused hand like she’s always belonged there.

And just like that—like the break of a wave, like the snap of a thread—she’s gone.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale, the remnants of warmth already fading, replaced by the cold press of reality. His chest aches, heavy with something deeper than longing. A quiet, creeping fear slithers in, curling around his ribs.

Because she has his eyes and your face—a combination that will never exist.

You left. And you haven’t come back in months.

It was always cat and mouse with you—years of fleeting moments, an unspoken desire for more that neither of you had the courage to face. You’d cross paths, use each other's bodies to release some tension, but never linger long enough to ignite anything real. 

Until about eight months ago, when everything changed. You stayed longer than just a weekend. Dean had you in his arms for four months—four months that felt like a lifetime of stolen moments, of finally letting down walls you both had built so high. But when it all started to feel too real, when the weight of it all settled between you like an unspoken truth, you pulled away. You told him it was too much, that you needed space, that you couldn’t do it anymore. You needed to breathe, to step back before it swallowed you whole. And with that, you walked away, leaving him to sift through the pieces of something that was never meant to last.

His heavy hand slams down on the bleating alarm clock beside his bed. The sharp noise cuts off, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing in the dark. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his tired eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the remnants of the dream—the sunlight, the laughter, the way she looked at him like he was her whole damn world.

Dean exhales sharply and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Another short night, another dream of something that doesn’t exist, of someone who will never be real. He tells himself it’s just a trick of the mind, a byproduct of too many years spent running on empty. But the truth—the one he won’t say out loud—is that the dreams never started until you left.

And maybe that’s what makes them feel more like a haunting than a fantasy.

He’s spent each day the past four months trying to shove it down, burying it under booze and hunts and half-hearted distractions. But it doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself he’s over it, that he saw it coming. Because he did. He knew you would run the second things got too real, the second you got too close, too comfortable, like maybe you wanted this life with him.

And then, just like his dream, you were gone.

You never said it outright, but he knew—deep down, you were always more like him than you wanted to admit. Built for the road, for the chase. Love wasn’t something you stayed for.

Except you never really left, not completely.

Every now and then, his phone would ring, and it’d be your voice on the other end—casual, distant, asking about a hunt, about a lead on something nasty you were tracking. Always avoiding the bigger conversation, never asking how he’s been, never giving him the chance to ask where you are.

And Dean let it happen. Let you keep him at arm’s length. Because at least this way, you were still something in his life.

But now, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the dream still fresh in his mind, it pisses him off.

He stands, yanking on a t-shirt and running a hand through his hair before heading for the door. He just needs coffee—something to shake off the lingering ache sitting heavy in his chest.

But the second he steps into the hall, Sam is there, hovering with that anxious look that never means anything good.

“Hey,” Sam starts, lifting a hand like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Before you go in there, just—don’t freak out, okay?”

Dean’s stomach tightens, his muscles tensing. The look he cuts Sam with makes the younger brother’s eyes widen, searching for words to mediate and settle the storm brewing at either side of him. “Sam, what the hell are you—”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears it.

The sound of pacing. Quick, uneven steps against the kitchen floor. His body goes still, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t need to see you to know.

You’re here.

Dean’s pulse pounds in his ears. His stubborn rage choking out the glimmer of childish hope that sets his nerves on fire. He stares at Sam, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sam just shifts on his feet, uneasy.

That’s when another sound cuts through the silence—your voice.

Muffled, pacing, like you’re muttering to yourself between shallow breaths.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he pushes past Sam. His mind is already racing, his thoughts a tangled mess of you, his dreams, his heartache and the damn voice in his head telling him to grip you tight enough so that you can’t leave him again. Whatever this is, whatever brought you back, he’s not in the mood for it. Not today. Not after all this time.

But when he steps into the kitchen, the world tilts on its axis.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide, hands curled tightly around the edge of the counter as if you’re holding yourself together, bracing for something. For him, maybe. Your posture is rigid, your whole body taut with tension. You look… different. There’s an unreadable heaviness in the way you stand, the nervous bite of your lip as you chew it—like you’re preparing for a blow, for him to lash out, to reject you. 

A heavy silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. His heart hammers in his chest, but there’s no anger now, no easy target to aim it at. Just this painful, aching pull between what he wants and what he’s afraid to hope for.

“You…” He’s barely able to get the word out. His throat feels tight, words caught somewhere between anger and something much softer, something more dangerous. He’s not sure which one is scarier.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, the uncertainty in your eyes like a crack in a mirror he never thought he’d see. Dean feels something in his chest twist—familiar, painful, like it’s been waiting for you to come back and break him open all over again.

His mind is a whirlwind. He wants to be angry—hell, he’s had four months of anger built up over your disappearing act. But standing here, with you so close, he realizes just how torn he is inside.

He wants to scream at you, demand to know why you didn’t come back sooner, why you couldn’t have just stayed. But that’s not the real question, is it? Because deep down, a part of him knows it wasn’t just you who ran. It was him, too. He shut off long ago, convincing himself it was easier that way. He was easier that way.

But you? You always seemed to slip through his defenses.

Dean stares at you, struggling to find his voice, his hands suddenly feeling useless at his sides. The walls he’s built up for his entire life—years of anger, bitterness, and pain—are cracking, piece by piece, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Dean crosses his arms, trying to shove down the storm already brewing inside him. “Well,” his voice is rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hurt. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your spine straightens, and just like that, the tension shifts. Whatever nerves had you pacing seconds ago are buried under the sharp edge of your own attitude. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it either.”

Dean scoffs, a bitter chuckle, the undertone to the eye roll he throws you. “Oh, great. That makes me feel real special.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers digging into the edge of the counter before you let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Dean. I don’t know if this is the right thing, or if I’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip again. You were never as good as he was at hiding your pain. It’s evident now, in the vulnerability in your eyes that cuts through him, raw and unguarded, and it makes everything inside him spin faster.

Sam clears his throat. “Why don’t I give you guys some space?” He glances between the two of you, clearly ready to escape the tension.

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at you as you stand firm, the scowl on your face trying desperately to cover the sadness in your eyes. The fact that you’re asking for anything at all should piss him off. After months of the half-hearted check-ins that only ever came when you needed something, after the way you left—why should he give you the time of day?

But he can’t say no.

And that scares him more than anything.

Sam nods to himself when neither of you protest and slips out of the kitchen, leaving you and Dean in thick, suffocating silence.

“Why are you here?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but the question hangs in the air, laced with something deeper, something that sounds too much like hope. A falsehood he’s terrified to acknowledge.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping just slightly, as if the weight of being in the same room as him is too much to carry alone.

Dean takes a step toward you, his feet heavy on the floor, his chest aching. His instincts shout at him to pull away, to protect himself from the inevitable hurt, but something else—something buried deep inside him—begs him to go closer.

The words come out before he can stop them, quieter now, barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this again, are we gonna keep pretending we have nothing to talk about?”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face, and it rips through him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he can’t stop the words. He can’t stop the fear, the resentment, that’s built up over all this time.

"I don't know if I can just act like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn't leave me. Like..." His voice breaks off, his throat thick with emotion he’s been swallowing for far too long. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, you or himself.

His hands are trembling now, and he clenches them into fists, fighting to keep the storm inside him contained. But every time he looks at you, sees the way you’re standing before him, so tired and lacking the fire that he always adored. That you’re here now when he never thought he’d see you again, it pulls him under a wave of emotion he can’t quite place.

“I don’t know how to do this, not after everything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to be okay with it.”

Your eyes fill with regret, but there's something else too—a quiet understanding. You know what you’ve done. You know what this looks like, but still, you're standing here. And that small, painful spark of hope flickers in the pit of his stomach.

“Can we just sit and talk, please?” Your voice is soft, pleading. And this time, you don’t look away.

Dean stands there, his whole body tense, his mind screaming conflicting words in the crosshairs—walk away, stay. But something in your gaze, in your quiet desperation, tugs at him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed—conflicted in the most unfamiliar way.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nods. “Fine. But we talk,” he jabs a finger at you, his brows set with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat, “really talk. No more running.”

You nod, your shoulders relaxing, just slightly, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of believing in the possibility of this. Of you.

His eyes narrow, the weight of years of unresolved anger and hurt pressing down on him. But despite it all, despite everything you put him through, he can’t seem to dig his heels into this anger. Not when you’re standing here, so close, with those big, pleading eyes that always seemed to strip him bare.

The years of touch and go, the broken promises, the words left unsaid—they all float between you, a suffocating fog that neither of you knows how to break. But Dean’s tired. Tired of fighting this pull, this pull toward you he can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times you leave.

With a frustrated sigh, he crosses the kitchen, the hard floor beneath his boots clacking louder than it should. He grabs two chairs from the worn wooden table, scraping them across the linoleum as he sets them down. Wordlessly, he nods toward the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You stand there for a moment, the air between you thick with things left unsaid. And then, quietly, you take the seat next to him.

Dean can feel the weight of the moment in every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to look at you. Not yet. Not until he’s ready to hear whatever it is you came to say.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable, as you sit side by side, neither of you knowing how to begin.

Finally, you clear your throat, a small sound, but it’s enough to break through the tension. “Look, I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything. But… can we just talk, like we used to? No games. No running away this time, okay?”

Dean stares at the table in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge. Your words hit harder than he expected, and for a second, his chest tightens with something raw and unfamiliar.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, you know?” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Every time you leave… it’s like you take a piece of me with you. And I’m just left here picking up the pieces, wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

You wince at the admission, and it hits him harder than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know why he said it—maybe because this is the first time in years that you’re actually sitting here, facing him. Maybe because it’s the first time in years that he feels like you might actually be willing to stay.

You reach out, placing a tentative hand on his, stilling the tapping. And for a brief moment, his breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” you say softly. “I never wanted to be another person who hurts you.”

to forget the months of silence, the aching space you left behind. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and pretend none of it ever happened—that you never walked away, that he never let you.

But reality crashes down just as fast.

He can’t let himself go there, can’t let himself believe this is something he can have without it slipping through his fingers. So instead, he exhales sharply, shoving that fragile part of himself deep down where it belongs. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with his angry armor.

“Then why did you leave?” he grits out, his voice quiet but commanding. He needs to know. Needs to understand why the person he thought he might finally let himself love disappeared without a trace.

You pull your hand back, lips pressed tight. “I—”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, like the weight of months spent apart. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening, why you’re here, why you’re sitting beside him, but something shifts in your expression.

You take a deep breath, eyes falling to your lap before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words soft but full of weight. “I’m sorry for always running off. For disappearing when things got too real. I know it’s not fair.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, what to feel.

“I was scared,” you continue, voice breaking just a little. “I still am. I…” Your words falter, but then you press on, searching his eyes for understanding. “I was consumed with this fear of losing it all. That I’d attach myself to you and this life would rip you away.”

The quiet admission sits heavy in the air. Dean feels his heart thudding faster beneath his rib cage. A pang of regret washes over him, for never admitting he shared that fear. That he thought he would be the thing that rips you apart. And maybe if he had, you wouldn’t have felt alone in those thoughts. 

You run a hand through your hair, a nervous gesture, and he watches the movement, the tension in your body. “I didn’t think I could do this. I didn’t think we could do this. I don’t see a world where something like that survives,” you shake your head, lost in the thoughts that shuffle through as you try to find your words, “Where… where we get a happy ending.”

Dean feels his chest tighten, his pulse speeding up as he takes in what you’re saying. The words hang between you, both of you holding your breath. And for a long, painful moment, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the refrigerator, a constant reminder that time is still moving, even when it feels like everything’s frozen in place.

“I’m not saying that I don’t want it, Dean,” you add quickly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to believe it’s possible. But I didn’t come here to ask for you to take me back.”

Dean stares at you, his pulse hammering against his ribs. There it is—that damn crack in your voice, the one that always cuts through him like a blade. He wants to be angry, to hold onto the bitterness that’s been festering since you left, but it slips through his fingers the second he sees the way you’re looking at him. Like you’re scared. Like you don’t expect him to want this.

Like you don’t expect him to want you.

His throat tightens, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to reach for you. “Then what do you want?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “If you’re not here to ask me for anything, then why come back?”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for words. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jacket, your shoulders curling inward, like you’re bracing for him to tear you apart. And damn it, that does something to him, because he’s never wanted to be the reason you look like that.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to ground himself. His mind is a battlefield, waging war between the fear clawing at his insides and the need to fix this—fix you. But how the hell is he supposed to do that when he’s still not sure how to fix himself?

“You don’t know how to believe it’s possible?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, join the damn club.” His chest feels too tight, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “You think I had some fairytale idea of us, sweetheart? That I thought this would be easy?” He lets out a breath that’s more of a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at this. But you didn’t give me the chance to figure it out, did you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. And God, he hates that. He hates seeing you cry. Hates even more that he’s the reason for it.

“I was scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like shattered glass. “I am scared.”

Dean swallows hard, his anger flickering, giving way to something deeper, something more painful. He’s scared too. He’s scared as hell. Of not being enough. Of screwing this up. Of losing you all over again.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the way you’re trembling, barely holding yourself together—it hits him. He’s not the only one drowning in this.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally, finally stepping forward. His hands hover for a second before settling on your arms, grounding you. Grounding himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, softer now, “I guess we can be scared together.”

You drag the backs of your hands across your cheeks, trying to contain the tears that just won’t stop flowing. “No, Dean, you don’t get it—” you cut yourself off with a groan. Your breathing is coming out uneven as anxiety pulls at your every nerve, and suddenly you can’t sit still. You can’t do this. 

You’re up on your feet again, pacing slightly as you try to steady your breathing. 

Dean watches you, his stomach twisting as you distance yourself. There’s a wild, frantic energy in the way you move, your arms wrapping around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your breath is uneven, shaky, and those damn tears keep slipping past your lashes no matter how hard you try to blink them away.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you again, to do something—anything—to stop that panicked look from overtaking your face. It melts his resolve, steadies his rising temper.

His voice comes quieter this time, hesitant. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head as if you can will away whatever storm is raging inside you.

Dean’s chest tightens. His mind is running through every possibility, each one worse than the last. “Sweetheart,” he tries again, the pet name easing off his tongue as if no time had passed since he last called you that, “talk to me.”

"I... I didn't catch it in time, I'm sorry." You start, your voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with something he can't quite name. Your eyes squeeze shut as if the simple act of speaking is too much.

Dean’s chest tightens, a knot of confusion twisting in his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” His tone is gentle now, trying to coax it out of you, but the moment you raise your eyes, he sees it—the fear, raw and trembling beneath the surface.

He’s on his feet again, closing in on you like you’re a scared animal that’ll take flight from any sudden movement. 

“I just thought it was stress making me miss my period again, but…” You choke, your voice cracking as if admitting it out loud is tearing something inside you apart.

Dean’s breath hitches, and his heart races, but he doesn’t dare interrupt you, his own confusion giving way to a growing sense of dread. He takes another step toward you, but you flinch, eyes shimmering with tears that slip through your heavy breathing.

You finally break, the tears turning into sobs that shake your shoulders. You shake your head, wiping at your face again, as if trying to push it all away. But it’s too late now.

“I’m scared, D.” You gasp the words out, the weight of them crushing you. “I’m so scared.”

Dean’s chest tightens, a cold sensation creeping down his spine, even as his heart lurches in his chest. He can feel the tremor in your voice, the rawness in every syllable, but he can’t make sense of it. The world seems to slow, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—but not quickly enough for his mind to catch up.

“What… What are you saying?” He asks, his voice quiet, strained with confusion and something that feels dangerously close to panic.

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears. You open your mouth, but the words seem stuck, lodged in your throat. The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, you take a deep breath, almost like you’re gathering the strength to face something unbearable. “I’m pregnant, Dean.” The words fall from your lips in a broken whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean freezes. His entire body goes still, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. The weight of your words hits him like a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes silent except for the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Pregnant.

His mouth goes dry, his thoughts scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. The pieces click into place—the missed periods, the way you looked at him when you walked in, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His dreams.

 He takes a half-step back, his mind too far behind, too rattled by the weight of what you just said.

And then, slowly, it hits him—this isn’t just a shock; it’s a bombshell. One that could tear everything apart, and yet, at the same time, it pulls something from him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The edges of his world begin to blur. He’s scared. He’s terrified.

“Are you… are you sure?” His voice comes out rough, almost panicked, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is some sick joke, but he knows it’s not.

You nod, sniffling. "I took a test, I went to the doctor and they told me I was already four months along." you whisper, choking back a sob. "I didn’t know what to do."

Dean steps closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But you flinch again, the space between you thick with everything you’ve never said to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I could have just called, I should have—” Your voice cracks, and you finally meet his gaze, eyes full of everything—regret, fear, and a raw, aching vulnerability that threatens to break him.

Dean's heart races, the panic starting to crawl up his throat. He wants to scream, to tell you that he’s terrified—that he doesn’t know how to be a father, that he’s too broken, too fucked up to raise a kid. The thought of something happening to you, to your child, terrifies him in ways he can’t even put into words. But you’re standing there, so small, so vulnerable, looking at him like he’s the only one who can fix this. And damn it, he has to be strong.

He closes the distance between and pulls you into his arms before either of you can second guess it. His hands are warm and steady on your back, but inside, his mind is a storm. His pulse is erratic, his breath shallow, but he holds you close, trying to give you the comfort he doesn’t know how to find for himself.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice like a lighthouse to steer your sinking ship. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head against his chest, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft but full of intensity. His thumbs pushes away your tears, warm and rough against your skin. “You don’t have to know right now,” he assures you, trying to convince himself as much as you. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Inside, though, his mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know how to be the man you need. He doesn’t know if he can even be the father this child deserves. But in this moment, he’s all you have. And somehow, he knows that no matter how badly he’s freaking out, no matter how scared he is, he’ll find a way to make this work—for you, for the little life growing inside of you.

He gently strokes your hair, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, grounding himself in the act. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers again, his voice thick with the promise of something more than just words.

But inside, the panic churns, a rising tide he can’t escape. He holds you tighter, pretending for your sake that everything will be fine, even as the weight of the world presses down on him.

edit to add tags why do i always forget tags @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @ultravi0lence14

[rcmclachlan]

#not me glancing at this photo as i write the super!tommy au sequel

(loud_glass_shattering.sfx as i dive through the window)

REALLY???? YIPPEE!!!!!

JUST FOR THAT, YOU'RE GETTING A SNIPPET WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT

+

Evan flicks his eyes from Tommy's outstretched hand to the 10,000-foot drop below and says slowly, "So, when I said I wanted to make good on those flying lessons, this isn't what I meant."

Even if Tommy couldn't smell the serotonin and norepinephrine currently being dumped into Evan's bloodstream, he wouldn't believe for a second that this is the moment when Evan finally decides to err on the side of safety and choose to not do the risky thing. He's heard all about the various dumbass stunts Evan's pulled over the last eight years, including the one with the SUV rigged to explode.

Standing at the edge of a mountain summit without any gear and being asked to step off? That's the kind of shit Evan Buckley volunteers for by raising not one but both hands, and possibly one leg. 

But there is more norepinephrine than there is serotonin and whatever endorphins are cycling around Evan's body, and Evan's wild, almost erratic heartbeat drowns out every other sound in the world.

Tommy can't help but think of the little dormouse he'd found in the pantry last month. He ended up coaxing it into a cup and then released it beneath the rhododendron bush in the backyard, and even flicked a little gust of wind to keep his neighbor's cat from getting too curious. 

The mouse had been perfectly safe with him, but it had only looked at him with wide-eyed terror—with norepinephrine flooding its system, and with a heartbeat so loud it drowned out the world.

Slowly, he lowers his hand. 

The summit glows pink with the first blush of dawn, and when Tommy floats over and puts his feet back on solid ground, Evan blows out a shaky breath.

Mortified horror twists his guts into a square knot. "Shit, Evan, I—"

But before Tommy can choke out the beginnings of an apology, Evan takes a running leap off the edge.

The stunned hush that falls over the summit has nothing to do with Evan literally jumping off a cliff and everything to do with the fact that Tommy absolutely should've seen this coming. 

With a put-upon sigh, Tommy drops his head back and grumbles out loud to the universe at large, "This is what Superman must've felt like when he first learned about fucking kryptonite." 

Then he follows Evan right over the edge.

[mynnthia]

compiling my headcanons for what video games dungeon meshi characters would like, if they were gamers in modern day

some taken from this post and my reblog additions there. added more characters, with some suggestions by friends/mutuals (marked by *asterisk ).

this can also be a games recommendation list based on your fav/most relatable characters too, if you want

characters that are not are included are bc i dont have ideas for them. if i only list the genre name but not any specific titles, its bc im not familiar enough with the character/genre to pick a specific game.

this list is, of course, biased towards games im more familiar with. feel free to ask me to elaborate on my choices or make suggestions in the comments

Laios' party:

Laios: plays lots of Monster Hunter. loves Spore but he doesnt often play past the tribal stage. likes Pokemon but he's more focused on catching the pokemon than following the story. played WolfQuest and DragonFable back in the day. enjoyed the concept of Bugsnax but wasn't interested in dealing with the NPCs

Marcille: mainly Dwarf Fortress, RTS games, some colony sims. but also sometimes The Sims, and dollmaker dress-up games. i could see her also enjoying Rollercoaster Tycoon and making elaborately-themed parks. might also occasionally indulge in some visual novels if she's in the mood for narrative she has Stardew Valley so she can have something to play co-op with falin, but its not a game she plays a lot of otherwise. when playing with falin, marcille micromanages the farm to maximize productivity, and does the decorations

Chilchuck: puzzle games and hidden object/escape room games as a video game-equivalent to finding/dismantling traps and lockpicking. i think he'd also enjoy Bejeweled.

Senshi: mainly Wii games and Cooking Mama. occasionally plays Snake on his 15-year-old nokia phone. i dont think he would enjoy games like Overcooked or restaurant manager games, because he likes to take his time making food, not stressing about customer service

Falin: some *Legend of Zelda games – she likes the exploration aspect in Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom, maybe also some of the toon zelda games like Minish Cap or Wind Waker she also plays Pokemon (*Pokemon Go when she's traveling), and i think she would enjoy some indie games, like Penko Park or Chicory: A Colorful Tale. plays Stardew Valley co-op with marcille – falin mainly takes care of the animals, mining, and picking the crops. occasionally makes improvement suggestions that marcille didnt think of

Izutsumi: i could see her enjoying games with parkour mechanics, like *Assassin's Creed, or Mirror's Edge. or maybe something simple but requiring cat-like swipes, like Fruit Ninja. despite her impatience, i think she could also enjoy action games with interesting longer narratives, as evidenced by [this omake] (relevant portion pictured below), so maybe *Final Fantasy 7 – my friend who's familiar with the game said "she’d find Cloud and Vincent relatable"

[ID: a dungeon meshi omake, where laios' party watches a nightmare monster manifest marcille's dream. there are snippets of dramatic soap opera-like dialogue. the rest of the party are initially enthusiastic but get bored over time, meanwhile izutsumi remains enthralled]

Kabru's party

Kabru: definitely Crusader Kings. maybe also some rpgs with relationship/faction mechanics, such as *Fire Emblem (one of the older ones or FE:3H) or Fallout: New Vegas (hes maxing out the speech stat asap) i think he would also enjoy mystery games like Pentiment and Return of the Obra Dinn – he would love the process of getting familiar with the many characters and deducing "who did what" in both games.

Rin: she takes pride in being an indie gamer (translating her disdain for upper class magic academy mages -> disdain for AAA games). given her chain-lightning magic in canon, i think she'd enjoy games with AOE-type magic, so maybe games such as Vampire Survivors. my mutual also suggested she might enjoy indie mystery visual novels like *Paranormasight, and that her AAA guilty-pleasure would be *Final Fantasy 14 – that rin is "a hardcore ff14 raider. would join PUGs and shot-call every week. #holm and diya might also play ff14 casually with rin but holm would be fishing mainly"

Mickbell: mainly Bethesda games like Fallout and Skyrim– enjoys the bootstrapper power fantasy in them. the type to go out of his way to pick up all the loot he can, to later sell

Kuro: enjoys the same games as Mickbell, but for the open-world exploration and investigation factors

Toshiro and Tansu's party:

Namari: her interest in fighting and weapons could translate to brawler/fighting games and action games with a focus on weapon stats – so maybe *Street Fighter, *God of War, and/or *Dark Souls. might play *Monster Hunter with laios but for the weapons. i could also see her occasionally enjoying truck simulators

Toshiro (Shuro): has the perseverance for soulslikes and other high-difficulty action and/or metroidvania games, but would take his time overthinking item/weapon synergies sometimes. given [his fondness for bugs], i could also see him enjoying Hollow Knight

Tade: would enjoy the cute aesthetics and lighthearted gameplay of Animal Crossing and Katamari. would also like idol anime rhythm games

Kiki: i think she would enjoy horror games such as Resident Evil, but would play it while super chill. i dont have much reasoning for this aside from vibes

Canaries:

Mithrun: plays Doom. got into Hollow Knight but still hasn't finished it because he keeps getting lost. senshi introduces him to Cooking Mama later on, which he finds surprisingly therapeutic

Cithis: plays Hitman and enjoys staging elaborate accident kills. i think she'd also enjoy The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood, with her background as a devious fortune-teller

Fleki: surreal indie games like Hylics. also plays Team Fortress 2, and is a scout main. occasionally joins lycion in Animal Jam

Lycion: active WolfQuest and Animal Jam player. occasionally joins fleki in tf2

Pattadol: plays Stardew Valley – shes comparatively a normie, but on the meticulous side. she would enjoy perfecting her in-game farm

Otta: plays Genshin Impact. the serious reasoning is because of her (earth) elemental magic and how genshin has an elemental magic system (from my understanding. ive never played it). the joke reasoning is how some genshin players play to collect "waifus", and how otta goes through a lot of women in her dating life

Other:

Leed: runs her own guild in World of Warcraft

Winged Lion: god-games like WorldBox or Simmiland. and Darkest Dungeon (this ones mostly a joke)

Thistle: plays the original Plants VS. Zombies. also plays Minecraft and is very serious about it, but hasn't updated his game in years (translating the fact hes a 1000-year-old kid frozen in time -> playing "slightly old" games popular in the early 2010s)

[ID: tweet reply by twitter user ranchuppi – "thistle calls it lord delgal's server but he is the only mod. whole royal family is locked in spectator mode. Hell. living hell on earth."]

[instructionsnotincluded]

Can we get a snippet of JJ interrupting them? 👀

We can have that 😉

Read Wild Winds here!

18+ MDNI | Language, shower sex, smut, sex interrupted.

Logan slipped her fingers into Rafe’s hair, forehead pressed to his as they kissed slowly. The steam from the shower filled the small room, and Logan was so thankful for the window shedding just a little light into the bathroom, making three thirty in the afternoon feel a little more romantic than it normally did. Rafe’s fingers spread along her spine and Logan arched into him, breasts pressing lightly into his chest, the hard metal of her piercing contrasting with her soft skin as he deepened the kiss, inhaling sharply through her nose when she gently nudged him with her knee. 

“Ever done it in the shower?”

Rafe nodded, lifting a hand to slide along the base of her throat as she felt the shower wall against her back, a slow moan slipping from her mouth as he squeezed gently, thumb pressing to the middle of her throat. “Could kiss you all day.”

“Please,” Logan breathed against his lips and Rafe groaned, hand flattening out along her back and running along the curve of her spine until he was able to palm the fleshy part of her ass. Water droplets stuck to their eyelashes and Logan lifted a hand to brush some of his hair away from his forehead, her lips grazing his jawline.

She drug her hands down his chest, her gaze following their path as she teased his nipples, eyes shooting to his face to see his reaction before drifting lower, feeling the fine hair below his navel that traveled south. He was hard against her hip, begging for attention and she gave it to him willingly, fingers circling his length before her thumb brushed across his tip, Rafe’s head tilting back breathlessly as she teased him. “I’m so hard, Lo…”

“I know you are,” Logan stroked him slowly, teasingly, as she pressed a light kiss to his collarbones, “you’ve been so patient today.” He nodded, swallowing thickly as she increased the speed and pressure, her own eyes flickering down to see him reddening further, his smooth head just begging for a kiss, “Have you been good, Rafe?”

Rafe’s hips jolted as she cupped his balls and he groaned, arm sliding around her to pull her closer, mouth connecting with her own as he kissed her senselessly. His other hand gently lifted her leg up, locking it along the crease of his elbow before he wrapped his other hand around hers and Logan gasped when he brushed the space between her legs, her body calling to his as he teased her, coating himself in her before he slipped inside. 

The stretch was good at this angle, her head falling back against the shower wall as Rafe eased his way inside of her, his lips attaching to her ear as she adjusted to the size and position, squeezing him tightly to let him know just how much she was enjoying it. “Let me in, baby,” Rafe begged, hips pausing, “you’re so tight.”

Logan closed her eyes, mouth opening to kiss him just as a loud noise sounded from somewhere inside the house, both of them tensing immediately. However, before they were able to respond to the noise or move, another loud sound came from the closed bathroom door. “Let me in!”

JJ sounded just a little frantic and Logan had to shake her head to try to clear it, unsure how to respond with Rafe seated so deep inside of her, filling her so well. “What…?”

“Let me in,” JJ knocked again, “I gotta take a piss. Open the door.”

“I’m literally in the shower!” Logan pressed her forehead to Rafe’s shoulder to muffle her moan as Rafe nudged that spot he loved to tease, “Wait like…twenty minutes.”

Rafe snorted into her neck and Logan drug her hand up his stomach and around his hip, squeezing his ass warningly, her mind briefly drifting to how firm it was as he smiled knowingly down at her. 

“Lo-gan!” JJ whined, “I gotta go and we’re in a hurry!”

“We?” Logan’s voice reached a higher octave as Rafe snapped his hips and she squeezed her eyes closed, a soft pant leaving her mouth as the bathroom door opened. Logan gasped, gripping Rafe’s shoulders as she whipped her head in the direction of the door, glad that they were hidden by the green opaque shower curtain, “What the fuck, JJ?!”

“I gotta piss!” The toilet seat landed loudly against the porcelain tank and the sound of JJ Maybank peeing filled the room next, Logan squeezing her eyes closed, both angry and mortified she was in this situation right now. “It’ll take like three seconds! Relax.”

Rafe’s body vibrated with silent laughter and Logan only rolled her eyes, her body begging her to move, too full with Rafe to think straight. He seemed to read her thoughts or feel the same way, Rafe slowly moving, Logan shaking her head to keep from crying out when he did. She clutched him to her, nails digging into his back to keep him from moving further as she waited for JJ to finish buttoning his shorts, the toilet flushing a moment later, sending freezing cold water through the pipes. Her boyfriend, in all his Kook experience, had clearly never had this happen before, jumping enough that Logan had to knock the shampoo bottle over to keep his startled hiss from being heard by their intruder.

[olenvasynyt]

SURPRISE @stickyelectrons ! I’m your Secret Santa for the @acotargiftexchange and I’m glad to say that you have been so good and sweet this year so you get TWO gifts!

Please enjoy this art of Elain taking care of poor Lulu 🥣🤒you will be getting your second gift later this week, which will be a 2 chapter fic about how Elain and her poor mate got sick.

Snippet of fic below!

“Tomorrow,” she panted bracing herself against the chilly rain, “I am going to wake up with a cold and you are completely welcome to brag and tease me about being right, but right now you will listen to me.”

“Oh, my love, don’t I always?  You could tell me to crawl through this mud and pick out worms for your compost and I would gladly say, “Of course, my lady, how many worms do you require—”

A blast of wind interrupted him, and he laughed as he tumbled into her, catching her by the waist.  He wrapped his strong arms around her, and his voice was easier to hear as such close proximity.  “I listen to no wild storm or screaming beast, no wind in my ear or the rain on my head.  I only listen to you.  And if you wake up with a cold,” he added, “I would not brag about being right.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?” Elain snorted.  Lucien loved to tease her and say that he was right.

“No.”

“What would you do then?  Nurse me, baby me, spoonfeed me some homemade soup and warm me up with your big strong Autumn hands?”  

“Indeed.  I love spoiling you and taking good care of you, you know that,” he crooned, sliding his hands down her waist dangerously close to her ass, as if reminding her how, exactly, he usually ‘spoiled her’.  “And you stuck in bed, moaning and groaning and sniffing up a storm?  I would be glad to baby you.  My poor, sick mate.”

[majoralynx]

Hello :] I'm genuinely curious about your soulmate au care to share a bit of lore? 👀 only if you want too ofc :3

Yes hello!! Thank you for the ask, here are some details for my LU modern soulmate AU !! I will be making little comic snippets based on it so stay tuned for that as well :) there likely won’t be a set plot for the whole thing but I’m giving the characters and world lots of lore!! Who knows, maybe I’ll eventually have a plot for it…

Soulmate AU’s have always fascinated me and I’ve always wanted to do one !! I would like to say that two of the bond effects(?? Idk if that’s what you refer to it as but that’s what we’re going with..) for soulmates was inspired by a fic I read a while ago, I don’t remember what the author’s name was unfortunately but I know a few details may be similar or the same with the effects, although I believe they might be pretty common effects in soulmate AU’s but I thought I’d say something anyway!

Here’s where the details actually start,

– Soulmates can project Certain traits (emotions, thoughts, physical feelings, etc..) to each other, all ends of a bond can send general feelings but they get much more concentrated depending on which trait one end is directly given. Projecting a sense or trait is a conscious decision, however, if the feeling or sense a soulmate is feeling is very big or overwhelming it can bleed over without them wanting it to.

-Normally, soulmates are only a pair, but our cast happens to be special, so that's not the case. I’m adding two other factors to the soulmate bonds: soulmarks, markings that change depending on whether or not you've met your soulmate, usually around the wrist, and journals!! I haven't seen this AU trait very often personally, but I think it’s really neat, the journal trait is when you and your soulmate(s) have a journal that transfers anything added to it, ink, color, glue, tears, blood, etc. (If you run out of journal space, you get a new one, like filling sketchbooks and getting a new one blah blah blah...magic!!)

Now let’s get into soulmate group effects with the Chain (and other main cast figures)!!!

– Sky projects visions (whether that's prophetic or just things he can see).

– ‘Four’ projects general emotions/feelings (anger, happiness, calm, pride(do those count as emotions ??idc) you get the gist).

– Time projects their hearing.

– Twilight projects his sense of smell.

– Wind can project dreams, as well as enter other people's dreams with full control of himself (oh the pranks he will get up to with the excuse of it being a dream and the chain not knowing his ability…).

– Legend can project thoughts, as well as receive them, he cannot view other people's thoughts without permission but he can send to his hearts content.

– Hyrule projects pain (which is not an often occurrence because of the whole ‘cult’ situation…).

– Warriors projects physical touch (say someone sets their hand on his shoulder and he projects it, then everyone will feel it.)

– Wild projects taste.

The shadow trio,

– Ravio projects pain (he likes to use it against Dink and project his scoliosis pain onto him when Dink is being an ass,,, Shadow is not amused).

– Dink projects physical touch, much like Wars.

– Shadow projects thoughts, same as Legend.

The Zeldas,

– Sun projects emotions.

– Dot projects taste.

– Lullaby projects pain.

– Dusk projects touch.

– Tetra projects smell.

– Fable projects hearing.

– Aurora projects dreams.

– Dawn projects thoughts.

– Artemis is not yet decided.

– Flora projects vision.

If anyone has any questions about anything or any details regarding any other characters or just the AU in general, my ask page is always open!!

Have some Ravio doodles for the road,

[felassan]

Snippets 🐺💜

Users report that pre-orders they made to TFAW of the DA:TV artbook The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilguard have been cancelled (since its listings were taken down like Dark Horse's were)

Blair: "The Shadow Dragons have some great black leather combos, less feathers though." [source]. shrl: "The Mourn Watch have leather and skulls." [source]

John: "it's been a pleasure and an honor working on this with you Brian" [source]. Brian: "The feeling is mutual." [source]. Trick: "It's been amazing watching it all come together, and I am so grateful for everything you've done to make that happen." [source]

John: "the day this game ships is the day i will finally retire the sleeved blanket i bought back in 2019" [source]

John: "the wildest thing about being creative director is that about once every two weeks someone says 'hey this bizarre thing here is part of your job can you do it'. and it is a thing that you KNEW someone did but you never thought about which someone. congratulations, you are that someone" [source]

User: "The Evanuris are banished forever, he says. 👀". Trick: "Forever-ish" [source]

John: "me: it’s weird how a lot of fans think I hate Solas, it’s absolutely wild. also me: I should photoshop Solas into the ‘we demand to be taken seriously’ picture" [source]

Carly: "i can see the light at the end of the tunnel, everyone,,,, s o o n 🥴" [source]. / "I honestly can’t wait til we share more !" [source]. / User: "do you ever look at people’s reactions and theories on here like 🙂‍↔️ you people have no idea what’s coming". Carly: "Oh absolutely lmaooo" [source]

Carly: "I deleted it but I posted in our slack like “pls just tell them smtg, the clowns make me sad ):” lolol" [source]. (note: fans have been joking around and calling themselves clowns hhh, in the age-old tradition of DA clowning) "this is me empathizing and feeling bad we aren’t giving as much info (altho epler be goin off), rereading it sounds like I’m going *points* look at how pathetic those clowns are lol" [source]. / "its like we can finally yell about our work but only in limited quantities and basically at the same time fans find out things lolol oh ya and the ea snipers" [source]

Violet: "I might be screaming into the wind, but there's nothing underhanded going on. Release date is coming in August like we already said (so very soon)" / "roadmap will be very soon with some nuggets of what will be coming in August." [source: the official BioWare Discord]

Violet: "I made the announcement [in the Discord about Edge magazine's article], and it's kinda damned if you do, damned if you dont. If you do, people that ONLY want the biggest beats get mad. If you don't, people that want any scrap of news get mad. Personally, I think going towards the latter is better overall. But I'm sorry it wasn't what you expected. I am also a DA fan and care enormously about this project." [source: the official BioWare Discord]

User: "How do we all think the companions for Veilguard flirt?". Violet: "depends on the companion fsfs" [source: the official BioWare Discord]

Violet: "soon™️" / "(not trying to be a shit, it will be soon! its a holdover joke from my last studio, i have to put the ™️ every time, its a sickness)" / "real talk, im just as feral as you guys when it comes to DA" / "[re: John being aware of a meme] that doesnt surprise me, [John] gets around 👀" [source: the official BioWare Discord]

[prettywordsyouleft]

Country Charm - Farm (Mis)Adventures

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x female reader

Genre: fluff, slice of life

Tropes: married life, small-town rural setting, cosy cottagecore vibes

Warnings: mild bout of nerves

Word count: 2023

Farm (Mis)Adventures is an ongoing series of snippets of self-indulgent and wholesome life with Park Jinyoung as your husband, turning a somewhat overrun farmstead into your family home and learning to slow down in life after leaving the city grind behind.

Country Charm |

“This is the one.”

Turning to look at your husband, Jinyoung, you felt so overwhelmed. This place had all been but a dream for the longest time. Ever since you were a little girl, you had loved horses and told everyone you’d grow up and live on a farm with your favourite animal. This, coming from someone city-born and bred, used to make the adults around you chuckle with delight at the fervour of your declaration, responding with a “of course you will, sweetie!” that had firmly cemented you’d reach that goal sometime in your life.

Growing into an adult, you slowly realised they had just been placating your passion, yet here you were. Standing next to your husband on the little farmstead of your dreams.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly what you had drawn constantly as a child. The villa home required some updating, the stables were currently only good for storing things in, and the gardens were… well, they were so wild that you couldn’t venture along the pathways around the house. But you could see the charm in the little ten-acre property. The fencing was thankfully updated, and the boundary line was safe enough for you to move your horse Honey in with a little modification. The foundations of the four-bedroom home were solid and built to last, and the beautiful wooden flooring throughout was original. It was within the budget you and Jinyoung had discussed, along with enough to get the kitchen project started. There was ample storage, a conservatory, a small established orchard – the only part not overtaken by the unruly garden – and you could feel yourself settling here. Growing, thriving, and falling further in love with your life and your new husband.

It was your dream, right in front of you.

Something in your expression must’ve captivated your husband because he wasn’t the type to suddenly kiss you in the company of strangers. But he didn’t seem to care for the real estate agent lingering nearby, his face coming closer to yours, his warm eyes searching yours. “You’re certain.”

“This is it,” you repeated, nodding your head softly.

“Alright.”

“Really?” You couldn’t control the bounce in your step, the widening of your gaze, whilst Jinyoung’s eyes crinkled with smug delight. Oh, how he’d hold this moment over you for the rest of your lives. But you didn’t care because he was helping you bring to life your childhood dream. “Oh gosh, you’re not joking? We can put in an offer?!”

“Looks like you’ve won me over to the country charm, Y/N.”

Six weeks later, you were a ball of anxiety as Jinyoung navigated the winding country roads, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. You normally drove the horse trailer whenever it was hitched to the SUV, but you were beyond grateful that it was Jinyoung who had taken over this drive. Still, you kept your gaze on the little camera monitor that linked to the box, watching as Honey travelled quietly in the back, uncaring of the horse equipment packed tightly – and very securely, thanks to Jinyoung’s triple-checking – in the partition beside her. You were so close to your new home, and you didn’t know if you had imagined this all up or if you were about to wake up from a beautiful dream.

Surely, moving to your own farm shouldn’t feel this surreal.

“Calm down,” a smooth voice instructed beside you, and you darted your gaze to your husband’s. Jinyoung didn’t remove his eyes from the road, but you could tell he was aware of any minuscule reaction within your wired body. “We’re ten minutes away. She’s travelled like a dream. You, not so much.”

“I’m worried.”

“About?”

“It not being like I remember it looking.”

Due to having to tidy up loose ends back in the city, you had barely managed to make it to the key exchange in time with the real estate out of town before heading back to the city again. You had resigned from your corporate job, and Jinyoung had managed to transfer to the local doctor’s clinic in the small township you were moving into. It was serendipitous that the clinic required a new doctor with one of three now retiring. For now, you weren’t so sure about what you’d be doing. You wondered if that was tying into some of your unease.

“The house will be just as it was. Needing a good clean, renovating, and gardening,” Jinyoung said, smiling softly.

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re worried you saw more than what it was.”

You nodded. “What if the country charm isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be? How will you cope without your favourite coffee shop? And I don’t have an income right now. Honey needs to be fed and--”

His closest hand lifted away from where he’d loosely been holding the bottom of the steering wheel, now warmly encasing yours with firm pressure. Before he could even tell you to breathe, you were inhaling deeply, trying to slow down your anxious thoughts.

“Good girl.”

“I just want this to be everything I’ve always wanted. And for you to be happy here.”

“Baby, I’ll be happy anywhere with you.”

“It doesn’t have air conditioning like our apartment did. And we’re due for that heatwave.”

“I’ll make sure we have fans for now. Don’t worry. Who do you think you married? A clueless guy?”

You smiled warmly then, relaxing into the passenger seat and staring at the man you had married eight months ago. The absolute love of your life, the one person who could drive you so insane, yet had the power to make it all better again with one kiss. Park Jinyoung had been the only man to challenge you over the years, and whilst you had initially found him insufferable upon first meeting, you couldn’t imagine loving anyone but him now.

Your attention turned to the window when Jinyoung slowed down and put on the signal to turn onto your property. This was it. You had bought this place with him. Well, you had been approved for a mortgage and put down a sizeable deposit. It had been quite the process, and yet you were the one who had the keys to this house in your purse.

Jinyoung shared a nervous grin with you as he put the car into park. He leaned over and pecked your lips as he undid his seatbelt, holding out his hand for the keys you were already producing. You watched as he unlocked the main driveway gate, pushing with a little more effort than it should require to get it over a stubborn strip of moss and uneven concrete. You peered out at the overgrown garden running over the fence next to him and let out a laugh. Jinyoung returned to the car with a similar amusement.

“This place is unruly.”

“You should be able to handle that.”

“I married the most stubborn woman I could find, so I guess you’re right,” he teased light-heartedly. Honey whinnied from inside her trailer, and Jinyoung took that as time to move the vehicle up to where they could unload her first.

“Should we have come here and set everything up first before bringing her here?” you wondered aloud, realising the grass would be way too long in any of the paddocks for Honey to be on full-time.

Jinyoung shot you a look. “I told you we should do that. But you wanted our first time here to be the whole family, the horse included.”

You sheepishly ducked your head before getting out of the car. “I’m sure you’ll be the best helper at getting things organised with me.”

Jinyoung grunted non-committedly as you walked down to the trailer to open the back door together. Before you could reach the latch, you were surprised that Jinyoung had jumped the towbar and joined you on your side, wrapping his arms around you from behind and holding you for a moment. “We’re home.”

“We are.”

“It’s going to be exhausting, but worth it.”

You nodded, feeling lighter with his comfort. “You promise you’ll tell me if you hate country life.”

“I got tired of the city grind. Y/N, I’m excited to breathe in fresh air, to not live in a box thirteen stories up and working for a company, instead of for the community. This was the right move for both of us.”

“Well then, should we unload Honey into our new home too?”

Two hours later, you were happy that Honey was settled in her new field. You and Jinyoung had worked on putting up a tape fence to limit how much of the lush grass she peacefully munched on, making sure she could access the field shelter and the water trough you had scrubbed clean. Her things were stored, albeit not to yours or Jinyoung’s best standards, in the stable’s tack shed and feed room, and you were both in need of getting out of the late morning sun.

“Is it strange we’ve been here for two hours, and we’ve not even gone near the house yet?” you asked, and Jinyoung shrugged, reaching into the car for the chilled bag you had packed with lunch foods and drinks before setting out on the road earlier that morning. He then slung his free arm around your shoulders, and you instantly wrapped yourself around his middle.

“Ready to go inside?”

“Remember the real estate agent mentioned the side door by the kitchen is the best way inside. We’ll have to figure out how to unlock the front doors for when the movers come tomorrow with our stuff.”

“Jackson and Sarah will be here by then to help us clear a path for the bigger items to come in,” Jinyoung replied as he unlocked the door then looked at you, the bag he was holding, and inhaled deeply.

“Don’t you dare!”

“It’s customary.”

“You have been working all morning lifting things out of the trailer and car into Honey’s new yard. If you try to pick me up Park Jinyoung, you will break your – JINYOUNG!”

He grunted, almost losing grip of your body. “I mean this in the nicest way, but you’re heavier than I expected.”

“Of course, I am, you idiot! Put me down!”

“Just let me get you over the threshold,” he huffed as you clung to his broad shoulders, worrying about him toppling back with you in his arms.

Thankfully, he got you both inside before ceremoniously dumping you out of his grip as he slumped to the ground beside you panting. You glared at Jinyoung, and he winked, easing some of your disgruntled energy.

“Idiot.”

“Welcome home, Mrs Park.”

“I love you, but there was no need for that,” you scolded softly, wiping yourself off as you got to your feet and looked around the empty entryway.

“Well?” he asked, having picked himself up off his knees, now resting his chin on your shoulders.

“It’s a blank slate.”

“It is not!”

“I know we have a lot of work to do, but it’s blank from the last owner’s possessions. It feels like a great place to start this new chapter, don’t you?”

“Hmm. I think I need to get the Dyson mop out of the car. The floors don’t look very clean.”

“The last owner was eighty-five and moving into his son’s house three hours away. I wasn’t expecting to have a squeaky-clean home. It needs us to do that first clean before our things arrive.”

“I’m sore and tired.”

“Because you lifted me over the threshold!”

Jinyoung rolled his eyes. “And helped with Honey.”

“Farm life, Jinyoung.”

“Farm Adventures, more like.”

You watched as your husband walked further into the house, taking the right into the kitchen before hearing him yelp in pain.

“A cupboard door was open!”

“Farm Misadventures then?” you called out, hurrying in to find him nursing the side of his head. You couldn’t hide your mirth, even as you replaced his hand with your own, gently rubbing the area and being thankful there had been no immediate bump.

“With you around? Most definitely.”

_________________

All rights reserved © prettywordsyouleft

[GOT7 Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist]

[gliphyartfan]

Masterlist

Timeline Two AU (TTAU):

Sky: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Wild: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Time: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Wind: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Hyrule: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Warriors: Original Here / Rewrite Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Legend: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Twilight: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Four: Original Here / Rewrite Here

(Related Asks):

What Happened to (Y/N)

(TTAU Fanart):

Yandy Draws - Wind

Dree Draws - Wind Comic / Warriors Comic / Legend & Ravio

———

TTAU - SideStories:

Ravio - Part One / Two

Warriors

———

Mafia AU:

Initial Idea

Time: Here

Meeting Bit: Original Here / Rewrite Here

Paintball Tournament: Here

Legend: Here

(Related Asks):

Handling the Real World

What they ride

Tattoos

(Related Fanart Art)

Time:

In Office - Here

Outfit - Here

Warriors:

Outfit - Here

Legend:

Outfit - Here

Four:

Outfit - Here

Dree Design - Here

Piercings - Here

Hyrule:

Outfit - Here

Wind:

Outfit - Here

Wild:

Outfit - Here

Sky:

Outfit - Here

Dree Design - Here

Twilight:

Outfit - Here

First:

Design - Here

Shadow:

Design - Here

Dink:

Design - Here

Ravio:

Design - Here

Comic Fanart (Meeting): Here

————

Anon Asks (Headcanons)

Stockholm Syndrome

Power Bracelets

Not!(Y/N)

Not!(Y/N) - 2

Defects in the Modern World but Attractive in Hyrule

Dark Circles and Curly Hair

Thoughts on Marriage

Where to Settle Down

Hylia in The One to Seal or Curse (Y/N)

Chain and Darling Having a Kid

Tiny Tot

Chain Adopts Reader

Chain Adopts Reader -Fierce Deity

Villain Chain

Zeldas

Sage/Tears, Calamity/Soldier, Koridai, Courage, First, Shadow Headcanons

Dink Headcanons

Chain Obsessed, Reader Knows it/Just Doesn’t Care

Chain’s Favorite Holidays

Reader Who Falls Asleep When Hugged

Reader Knows the Chain Through Modern Media

Four as Roger Rabbit and Reader as Jessica Rabbit

Chain as Horror Movie Slashers on Halloween

Humans are Hylian Space Orcs

——————

Gliphy Writes!

Four’s Reward: Original / Rewrite

Wild Teases (Y/N): Original / Rewrite

Older! Wind and OC (Ava)

Time Hates Scum

Wedding Bit: Original / Rewrite

Wing AU - Wild x Reader Thoughts

Silly Snippet

(Y/N) Hurt and Warriors Punished

Warriors Comforts Sad (Y/N)

Campfire Bit

Sick! (Y/N)

New Years - 2023/ 2024/ 2025

Halloween - 2023/ 2024/ 2025