awakenedevildays

Latest Posts by awakenedevildays

this is like the holy grail for my BoB girlies, I recommend every single fic in here! 🫶🏻

Mobile Masterlist ***(updated 11/15)

Allright! The MASTERLIST. The MASTERLIST for tumblr, the MASTERLIST chosen especially to organize my work for tumblr, tumblr’s MASTERLIST. That MASTERLIST?

Here it is, kids!

NSFW ALPHABET MASTERLIST

Dick Winters

Everything Will Break: part one, part two

Hiding From the War We Claim to Fight For: part one, part two, part three, part four***

Band of Brothers Greetings

Lewis Nixon

I’ve Yet To Taste, You’ve Yet To Indulge (Allow Me To Remedy Both) ***

Band of Brothers Greetings

Our First Defeat: part one***, part two, part two and a half, part three***, part four, part five

Carwood Lipton 

On Days Like This: part one, part two, part three***, part four, part five

Nothing Dulls Your Foolish Shine***

Band of Brothers Greetings

Lynn “Buck” Compton

You Are Mine, I Am Yours***

Band of Brothers Greetings

Drabble***

Untitled Buck smut/angst

Denver “Bull” Randleman

Touch Me With Your Hands Until I’m Yours***

I Pity The Grave That Tries To Keep Me From You

There’s A Reason It’s Called Liquid Courage

Band of Brothers Greetings

Eugene “Doc” Roe

Never Be Sorry, Not For This: part one***, part two***

You’re All I’ve Ever Wanted, All I Want to Know: part one***, part two***

Band of Brothers Greetings

Joe Liebgott

Darling I’m Just Not Okay: part one***, part two, part three, part four

You Calm The Storm, You Give Me Rest***

Untitled Bill x Reader x Lieb smut

Untitled Chuck x Reader x Lieb smut (part of the Eyes Will Lead Me Back Home-verse)

You’ve Been Sad (I’ve Been Lonely)

Boys Who Speak With Silver Luck*** (unofficial sequel to above fic)

Caught In Your Riptide, Can’t Let You Know: part one***, part two

Band of Brothers Greetings

Ron Speirs

Ignorance Is Blitzed: part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven***

It’s Not About Dibs

Forgiveness Is Divine

A Rare Night of Peace

What We Want and What We Can Have: part one, part two

I Wish I could Leave This Alone... (guest starring role)***

Drabble***

Band Of Brothers Greetings p2

Johnny Martin

If You Need It, Then I Need It***

Untitled Johnny smut

Band Of Brothers Greetings p2

George Luz

Untitled Luz smut

Drinking Up This Sweet Decadence*** 

Band Of Brothers Greetings p2

Edward “Babe” Heffron

I Wish I Could Leave This Alone (I Know How Much You Want Me To)***

Untitled Babe smut

Band of Brothers Greetings

Bill Guarnere

Inherent Risks of Loving A Wild Man: part one, part two***

Untitled Bill x Reader x Lieb smut

Band Of Brothers Greetings p2

Don Malarkey

Lay Your Hands Upon My Chest (and Call It Home) 

I Know I’m Guilty (It’s Not Your Fault)***

Band Of Brothers Greetings p3

Darrell “Shifty” Powers

Untitled Shifty angst

Untitled Shifty smut

drabble***

Band Of Brothers Greetings p3

Joe Toye:

You Can Just Stay (Under This Weight)

Knees Known to Go Weak When You Pull Me In***

NSFW Alphabet***

Harry Welsh

My Ruin is Heaven Sent and Battle Tested***

Chuck Grant

The Splendor of These Exploding Skies (Yet All I See Is You)***

Untitled Chuck x Reader x Lieb smut (part of the Eyes Will Lead Me Back Home-verse)

Drabble***

Floyd Talbert

Your Eyes Will Lead Me Back Home***

Into My Body, You Just Fold***

this series is so underrated and for what? I love every single word of it and it's written so perfectly that I can imagine everything that I'm reading (does that makes sense?)

My Vi deserves so much better, I cried a river at chap 10 😭. Can't wait to read more about this beautiful series, you guys should give this and its talented writer a go! 🩷

this i will do. i will not falter in war or in peace - masterlist

Pairing: John Egan x Original Female Character x Gale Cleven

Summary: Violet White decided long ago that she would follow John Egan and Gale Cleven wherever they went - even to a stalag.

Warnings: 18+, period typical sexism and violence, SA, POWs, angst.

ao3

1. i washed my hands in muddy water

2. the girl of my best friend

3. tomorrow is a long time

4. softly as i leave you

5. the impossible dream

6. an american trilogy

7. an evening prayer

8. the first time ever i saw your face

9. don't be cruel

10. always on my mind

ongoing

if this ends badly I swear to god I'm gonna drop the jjk fandom 😭❤️

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

please never let this writer be bored again in her life because what the fuck was this? a bullet in the shoulder would've been less painful.

“I miss him too.” — Kento Nanami

Your young daughter sees someone who looks like Nanami.

Nearby shoppers all grimaced in utter annoyance as they pushed their carts down the aisles packed with goods.

A young child was throwing a tantrum, probably because they wanted a box of cereal and their mother told them no, they assumed.

“A bratty, spoiled child is a result of poor parenting,” one woman whispered to another, and together, they glared at the scene in front of them: you, kneeling in front of your inconsolable daughter.

Her face was a mess of streaming tears, ones that soaked the front of her butterfly-themed shirt. Her eyes were closed, fists clenched, and her mouth hung open as she released one ear-piercing sob after another.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay, it’s okay,” your words were pointless.

You had no choice but to scoop your daughter up, abandoning your cart of groceries, all the while rushing out of the store while fellow shoppers glared, watching the scene unfold.

Everything was fine just five minutes prior. Five minutes.

Your sweet girl was walking beside you down the aisle, rambling on and on about whatever interesting subject crossed her mind, from cheesy pizza to “rainbow birds.”

Just as you grabbed a loaf of bread off one of the shelves, a man walked by.

He was tall. Fit. Blonde. Dressed like a man who had just clocked out of his nine-to-five, holding a phone to his ear. He even sounded similar. He was, in fact, similar enough to him for even you to do a double take.

But while you knew well who it wasn’t, the same couldn’t be said for your daughter.

You told her several months prior that her father would never come home again.

He was gone. Long gone.

She didn’t quite understand at first. Not until she ran around her home, the gentle pitter-patter of her feet accompanying her sweet giggles as she wrapped her little fingers around every single doorknob in her home, twisted it open, and saw that her dear dad wasn’t there to greet her with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek.

But here he was! After so, so, long, her dad had returned.

She squealed, running as fast as her small feet could carry her in the direction of the man before you could drop your bread and grab her.

The man saw her coming. He swiftly moved around her as if she was an obstacle in his path, shot you a cold glare, and said, “Control your kid, lady. This isn’t a playground.”

Your daughter’s smile vanished, her footsteps coming to a halt.

“Oh, honey,” you walked in front of her and kneeled. “That wasn’t your daddy, sweetheart. We talked about where he was, remember? He’s in a . . . a better place.”

You gripped her arm with trembling hands, but her eyes, widened with shock, weren’t on you, but rather, the floor below her feet, which her tears splattered against as she started to cry.

“Why is daddy gone?” She sniffled. “He wo-won’t come back?”

It took everything — everything — in you not to cry at the sound of her sad voice.

You stroked her hair and told her no, and that was it.

Her first heartbreaking sob came, one that was created out of grief, sadness, and confusion. She missed him. She missed him more than anything. She tried to beg you to make the man who was gone forever return, but her words were broken up by her neverending cries.

All she could do was scream and cry for him in hopes that he would hear her from that better place, that he would come running and scoop her up in his arms like he always did when she was upset. Then, the ouch she felt in her chest would stop hurting.

But that never happened.

Instead, you were the one who lifted her despite the way she kicked and screamed.

“I know,” you said softly, your own tears falling this time. “I know. I miss him too.”

You made a turn to exit your current aisle, which brought both you and your sobbing child in front of the next aisle over, where the man from earlier froze and stared at you both with glassy eyes filled with sorrow and sympathy.

He heard the conversation that took place after he walked past your child and gave you an inconsiderate remark.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say to you as you made your way to the exit doors, but you couldn’t hear him. Not over the loud cries of Kento’s little girl, who missed him more than she needed to breathe.

@sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @luvvmae @thequeenofcurses @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @thewondrousdreamer @levisfavoriteteashop @preciousamethyst @iwanttohitmyself @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @he11okitty-mari@dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @koikohib @http-bell

the prettiest MHA boy fr.

Don't worry, the second drawing shows how it really is, isn't a sweetheart? <3 You can read something in the water of my dear @/andypantsx3 I made this art especially for his amazing writing a while ago

this broke my heart so good that I reread it four times in a row lol.

It's the way it actually looks like John forgot he had a wife... from the way he didn't say 'I love you' back and how he thought she liked it rough (maybe confusing her with another woman or being so used to sleep with other women that he forgot how she likes it) OMG I'm feeling unwell. And how she decided to just accept it in a desperate attempt to still be wanted by him???? hellooooo? was that really necessary? Do you want t kill me???

And then how he slowed down when he felt her ring on his neck and said 'I love you' too late 😭😭😭. My girl deserved better and she's way more mature than me because I would throw an airplane at him.

“But Gale didn’t cheat,” YOU CLOCKED HIM SIS!!!

can't wait to read the part two of this (if you're still up to write it, of course), the snippets look like they hurt even more than the first part, I'm scared (I actually can't wait).

Such a wonderful fic, really a rollercoaster of emotions I feel like I should be reading this ten times more!

THE MAJOR’S WIFE

warnings: mentions of miscarriage, adultery, nsfw, marital problems, oral (m! receiving), spanking, being turned on even when your brain isn’t in it, bucky in 1x04, bucky married pre-war, slight age gap bc reader can come off slightly immature (i think?) angst, historical inaccuracies, new mediocre writer be nice

summary: John Egan gets to know his wife again

word count: 9.7k

notes: i’m not sure where this came from i wrote it all today and got no part of my research paper done. there’s really no point to it and also irl john egan was actually really close to his mother so i emphasized that here. he wrote to her so much. no disrespect to any of the real people, this is based on the show/show timeline as well.

Lila gets the call on the 2nd of October and her dreams come true.

Not entirely, no. The real dream would be having him home safe and the tragic war being over but she knows how fortunate she is to have the next best thing happen. Her husband’s been granted a few days leave and Colonel Harding believed it would do Major Egan some good to have his sweet, young wife join him during those days overseas. For the good of John’s mental health the Colonel or the President - or whoever was in charge, Lila really had no idea - had agreed to pay for her ticket and their hotel. There was only one thing they asked for in return and although it wasn’t explicitly said, Lila caught their drift: sort your husband out.

Lila knows it would do her no good to sit and wonder how horribly John must be doing in order for them to declare an all expenses paid trip for his spouse. All she does is worry for him anyhow so she forces herself to focus on the one good thing of the entire ordeal - she’s going to see her man.

There’d been letters, although not as many as she liked and she tried not to let it show how it hurt as every other wife received more than one letter at a time. Her John wasn’t the sort, she knew that when she married him. He was the kind of person who needed endless skies and land to maintain his sense of stability. Having him cooped up would do him no good and she partly wondered how much of what he was struggling with was the trauma he witnessed in the air and how much of it was feeling caged on base. At least his plane, good ol’ Mugwump (he wrote about her quite often) offered him the opportunity to head anywhere he wanted.

The only person he wrote consistently and readily to was his mother. It was rare if a week went by and she received no letter. During these instances it was more times than not an issue with the postal service.

Be that as it may, Lila knew who she married and it made her love him no less so she tried not to let it get to her. His mother was a saint. Firm and strong and loving all the same. Lila would have never survived sending John off if his mother wasn’t who and how she was. She held Lila at night when her cries woke her and she let Lila sleep in his old childhood bed. She kept food on their table and ensured everyone got their work done through the worry.

When John first left and Lila was sick to her stomach and vomiting multiple times of the day it was his mother who consoled her through the night when her sheets turned a crimson red and any ideals of having their baby through the war was lost.

Frances Egan was the glue holding them together. All of them, even her son who was an entire ocean way - so no. Lila would not be angry that she was John’s preferred pen-pal.

“You fix him right up,” Mama Egan had said in lieu of goodbye when leaving her at the airport, “you give him the loving he needs as his wife and the smacks he needs from me to get on the straight and narrow before sending him off to continue saving the world. You do it for him, not for any of them war bastards. You hear me?”

All Lila could do was nod. Dropping her bags on the floor and clutching her pseudo mother tightly. She was excited as she was frightened.

They had only gotten two months together before he had been pulled away. She didn’t want to complain, loads of women had gotten less time at all while others had only ever been left with the promise.

But her two months as Mrs. Egan? They’d been a dream. Her man was a romancer. He hadn’t hesitated in introducing her as the newly (and younger) Mrs. Egan, always resulting in an arm slap from his mother, he held open doors and he never stopped courting her; however she thinks the best times were when he was teaching her how to act married.

In their bed, at a home he had spent a year building for them. Using any extra pennies he had to pay off younger boys to help him hurry it along. Giving her the wrap-around porch she had always envisioned.

He showed her how to kiss. How to undress him. He had laid her underneath him, using his large frame to cover her completely, protecting her from the cold as he threw the sheets off them and making her feel tiny compared to him. She had never felt safer.

It had hurt the first time but he had held her through it. Never allowing any inches of space between their bodies; as if telling her they were in it together. She’d always known he was large, everything about him was large in general, but she never thought how much it would hurt to have all of him fit inside her. Lila hadn't wanted to disappoint him so she tried to muffle her tears and whimpers but he had swallowed her cries and gone slow, soft.

“If this is it, it’ll be enough,” he had promised, only about half way inside her and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. As a thank you she had taken that calloused thumb into her mouth and sucked. He allowed her; hiding his face in her neck and pressing wet kisses along there.

And for the first few times that had been it. She couldn’t take all of him and his thrusts couldn’t get too deep so he would only slip inside until her tight hole resisted and pulsed and he’d hump against that spot until reaching his pleasure.

“Do other girls take all of it?” She had asked a couple days later, trying to wrap her head around it.

She was no idiot. John Egan was no virgin.

“Yes.” Lila could always count on him to be honest. At least there was that. Meanwhile she couldn’t even fully pleasure him. She was failing as a wife. “Hey,” he lay facing her and she lay on her back. He tapped her cheek until she turned her face. “You’re my wife. That’s what makes this feel better.”

And she had beamed at his reassurance even though she didn’t feel much better. She knew John would never push her, and he couldn’t stand to see her cry, so if she ever wanted to learn to be a good wife she would have to take it upon herself.

So that’s what she did.

He was always on top and she was always on her back. That’s the first thing she had to change. From her understanding of it, from her talks with friends that always ended in giggles and blushing cheeks and from what she learned from John, it could be done in many different ways.

“I prefer to be in charge,” her school friend, Linda, had admitted to her. “Not like that -” she clarified, cheeks pink, “Just - if I’m gonna take it, I’d rather do it at my pace. Be on top. Some husbands are good like that. They’ll allow it.”

And knowing her husband wasn’t just good, he was great, she knew he would hold no qualms about it. The next time they lay in bed kissing it was easy to turn him over and straddle him. Move her wetness against his belly to let him know there was still more she just needed him to accept it.

Except he thought she was asking him to do it so he flipped her on her back again. And without breaking their kiss, she turned him over again.

It was more like they were wrestling.

Lila pulls away from his mouth, reluctantly, noticing his lips were wet and red and swollen and wondering if hers were much the same. They had been kissing for so long her mouth felt raw.

She loved it.

Straddling him, she reached behind her, feeling him standing straight and hard against her backside in between her cheeks. Sticky.

He gasped, bucking into her fist with a loud, guttural groan. It was so manly she rocked against his stomach again in need.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, “what’re you doing?”

“I want to try it like this,” she breathed, leaning over to whisper in his mouth, her tiny hand still wrapped around him and lining her up to her hole. “I want it all.” Lila clarified.

And John allowed it, like she knew he would. Let her take control and go at her pace. Let her swivel her hips on the way down to help with the tightness of being stretched so wide and thick.

Nothing but curses and promises of love leaving his lips. Gasping mine, mine, mine and my perfect fucking wife and I’m gonna fuck you forever.

He felt large inside of her, like if she was being split in two but it felt so good as the tip of him repeatedly hit a spongy part inside that had her coming with no contact to her clit for the first time.

She was beautiful, red splotches appearing on her body from the heat of their love-making, her hair tangled in his fists, her mouth falling open as she threw her head back - all of it was too much. He was flipping her over and pounding into her trying to chase his peak and a second one from her, their headboard banging against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts.

Things changed from then on. Sexually, that is. Becoming aware of how badly she needed to feel like she was pleasing him, John was not above using it against her. Like letting him lick at her.

“Good wives allow their husbands everything,” he would say, lips wide in a smile and eyes bright at the prospect of getting his way but Lila always knew the choice was really hers. He would respect what she wanted.

He was just too damn addicting. She couldn’t stand to tell him no.

His favorite times were when she allowed him to sit her over his face and let him feast. It drowned the outside world for him and he kept at it even after she had reached multiple orgasms and was pulling on his hair and the only thing keeping her up was his forearms locking around her thighs.

Her favorite was when he allowed her to taste him at the same time he was licking her. It was a tie between those times and when he held her down until all of him was in her mouth and she was spluttering, choking, gagging. Knowing she made a filthy vision and he adored it did something to her.

Now she was in London, closer to him than she had been in years, and all their intimacies were within reach. She could almost taste him, feel him petting back her hair and settling a hand at the low of her back. She still remembers the smell of his after shave and sweat, how he’d come into the kitchen asking for some of her homemade lemonade to help with the heat.

Jack Kidd was tasked with picking up Mrs. Egan from the airport and having her arrive at base with him. She remembers meeting him a couple of times before John shipped out early. Originally she was meant to wait for John at their hotel but there had been an issue when planning her flight and she arrived sooner than intended.

“Ma’am,” he greeted, placing a friendly kiss on her cheeks and taking her bags from her. “Bucky’s gonna be happy as hell to see your face.”

The tone in his voice - relief? alleviation? - had some of her happy wife's facade crumbling. How badly was her Johnny hurting that everyone was looking at her at his only chance to remain sane or alive?

Stop it. Maybe everyone’s just aware Johnny misses you. You’re his wife.

“Not as happy as me, I wager,” she returned with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, Jack. Glad to see you still kicking.”

His shrug didn’t soothe her worry but she saw him try to mask it with a smile.

“All we boys can do is pray.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, gathering his attention. “You boys have got the prayers of our entire country protecting you.”

Jack simply nodded in response.

For the most part the ride to base was quiet. Her bags would be kept in the trunk until her and John were ready to drive out to London in a couple of hours and until then, she’d be his surprise at the officer’s club. Silver Wings, Jack called it. Where all the boys gathered and had drinks and celebrated accomplishments. And where some chose to mourn, too.

Her stomach was turning as she neared the hut, following Jack’s footsteps. There was so much that could go wrong and although this was meant to be a surprise, the U.S Army showing their gratitude towards a brave Major, she suddenly wished she would have called John and told him. She wished he knew so that she wouldn’t have to walk in feeling alone and unwanted.

Not that Lila thought John would turn her away, she simply wanted to have him hold her hand as she walked through the threshold.

“Stick close by,” Jack murmured, being respectful of where he touched her before deciding to lead her by her shoulder. “It gets crowded but I’ll take ya to him.”

As she walked through different groups, she felt the offending eyes of men and women alike. Wondering who she was. With a pang in her heart she realized she had met John’s squadrons before but all these crews were new. The boys she met, most of them at least from what she could tell, hadn’t made it. John never wrote about who passed away (except to inform her of Curt) ; most of their letters were him expressing his love and how he missed her so and asking what she got up to.

Having walked around the roundabout bar in the center of the room, her stomach in knots and fingers tangled in front of her - she caught sight of her husband smack middle in the dance floor. Pressed against a beautiful brunette.

Lila caught sight of him before even Jack did. That’s how connected she was to her husband. Jack whistled from beside her to gain Gale’s attention who was resting against the bar holding his signature ginger ale, also watching John Egan chat up the woman he was swaying with with something like disapproval in his eyes.

His large hands were occupying most of the space of her waist, keeping her body tethered to his as she laughed.

“Lila,” he gasped, eyes wide. He was smart enough to not turn and look at his buddy. To act as if nothing was amiss and she expected nothing less from Gale Cleven, “damn it all to hell. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Mrs. Egan.”

Because he was close to John, he didn’t hesitate in wrapping her up in a tight hug and pressing a kiss to her tinted cheeks. He knew John wouldn’t mind.

When he pulled back she patted his chubby cheek in return, “You still shame the rest of us with your good looks, Gale,” she laughed. “I’ll let Marge know when I see her next.”

Lila also knew she would share with Marge that while Gale was being loyal, standing off to the side her husband was exchanging oxygen with a woman on the dance floor.

His cheeks tinted at the mention of his girl. Buck and Bucky were both aware Lila and Marge wrote to one another and visited each other whenever time made it possible.

“Colonel Harding said Major Egan was in need of something from home,” she said, studying his reaction to see what she could read but Gale had always been aloof, cold. He wasn’t close to her like he was with Marge and John.

Gale thought back to a few moments earlier when John had disrespected their Colonel and all his actions before that too - disrespecting superiors, drinking more consistently, becoming angry - hopelessness in his eyes.

“He’s in need of you Lila,” Gale clarified and it wasn’t lost on either one of them that he they were referring to was currently on the floor wooing another woman.

“Holy shit! It’s Mrs. Egan!” Hambone animatedly announced and suddenly it felt like the eyes of everyone in there were on her. Her cheeks tinted pink, never having been one for the spotlight like her husband.

She was greeted with welcoming cheers and hugs.

John, for his part, disentangled from the woman he was holding at the mention of his missus. He was sober enough to appear sheepish and guilty, but in the next second it was gone as he stalked towards her. Determined. Quick. His smile growing the more he neared like he was becoming more aware she was really there and it wasn’t a fucked up scenario in his head.

“God, Lila,” she managed to hear him say before she was elevated in the air, his arms tight around her waist and lifting her high so they were at face level and he could kiss her. Channeling his love and exuberance and aggression into kissing his wife. “It’s you, it’s you, it’s really you,” he was saying in between smooches, “I missed you. So fucking much, doll.”

Basking in his love she didn’t feel the need to mention the woman that was so kindly keeping him preoccupied before she entered.

She couldn’t help the first tear from falling or the rest from following. It was like the tightness in her chest unlocked as she finally got to hold him and feel his heat surround her. He still smelled of after shave and the same hair gel that was kept in their bathroom at home but he tasted strongly of whiskey and cigarettes and strawberry lipstick.

John tucked his face into her neck, setting her down and bending to her level. Sniffling in there as he continued to hold her.

“None of that,” she did her best to stop her voice from wobbling or breaking, “we’re together. That’s all that matters.” She drew his face out from where he had hidden to pepper him with a few more kisses.

None of it was enough.

The rest of the guys were kind enough to return to the dance floor and act like they couldn’t see them.

“Who? What - why? How?” He was obviously having trouble forming coherent thoughts in between the kisses he continued stealing from her.

She was crying and laughing and trying to return all his touches. It was a terribly difficult ordeal but she had never been happier.

“Colonel Harding called and said you had a weekend leave. He said he talked to some of the higher ups but they couldn’t allow you a leave home so this was the next best thing,” she explained, cupping his cheek as she rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. He had minor scars that weren’t there before.

She wanted to kiss every single one of them.

He was still bent towards her height, taking her in as she was taking him in.

She forgot how blue his eyes were.

He was whole. Complete. Hers.

“You’re here for the entire weekend?” He asked to confirm and she nodded, laughing when he lifted her again with a loud whoop to celebrate. That got a few of the guys to join in although they had no idea what their Major was celebrating.

“I need you,” his voice suddenly dropped, setting her down as he turned to the door. “Let’s go.” He was buckling up her coat to make sure she was protected from the freezing London air. She was lucky he was too far gone to scold her for arriving with it unbuckled in the first place - she could get sick.

“John, John - relax, my sweet man,” she laughed, cupping his cheek to get his attention. “We can stay for a while. We don’t have to go yet.”

It’s why she was at the officer’s club in the first place. She had arrived early.

John turned stiff in her hold, straightening to his full height as he suddenly loomed over her. “I’ve got you in my arms for the first time and you want to stay here?” His voice was tight. His face stern.

“Yes - no, I -” she was unsure of where she went wrong or how to fix it. She clasped his hands in hers but he didn’t allow her to thread their fingers together so it was just her holding on. “I just meant we’ve got time, John.”

The way he was looking at her made her want to cry. She felt her lower lip quivering.

She felt ashamed, whispering, trying to get him to keep his cool.

“Time? Time?” He laughed loudly. She was mildly aware of Gale breaking away from a group of guys to near them, worried but she was mostly focused on John. The tense lines on his face even as he laughed and the quirked eyebrow even though she found no amusement in their situation. “You think I’ve got time? You have no idea what it’s like up there.”

She shook her head but didn’t try to verbally explain herself. She wasn’t sure she could manage a few words before breaking into tears.

“Come on, Bucky,” that was Gale stepping in to save the day. Perhaps the only person who could get John to listen. “When have you ever left before dancing with your girl? You gotta show these rookies how it’s properly done right?”

With Gale slapping a hand to John’s shoulders, he seemed to snap out of it. Releasing a deep breath and seemingly all the tightness in body with it.

He leaned down again, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, clasping a hand around her neck so she wouldn’t pull her head back. As their eyes locked she felt a tear fall again and this one wasn’t happy. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. It’s this place. It’s fucking with my head.”

And she chose to believe him, nodding her head in understanding and trying not to think about how she wasn’t his preferred person to write letters to or the one who could clear his head.

Maybe the Colonel should have allowed a weekend pass for Gale and John.

Lila swallowed the thought, allowing John to pull her to the dance floor as he lost all anger and aggression and became charming and loving all over again.

“Everyone, this is my wife!” He bellowed and everyone cheered in response. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and -” he hiccuped and she realized he was drunker than she thought, “and I bet we can out dance any couples here tonight!”

So for the next hour she found herself being twirled around the dance floor by her husband. She almost forgot their prior negative interaction; his love and energy was so infectious. For the slow songs he would hold her close and she would rest her head against his chest, letting it lull her to a relaxing state. He was alive and she was with him. That had to be enough. For the more upbeat songs, he was challenging any couple beside them. Asking those sitting who were better dancers? Who could perform certain dance moves better?

And all throughout, he was like he used to be back home. Loud and happy and the center of attention, keeping everyone entertained. He kept announcing to his boys that his beautiful wife was there and then he’d place a wet kiss on her mouth that had their cheeks (and hers) turning red but all he would do is smile and continue on.

She was finally able to disentangle herself from him when Crosby pulled him in for a conversation. Lila wonders if her state of disheveled hair and panting breaths made him want to aid her in allowing her to sit and grab a refresher.

Once she accepts Crosby’s hug and cheek kiss, she excuses herself to go grab a drink. John only pulls her back once to steal a kiss before she gets too far.

Her lips might be bruised by the time they leave if he kept it up.

She orders a cup of ice water from the man tending the bar, looking back out at her husband as she waits. He’d always been tall and strong, but she notices the change in his posture. The bulges in his arms as he twirled her around and lifted her in the air. His eyes were only bright when he forced it. They had lost their shine and she wishes she brought the picture from back home. Where he looks young and full of life and joyful. Even when he smiles he seems hollow; hopeless.

She’s there but he doesn’t really care because in his head he’s already thinking of when she leaves again.

She wasn’t used to that. Her John only lived in the moment.

“He keepin’ you busy?”

Gale settles up behind her and pushes the glass water towards her. She didn’t even notice when it was put down.

“Dizzy, more like,” she jokes and gets him to crack a smile. She thinks to when she walked in and seen Gale, how he’d been watching the scene unfold but with a disapproving look in his eyes. How he didn’t try to hide the scene from her or excuse it. He let it be. And she knows John has never shied away from attention. He’s always been handsome and charming and girls always swarmed but Lila wasn’t aware she had to be around to keep him loyal. She thought he just was. And she knows it’s not too long before they leave now so she decides to be direct with him. “So, does that happen often?”

She sees Gale’s expression split for a second, like he debates playing dumb before deciding against it and she respects him even more for it.

“I think you should talk to John about it.” He decides on.

“Is it something that needs to be mentioned?” She doesn’t like playing this game with him but she knows at the first words of cheating and adultery Gale is going to excuse himself and her chance will be lost.

She can’t be simple and ask: Does my husband cheat on me?

“Another ginger ale, Marty,” Gale raises two fingers to grab the man’s attention and mutters a thanks as his drink is immediately refilled. He turns his attention back to Lila. “He still loves you, Lila. It’s just - hard. Being out here.”

“You seem to be coping fine.”

She feels bitter. Crazy. There’s a sob she has to choke back.

Lila’s too embarrassed to meet Gale’s gaze. Ashamed that everyone knows what’s been going on and she was the ditzy woman being twirled on the dance floor.

“I think I was used to loneliness. He isn’t.”

And he says nothing else as he leaves her behind heading back to his boys. It’s just Lila and her shattering heart and her husband calling to beckon her back to the dance floor.

Luckily they didn’t stay much longer. She walked over to Bucky but he wasn’t able to pull her back out for a dance - it’s my song, Lila! - because Jack Kidd was approaching, letting them know it was time to leave them at the train station.

Lila waited in the car while Bucky ran into his quarters to pack his bag. He didn’t have many things to take, he would be stuck wearing his uniform anyway. Gale walks him back out to the car and despite the earlier conversation Lila exits the safety of the interior to say her goodbyes.

“Take care of yourself, Major,” she squeezes him, “I need you to stick around after this weekend to look after my man.”

“It’s a hard job but I try,” he replies, both of them ignoring Bucky’s protests.

Besides that, Bucky’s quiet on the ride to the train station. He carries her bag on board but he’s quiet for the duration of the train ride. Lila doesn’t disturb him; he might be tired or hungover or both.

And if she’s honest she’s scared of him snapping at her like the night before.

Instead she takes the time to take him in. He’s handsome in his suit. Tall and big and strong, his sharp jaw and powerful mouth, his eyes blue like a sunny day and his curls coming undone from the gel after all the dancing he did.

Lila doesn’t allow her mind to wander down this path too often but suddenly she can’t help it. Would their baby have looked like him or like her? She wishes more than anything they would have had his ears. She wishes they would have had his heart and his strength - but her loyalty. Her faith in them.

It’s crazy when she stops to think she was nineteen when she married him and now she’s twenty-one. She’s loved him for more than she’s been allowed to have him. She has changed without him like he has without her and it’s frightening to think neither of them could be accepting of those changes. Whatever they may be.

Lila shuts those thoughts out, closing the distance between them to sit on his lap. Passerby’s and his horrible mood and what scares her could be damned to hell - all she wants is her man.

John doesn’t deny her; she admits she was a little scared he would.

“I love you,” she tells him, catching his eyes.

“I know.”

He doesn’t return the words as they continue staring at one another but she refuses to let it get her down. This is her husband. She has the rest of her life to get to know him; new or old habits, she doesn’t care.

So instead, Lila plasters a smile onto her face. “What’re you gonna show me first in London, Major?”

“Well I really wanna show you our hotel room,” he plays along, allowing her to trace the edges of his mustache. She lets out a knowing chortle. “And I really want to show you -” he cuts himself off to look around, making sure no one was near them as he leans in to whisper, “- my cock, Mrs. Egan.”

She turns a bright red, trying to sputter out a proper response for that but all she can do is indignantly scold him. “John Clarence! If your mom were here -” and they both break out in loud laughter at the many possibilities of what his mother would exactly do to him if she heard his wicked mouth.

“Wanna grab some grub first?” He asks instead, knowing she hadn’t eaten at the officers club and before then she had been stuck on a plane. “I know a few places.”

Lila nods happily, pressing a kiss to his mouth. His lips are warm and as plump as she remembers them. His mustache tickles her.

“Let me feed you first, woman!” He groans, trying to be a gentleman. “When’s the last time you ate?”

She puckers her lips to think about it and that’s the only answer he needs: food is definitely first.

When they arrive at the hotel John enters to check them in but he slips a few bills into the bell boy’s hand with strict instructions to leave the bags in their room before pulling her back out to the London streets.

Lila felt underdressed surrounded by women in diamonds and fancy hats, and it didn’t help that John was beside her in his uniform looking dapper and catching the eye of many. They were stopped multiple times on the way to the diner; men wanting to shake his hand and show their gratitude while the women introduced themselves, uncaring of Lila under his right arm.

As long as he wasn’t ignoring or dismissing her she realized she didn’t really care. It wasn’t much different back home; everyone knew and loved John Egan.

The diner he chose was small and cozy and his legs were too long to fit under their table so his boot and his knee kept bumping into her own and she adored it. She wanted to feel close to him and since sitting on his lap currently wasn’t an option she figured this would have to do.

He tells her many stories but none of them are sad or tragic. He only shares the happy ones. He talks about how he convinced the Colonel to allow Buck, Curt, and himself a London weekend pass one time and they had shoved Gale into a haberdashery where he tried on a multitude of top hats worth more money any of them would ever see combined. But because they were soldiers and majors at that, the owner allowed it. There’s a museum nearby he talks about wanting to take her too, it showcases art from as early as the 1400s and he says he’s gotten lost in there plenty of times and it was lovely.

All the while, she listens without hearing him. Choosing to take him in and letting her mind wander to how it would be if things were different. It pains her to think how much older he looks since she last saw him. Looking more like it was ten years instead of the measly two. John’s always been one to smile freely but the wrinkles by his mouth, eyes, and forehead aren’t from smiling or laughing too much.

Lila knows they’re from worrying and stressing and being scared and she hates that she can’t understand him or be there for him. No matter how hard he tries.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes when a sob breaks free. She curls in over the table and John’s reaching over to rub her shoulders. She grabs a hold of her hand in his. “I just missed you so much.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I don’t think I know how to not miss you.”

John doesn’t say anything but he motions a server over to settle the bill and once that’s done, he’s taking her hand and pulling her out the chair.

“You got enough food in you?”

All she can do is nod.

Her body feels electric on the short walk back to the hotel. He doesn’t do more than hold her hand and she thinks that is what has her nerves jittery, his palm in her hand sets her alight. She can feel his rough skin and the calluses on his fingers and the fingertips he runs over her skin and she bites back a moan.

Moaning in the middle of a bustling London street? She’d be thrown into an asylum she’s sure.

Beside her he’s quiet but his steps are quick. She has to lightly jog to keep up with long strides. He pulls on her hand to help her keep pace. It makes her think he’s as impatient for it as she is so she was surprised when upon closing the hotel room behind him he stays by the door. Not nearing or touching or kissing.

Just - nothing.

Her throat becomes tight again as she remembers the girl from the night before and her conversation with Gale. Is that the reason why?

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says before she can spiral any further. Approaching her and bringing their lips together in a searing kiss, wasting no time in sliding his tongue alongside hers.

“I love you,” she responds and once again he doesn’t say it back. She figured he wouldn’t but she wanted to try. He takes her mouth in his again.

She gets irrationally angry, suddenly feeling the need to claim him so she bites at his bottom lip. He pulls back to press a finger to his lip, wiping the blood there.

Lila pulls on his belt, dropping to her knees right there in the middle of the room.

Mine. He’s mine.

“Make me your wife again,” she’s not sure but it sounds like she’s begging as she manages to unbuckle his belt and pull them around his strong thighs.

“God,” he breathed, “fuck. Look at you.”

Swollen lips parted for him to put to use. John wrapped his fist around her long hair to maintain a good grip, allowing the tip of his cock to hit the back of her throat. There was no resistance, no gag, her body remembering how it was taught to take all of him even though time had passed. John loved that fucking mouth and he found himself angry as thoughts entered his mind - if anyone had fucked her mouth while he’d been away - and he jerks his hips more forcefully. Rough.

This time Lila does gag. Her hand goes to push against his hip but he doesn’t allow her to pull away.

“Did anyone else do this?”

She splutters, eyes on him and confused with a mouthful of cock, unable to talk.

“Did you suck someone else’s cock? This is mine, Lila. Mine.”

He holds her down for a couple of more seconds before allowing her reprieve. She sputters and coughs, looking at him the entire time.

His dick is still hard and long, standing to attention, and he’s not sure whether he should apologize before she’s taking his bobbing dick back into her mouth. To the back of her throat and gulping and fondling his balls. Her nose kissing the coarse hairs on his belly trail and although it feels fucking amazing - he can feel the anger too. Her anger.

How dare he accuse her.

When she pulls off there’s a strand of saliva connecting his prick to her tongue. She has half a mind to go back for more but he’s pulling her back by her hair.

“I’m so lucky to have a wife who’s cock hungry,” he groans, pulling her to her feet by her hair and connecting their mouths in a rough kiss. Their teeths crash and tongues wrestly and he feels fucking crazy that she tastes like him. Simultaneously ripping each other’s clothes off.

Lila didn’t have any warning. One second she was kissing him and ripping open his shirt and the next she was bent over the bed with her ass in the air. John ran a finger over the wet patch on her underwear. The bite on her cheek was also unexpected and she clawed at the sheets, sure she could come from the feeling alone.

“This is mine, Lila,” he leaned in close, burying his face in her underwear. “Mine.”

All she could do was whimper and agree.

John smacked her ass so hard it jiggled. Lila yelled and after the pain ceded, time seemed to stop. Nothing but their rough breathing filling the room. John had never done that before.

She wasn’t sobbing but there were tears escaping. She was sure he didn’t know. He was waiting for a reaction.

Lila wasn’t sure where this side of her husband came from. Had he held back those two months? Did he learn it in Europe? Was that why there was another woman - because she couldn’t satisfy him?

She can’t lose him.

“Please,” she begs, hiding tears in the duvet, “do it again.”

Lies. It was all lies but John believes her and he strikes again. She yelps, fisiting the sheets. He believes it’s in pleasure.

Ten slaps. That’s how many she endures before he begins shushing and petting her again. He runs his fingers through her folds and although she didn’t enjoy the punishment mentally - she did nothing wrong, he was the liar - her body certainly did. She’s sopping wet, she’s gonna have to throw out her underwear because they’re destroyed.

“Did you enjoy that?” He grabs a fistful of her hair to sit her up, her back against his sweaty, matter chest. “You like being spanked, baby?”

“Yes.” It’s only half of a lie.

“Now - now, I’m going to fuck you. Nice and hard, just how you like it,” she wants to scream at him. She wants to hit him. When did she ever like it hard? When was hard ever nice? Who was he thinking about because it wasn’t her.

But at the same time she rocks back against him to feel his cock hard between her cheeks. She can’t say she doesn’t want it. Him. This.

He pushes her back down at her teasing, using his now free hands to spread her cheeks and show her tight asshole. Untouched and pure. He presses the tip of his cock against it but he doesn’t push. He doesn’t move.

She jerks at the pressure. Drools on the mattress as she tries to bite down to temper her screams.

Do it.

No, don’t.

“One day,” he promises, pressing deeper so her hole opens but not deep enough to push. “But today, today I want this.” And without any prepping like she’s used to, without any more warning, he’s sliding down and pushing into her. Hard. Deep.

She screams, can’t help it, claws at the mattress in an attempt to crawl away.

It hurt but it felt so good.

Who was she?

“You think you can go be with other men? Let them use the holes I trained? The ones that belong to me?” He pumps into her deep. Once, twice. She’s so wet the noises filling the room are pornographic, her yelling and his panting and her sopping wet vagina smacking against his thighs and taking his cock so well. “You like it like this, Lila? Like when I fucking own you?”

“Yes, yes,” she swears and this time she isn’t lying. It’s all she can manage; she thinks she’s gone cock dumb. There are no words, no feelings, just the feeling of him filling her.

She clenches tight when he slides out. She wants him inside her forever.

He releases his hold of her hair, stepping away. He’s tired of muffling her moans and words. He’s tired of not being able to see her beautiful face.

John’s favorite face in the entire world.

“Turn around,” he commands.

Lila kneels on wobbly legs as she turns over, having little to no energy and bouncing as her body lands with no grace on the mattress. John grabs one of her jiggling breasts in his large hand, squeezing tightly.

“I fucking missed these.” He takes one in his mouth, biting down on her nipple hard. She shrieks but holds his head to pull him closer.

Her thighs are forced open by his hand and then he’s taking hold of himself and thrusting in deep again. Releasing her breasts from his mouth in order to look at her mouth. Lila’s face when he’s fucking her is as close to heaven as he thinks he’ll ever get. She’s incoherent but she’s begging for more - that much he can make out. She manages to gather the strength to grab hold of him and pull him down, clawing at his back.

He hisses at the pain and bites on her collarbone to reciprocate it.

When she grabs the nape of his neck, the cool touch of her wedding ring against his skin, it gives him pause. This was his wife. His wife.

John has been gone so long he thinks he forgot he was married.

“I love you,” he finally says it, pressing his forehead against hers as he slows down. He sniffles then, leaning down to press a wet open-mouthed kiss against hers and swallow her moans. John can’t believe he forgot he had this; can’t believe he forgot for a minute how lucky he was. She’s gorgeous (and not just externally) and he’s quite sure he somehow managed to dream her up. “I love you,” he swears again.

This time she’s the one who doesn’t say it.

She clutches at neck and pulls him down to take a boob in his mouth. Looking him in the eye hurts too damn much. Why did he have to do this now? She was lost in the pain; she had been taking her punishment.

Lila squeezed her eyes shut, moaning loudly as she thrashed around the bed. Her orgasm taking over her body. She wrapped both legs tighter around John, squeezing and pulsing around him and dragging him to the edge with her.

“Fuck, fuck,” he roared, “so damn tight. Yes, Lila. My perfect wife.”

For a couple of seconds, they lay in the aftermath. Lila could feel the heat of John’s breath against her neck. She counted how many breaths they shared in between one another as they recuperated.

Forty-seven that’s how many breaths they shared as they stayed connected.

Forty-eight that’s when John managed to lift his head and place a peck against her mouth. One she didn’t return.

Forty-nine that’s when John pulled back in concern. Lila was so still.

Fifty. That’s the breath she used to say, “you cheated on me,” looking him right in the eyes as she broke out in uncontrollable sobs.

She cried and cried underneath him. Unable to move because her legs felt like jello and they held no power. Unable to push him off because she didn’t want to let him go. Unable to speak because she was suffocating in her heartbreak.

John watched her until he couldn’t, until he was afraid she was going to choke on her own tears and then he was sitting her up, trying to ignore the way she fought against his touch.

I’m sorry, I’m here, he kept saying.

I hate you, she thought but didn’t say.

Until finally, “don’t touch me!” She yelled when he got too close and made to wrap her up in a hug. “Get away from me, John. Stay away.” She crawled to the edge of the bed and curled herself into a tiny ball. Aware she was fully naked and he was still leaking out of her but she couldn’t find it in herself to do anything except cry.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t open her lungs and get any air in. She slapped at the headboard, aware that she was having a panic attack as suddenly everything hit her all at once. It was entirely consuming and she couldn’t do anything to fight against it except cry. All the feelings rushed her at once.

This was going to be it. The weekend of two lovers reunited was the weekend from hell and this was going to be it. She was going to return home in a day and he would stay in Europe and continue to fight the war and seek out other girls and when he returned she wouldn’t be his wife anymore.

Lila would be scornful and full of resentment and miserable and he would leave her. This last time was going to be all she had and she hated him for ruining it.

Why couldn’t he hide his affairs better?

Why did she have to surprise him?

She was perfectly happy not knowing. She was worried and stressed to hell and crying every night missing him but, oh God, all that was better than this.

Lila isn’t sure how long it’s been since she last took a breath but she feels herself fading. She’s shivering and naked in their bed and she can only slightly take in that John’s wrapping her up in the duvet and curling himself around her to warm her up. She’s trying to tell him she can’t breathe, she’s suffocating, at the same time he’s blowing air in her face.

She’s fading when she feels it. A sting on the left side of her face. Hard and sharp and enough to have her gasping for a deep breath.

“Baby, please, wake up,” he’s crying over her, his head on her chest, “wake up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her chest aches. She coughs.

He whips his head up so fast she almost laughs. Almost.

“Lila,” he holds her against his chest, rocking them back and forth on the bed as she takes in her surroundings. She isn’t sure how long she was out or how long she was panicking for. Had the sun been setting while she lost her shit? It was dark outside now. “Don’t leave me, you can’t leave me. Please.”

She taps at his arms to get him to release. She doesn’t think she can talk.

John allows her the space but he doesn’t remove himself from the bed. He stays kneeling, watching her. His hands keep twitching like he wants to reach out and touch her but he’s trying to respect her wishes of not being touched.

She doesn’t lay back down, she stays resting against the headboard. Breathing hurts. She’s scared of suffocating once more. Her left cheek begins burning and she wishes she had the strength to go look in the mirror. Did he mark her? She hopes he did.

Lila’s glad he made it hurt.

“You need to go,” she finally manages to say, ignoring the way he’s already shaking his head in defiance. “Leave me here, John. I want you to go. Get another room.” Find another woman. “I leave in a day.” She wishes she never came to stupid London. She wishes she could forget this entire trip.

“Lila it’s the war,” he starts, shaking in his own tears. “It’s all the shit I see, baby. None of it was because of you okay? None. You don’t fucking know what it’s like up there for us but I stay alive in hopes of coming home to you.” He promises.

She shakes her head, fighting back any more tears. How the hell could she still have any tears left?

“But Gale didn’t cheat,” it bursts out of her before she can stop it and she knows it’s the wrong thing to say entirely.

John stops his apologies, clearing his throat as he gets up and begins dressing into his suit. She doesn’t stop him. She doesn’t take back any of what she said. She gets tired of sitting so she lays on her side, staring out the window and noticing London doesn’t have many stars. Is that why it’s so horrible here? Because there were no stars to wish upon.

She could hear his boots stomping on the ground as he reached the door. “Maybe you should have married Gale fucking Cleven then.” And the door slams shut behind him.

She wonders if he’s angry enough to find a girl and sleep with her. Her eyes blur. The time on the clock is six p.m and London’s already dark. She realizes she hasn’t slept since her plane ride. About 19 hours awake - her and John.

Lila allows her eyes to close, hoping when she wakes everything will be better.

Shadows over her eyelids wake her up. Lila finds she hasn’t moved. She’s in the same position facing the window. Facing London, only now bombs are dropping over it. The prettiest colors burst forward in the window but she knows it's truly only tragedy and loss. Murder.

She recognizes John sitting in the arm chair and she wonders when he got back. He isn’t facing her, he’s watching bomb after bomb drop and land no more than mere miles away from them. He’s holding a whiskey on ice, twirling the ice so it hits against the glass.

Lila wonders then if it was the shadows or the noise that woke her up.

“I must have punched in my card a long time ago,” his voice is strong in the dead of the night, seemingly even louder than when he’s singing in the pub. “It must be the reason for all of this. Karma.” He scoffs.

I deserve this, is what he’s trying to say.

Lila feels her stomach twist and spin and there’s bile sitting in her throat. She closes her eyes to stop herself from imagining John in a plane, dropping a bomb that lands on children. She closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see the hurt sitting on his shoulders.

She remembers how angry she was when he first signed up. Before they were married. They had been dating for over a month, barely, and she already scribbled ‘Mrs. Egan’ over her notebooks. She’d heard it from his younger sister, Eileen, and she felt her world stop. She hadn’t hesitated to run to the stables he worked at and confront him in front of all the men.

“You’re leaving me,” she had accused him. “You’re gonna leave! I’ll never forgive you, John Egan.”

And in front of everyone he’d knelt down and produced a ring, the one his father had given his mother and said, “Marry me.” He didn’t ask because they both knew it wasn’t a question.

She was already his.

And he was hers.

Lila had forgiven him and promised to love, honor, and obey for the rest of her life.

She doesn’t have the strength to stand so even though her throat burns she speaks. “Lay with me,” she croaks. Her voice is raspy and broken and even clearing it aches.

John shakes his head. “You don’t want me to.”

“Lay with me,” she repeats, firm. “I just want to fall asleep with you.”

He looks at her like he's scared to believe. Trying to figure out whether she’s simply being cruel and going to kick him out in her next breath. Or more likely, he’s scared she’ll lose her shit being near him again.

John, hopeful and never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, sets his drink down and nears the bed. Lila keeps her eyes locked on his and he does the same. Their moves and tension resemble a game of chicken, one of them afraid any sudden change can have the other running off.

“Take off your uniform,” she says when he pushes back the covers while still fully dressed. He jerks his head in confusion and she bites her lip to contain a laugh at his dirty mind. Sex is the last thing on her mind. “I want to feel you, that’s all.”

John does as she asks, setting his cap down and shredding every layer before he’s naked and gorgeous and sliding in beside her. She doesn’t allow herself to think about what it means when she immediately slides closer.

Lila’s the one to wrap her arms around him.

Lila’s the one to intertwine their legs.

John follows her lead, lifting an arm so she can raise her head and use it as a pillow. She scoots her face closer and she nuzzles into her armpit, smelling his deodorant and feeling his hairs poke at her nose. She moves further along, escaping the cocoon of his armpit to press her cheek against his chest. She clutches his dog tags in her palm, tight, so he can’t get up in the middle of the night.

“Can we fall asleep together?” She asks, but when she looks up John’s already there.

The next time Lila wakes up her palm aches. She releases what she’s gripping, remembering how she clung to John’s dog tags when he slid into bed beside her. She lifts her head and finds John already looking at her.

He’s got the saddest eyes she’s ever seen and she hates that she’s partly why.

“We should talk,” her voice is low and cracks from not being used. John nods his head but makes no move to begin.

Lila lays her head back on his chest, lightly picking at his matted, curly chest hair. She presses her lips to a freckle near his nipple and his intake of breath lets her know he felt it,

“I’m not the one you write the most letters too,” she starts, finding it easier to not have to look him in the eye. “You write the most to your mom. And I’m not the one who can calm you down when your anger gets the best of you,” she’s so tired of crying, “that’s Gale. “And I can’t even be here for you at the end of a mission to console you or kiss you or help you forget,” she chokes on a sob. “That’s whoever else.”

I couldn’t even keep our baby healthy, she leaves out.

“What’s your point with all this, Lila?”

Lila lifts her head from his chest, “My point is I’m a horrible wife. I - I don’t know if it was too soon or just not thought out but this - I- ” she can’t get the rest of the words out.

“Don’t say that,” John sits up against the headboard, forcing her up as well. He grabs both her wrists in one of his hands to pull her closer and grab her attention. “Don’t fucking tell me that, Lila.”

“I don’t make you happy,” she shakes her head.

“You do. Everything I do, everything I’m doing - it’s for you Lila.”

“I don’t want to marry Gale. Or someone like him. I love you. Only you. But I’m scared that I don’t make you happy. You deserve better.”

“Oh you dumbass,” John coos, suddenly finding the entire situation amusing. He pulls her in for a hug. “You’re my entire fucking heart, Lila Egan. You don’t think you make me happy? You’re the only thing in my life, in my head, that makes me happy.”

She pulls away to hold his face. “If you’re gonna leave me John you need to tell me now. I don’t care about the girls if all they are is to pass the time. And I don’t care that you write to your mom more than me and I don’t care that Gale is the one you listen to but I just need to be the one you love the most. I need to know I’m making you happy.”

His heart aches at the fact that he made her feel she was ever anything less than the most important person in his life. “Lila,” he presses a kiss to her lips, “Rose,” another kiss, “Egan,” another. “Are my only reason for staying alive.”

every time I read a Nanami fic my standards just gets higher and higher.

❀ In which you and your husband compete to be your baby's first word

“Say ‘ma-ma.’” 

Your baby makes some noise. It’s an adorable babble that induces cuteness aggression in the form of you biting her chubby cheeks and listening to her giggle, but it’s not the exact sound you want. Still, she’s a clever girl so you know she’ll pull through sooner than later. 

“Playing dirty, sweetheart?”

Kento walks into the nursery, laying his folded suit jacket over the armrest of the chair in the corner, where he sits down with a relieved sigh. He loosens his tie and gives you a tired smile, two long fingers beckoning you over. Baby in your arms, you nestle in his lap, immediately engulfed in his scent and warmth. He playfully nibbles on the fingers the baby shoves in his mouth, her own way of welcoming him back, you suppose. 

Fresh from a long day at work, you don’t bother asking why he didn’t change into his home clothes immediately after coming back or why he’s not taking a much needed nap – your husband has asserted multiple times now that his favourite way of recharging is with you and his little girl. Home is wherever you two are, he says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, trying to distract the observant man by handing the baby over to him. 

Humming as he presses a kiss to her forehead, Kento muses, “So, my gorgeous wife, who loves nothing more than coming out victorious in every competition she creates, has been behaving the entire day, withholding any and all attempts to make our darling daughter’s first word be ‘mama?’ Somehow, I find that hard to believe.” 

You plead the fifth and the guilty grin you give him is all the answer he needs.

“Hi, my sweet girl,” your husband coos, eyes sparkling with adoration behind his thin-frame glasses. “Did you miss dada? Dada missed you, oh, yes, he did.”

“Hey! Now you’re playing dirty.”

“On the contrary, my love, I’m simply catching up.” His smile widens at the fairy-light sounds of pure joy that he elicits from his baby girl with his nose kisses. “Dada would never resort to cheating, would he? No, not like your mother. Can you say, ‘mother?’ No? Oh, dear.”

That earns him a slap on his chest. “You are so annoying, Ken. I carried her for nine months, it’s my right to be her first word. I deserve it.”

“Of course, sweetheart. I understand, but our little love doesn’t. All that matters to her is that ‘dada’ is much, much easier to say than ‘mother.’” The 'little love' in question steals her father's glasses and waves it around with her balled-up fist. Knowing that a baby's grip is second to none, he doesn't put up a fight.

She's definitely your daughter.

“Uhuh, Kento. Keep plying her with complicated words to make ‘dada’ sound easier all you want but my girl knows her roots. She’ll come through for me." Shuffling off, you give them each a kiss on the head. "Alright, alright. I have to get started on dinner — you two have fun. Hear that, angel? Mama is going. Ma-ma is making food for your sperm donor. Can you say, ‘male parental figure?’ No? What a shame.”

They share a laugh: one appreciating your quip and the other, just happy to be there.

An hour or so later, dinner’s ready and waiting on the dining table. You don’t shout, not anymore; one never knows when the baby’s asleep and when she'll next sleep so every drop of quiet is gold in the Nanami household. 

Quietly then, you creep down the hallway and peek your head through the gap in the door. The twinkling of a music box plays in the background. 

Remaining where you left them, Kento rocks his daughter in his arms, running a finger from her forehead down to her nose bridge, tickling her delicate skin, a trick that never fails to make her smile. 

Your husband talks in a gentle, tender conspiratorial tone and your eyes narrow in suspicion — the man hides behind an air of maturity and wisdom, obscuring his penchant for competition, but he can’t fool you. “Come on, sweetpea, make dada proud. Just like we’ve been practising, hmm? Say it with Papa Ken.”

Who’s playing dirty now? 

Just about to scold him for his underhanded actions, hypocrisy and double standards be damned, his next words stop you in your tracks.

“Say ‘mama.’ Can you say, ‘ma-ma?’ Don’t you want to make mama happy? I know I do.” She only blows bubbles in response, tiny hands tugging at his tie now so she can gnaw at it, glasses returned to the rightful owner. “No? Tired from a whole day of being daddy’s perfect angel, are you? Alright, we’ll try again later. Come on, let’s go help mama. She gets grumpy when the food doesn’t cook fast enough.”

The last sentence was unnecessary but you appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless.

Especially grateful for his never ending efforts to make you happy, dinner's spent with you giving your husband a gummy grin and he, in return, eyes you in suspicion, all while your little girl entertains herself with her foot in her mouth.

At night, baby asleep and tucked away in her room, you push him down on the bed, practically ripping his clothes off. Dazed, confused, but very pleased with the evening's turn of events, Kento rarely ever has any choice but to let you have your way with him.

And beyond content in a way he never knew he could be, in a way he didn't know he'd ever deserve, Kento doesn't realise he's smiling beneath you until you thumb at his lips, a soft look in your twinkling eyes.

"Let's have another baby, Ken."

Softly, he mutters, “Whatever you want, dear.”

at first I used to repost the few I would receive because you never know... but now I get 4 to 6 of them EVERYDAY and I'm starting to doubt the genuineness of these people. No matter how many of them I block, I receive so many everyday and it's starting to look like a scam more and more and I don't feel like sharing any of them anymore in case they are actually a scam.

Using the suffering of people who are dying and suffering right now to steal and scam money is truly shameful. This seriously needs to stop.

Okay I've had enough

this shit is so fucked up and obnoxious I cannot take it anymore

I get slightly reworded versions of this exact same message with using the same 3-4 pictures at least 20 times a week

!While there absolutely are legitimate fundraisers being set up and circulated by/for actual Palestinians in need!

They are being completely drowned out by these scam/bot accounts spamming the same 2-3 messages with the wording changed around slightly if changed at all

This has got to stop

I have every tag related to PayPal/gofundme/fundraisers/Palestine/the genocide blocked for my own sanity and I STILL, no matter what the fuck I do, cannot avoid seeing fundraiser posts containing pictures of dead or severely injured children or graphic text descriptions of the ongoing genocide(ex. starvation/death/illness/injuries) EVERY. FUCKING. DAY.

I don't care if I sound selfish for complaining it's genuinely taking a toll on me

I already have ptsd and a slew of other mental issues so seeing this stuff on a daily basis is actually really fucking me up

Realistically, I have no ability to help or change what is going on on the other side of the world.

I legitimately have zero ability to do a fucking thing about it actually!

I have no platform, I am not a politician, nor am I financially able to provide support.

I am barely surviving myself

Please let me have one fucking place where I don't have to see traumatic shit on a regular basis

@staff @staff @staff

Hii do you have any stiles series recommendations?💗

hello lovely! I'm actually more of a one-fic girlie but the few I read are soooo wonderfully written that I'm more than happy to share!

"don't tell scotty" written by @strangerstilinski 🩷 omg. I love this series so much that I come back every once in a while to read it again cause it has me feeling like this emoji-> 😮‍💨

'the boyfriend code' written by @darkintothedawn It's honestly all the fluff you need, I'm in love with this series especially because you can read every chapter separately 🫶🏻

'the mistake' written by @were-cheetah-stiles the way I didn't want to read the epilogue because I didn't want to finish it lol, I'd definitely read it if I were you!

“no rules, in breakable heaven.” by @heartbreakgrill I was going crazy trying to find it, but I'm glad I did cause I'm going to reread this right now! 💖

these writers are so incredibly talented that I wish I could reread them as the first time 😭

ate this up in an afternoon, so wonderfully written 😭🩷

The Only Truth I Know Is You

[Series | Complete]

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

Stationed in Italy as a Flight Nurse with the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron, a combination of bad weather and an inexperienced Navigator lands you in the last place you ever imagined your World War II service would lead - a Prisoner of War Camp in Moosburg, Germany. As the months drag on and the camp’s population multiplies, your path crosses with all manner of humanity, including one rather broken pilot from Manitowoc, Wisconsin.

Series Warnings: Canon typical violence, Death, Injuries, Gore, Angst, Suffering, Mental Health Struggles, Medical Settings and Procedures, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Borrowed heavily from the real life experiences of Reba Whittle. There are short documentaries about her on YouTube or if you want to deep dive, like me, you can read a copy of her imprisonment diary here. Special thanks to @precious-little-scoundrel for her invaluable assistance with the conception and formulation of this series! If you'd like to be tagged, just add a comment to this post!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Masters of the Air Masterlist

"he came to her like he promised and she followed him like she said she would"- let me know when you'll stop stabbing me.

Jokes aside this fic is my new Roman Empire, I aspire to write like you in the future so really, thank you for this wonderful story and for the love you put in it 🫶🏻

Are You Going My Way? | Complete | John "Bucky" Egan

5 parts + epilogue, 45k words Lost and found in fourfive parts. John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of blood, wounds, operations, hospitals, war

*** Hitchin' a Ride Part 1

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes. Words: 7k | Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

*** Follow Me Where I Go Part 2

Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.

Words: 8.5k | Warnings: smut, 18+

*** As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death Part 3

Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.

Words: 10.5k | Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

*** I'll See You on The Dark Side of The Moon Part 4

Or how John Egan really needs to learn how to shut up already.

Words: 9k | Warnings: smut, war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

*** Lights Will Guide You Home Part 5

Or how losing each other was never an option.

Words: 9k | Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

*** A Lovely View of Heaven, But I'd Rather Be With You Epilogue

Don’t go where I can’t follow…

Words: 2k | Warnings: mentions of death, grief

I just went through the five stages of grief lol.

I hate you (no I love you so much this story was a masterpiece, thank you for sharing it with us). I really hate you.

Are You Going My Way? | Complete | John "Bucky" Egan

5 parts + epilogue, 45k words Lost and found in fourfive parts. John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of blood, wounds, operations, hospitals, war

*** Hitchin' a Ride Part 1

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes. Words: 7k | Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

*** Follow Me Where I Go Part 2

Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.

Words: 8.5k | Warnings: smut, 18+

*** As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death Part 3

Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.

Words: 10.5k | Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

*** I'll See You on The Dark Side of The Moon Part 4

Or how John Egan really needs to learn how to shut up already.

Words: 9k | Warnings: smut, war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

*** Lights Will Guide You Home Part 5

Or how losing each other was never an option.

Words: 9k | Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

*** A Lovely View of Heaven, But I'd Rather Be With You Epilogue

Don’t go where I can’t follow…

Words: 2k | Warnings: mentions of death, grief

so so sweet, I need him more than I need air

In The Skies || Ch. 1 [Major John "Bucky" Egan x Reader]

Overview: On a night out in London, you meet fellow American Major John “Bucky” Egan of the 100th. As war rages on, you take a leave of absence during the spring of your third year at Oxford to sign up as a nurse on the front lines in England. Time and time again, you and Bucky find yourselves thrown together in the hospital ward as you tend to him and his teammates after missions gone awry. What happens when you find yourself falling for a man who might never return from the skies? 

Pairing: Major John “Bucky” Egan x Reader

Chapter summary: You spend one eventful night with Major "Bucky" Egan after a night out in London. Will you ever see him again?

Warnings: Smut, alcohol, cursing, definitely historical inaccuracies

WC: 2.6K

Masterlist here

“Want a drink?” 

“Sure!” Your voice got lost in the crowd. The bar, somewhere in Camden, was packed, a mixture of men in uniform and women with drawn-on hosiery packed like sardines in the tiny room. Music swelled over the chaos of voices, and you could feel your heartbeat in your ears from the sheer volume of everything.

It was exhilarating. 

It was the week before exams, and you and two girlfriends had decided to throw caution to the wind, taking the train from Oxford and staying in the city in a flat that Mary’s sister rented, the four of you squished in two tiny beds with one mirror and a bathroom in the hallway. 

But the allure of London was such a vibrant change from Oxford. Even during the war, there was something romantic about the city. Maybe, in the fact of everything, it was the potential. To be who you wanted to be. To live a life worth living. 

Or, perhaps the real reason your friends had wanted to go to London for the weekend, was the men. 

So many military men. 

You’d had your share of flings with Brits. There were the other students at Oxford. The townies nearby. You even danced on the edge of a romantic relationship with a professor. But in the end, they all went belly up. 

Mary pressed a drink into your hand and you took a sip, eyes darting around the room. You had come to London only a handful of times in the two-and–a-half years you had been at Oxford. It was overwhelming, after the quietness of rural England. The hustle, the sheer volume of bodies, the loud voices and incoherent accents. Almost three years in England and you still could barely understand a British accent. 

Mary and Eileen had an easier time adjusting. Eileen was also an American, from California. She looked like a film star, and you envied her sometimes. Mary was more quiet, originally from Dover, with diminutive features. 

Barely an hour into arriving, they had both been swept into conversations with handsome men. You waved them off with a smile. That was the purpose of going to the bar, you reminded yourself. Experience life outside of the Ivy-covered halls of Oxford. Throw caution to the wind, just once. In the midst of all the tragedy and the chaos and the death, you were twenty one. You were just starting to live. 

“Need a refill?” The voice was unmistakably American. Midwest American if you had to guess. You looked up from where you had been lingering against one dark wall in the corner of the club. 

That voice. It was deep and throaty, and belonged to a tall man leaning against the wall to your right, his head cocked to one side, deep blue eyes staring straight at you. 

You felt your stomach flip. There was something unmistakeable about his gaze. It cemented you in place, grounding you. He smiled, small lips turning up beneath a groomed mustache. 

“I’m fine,” you replied, hating yourself instantly, the empty glass in your hand saying otherwise. He was going to walk away, try his luck with the next girl, and you cursed yourself. 

Instead, he stayed rooted in place, nodding. “That’s alright. I recognize an American anywhere.”

“New York,” you replied. 

“Wisconsin.” You told him your name. He reached out one solid, large hand. “I’m Bucky.” 

“Bucky? You must have messed up big time to get that as your nickname.” 

He smirked, his hand warm where it was still enveloping yours. You didn’t want to pull away. There was something magnetic about him. “You’re a long way from home.” 

“I’m a third year at Oxford,” you said. He had to lean in closer to hear you above the noise of the club and you could smell the tobacco on his jacket, the musk of whiskey and oranges. “Just here for the weekend.” 

“Seeing a boyfriend?” 

You shook your head. “No.”

Bucky smiled. “Good.” Despite the noise of the club and the competing senses — boisterous laughter, the scent of sweat and perfumes mixed together, the rush of bodies all around — you found yourself entirely captivated by Bucky. He straightened up against the wall where the two of you were leaning. “Want to get some air?” he asked. “Take a walk?” 

“Yes.” He held out a hand and you took it without thinking, not bothering to find Eileen or Mary in the crowd and tell them you’ve left. You simply let Bucky sweep you out into the cool London night. 

The air outside was biting against the thin silk of your dress and you shivered almost immediately. He shrugged off his jacket, a fur-trimmed bomber coat and wrapped it around your shoulders without you asking. 

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “What’s your real name?” you asked quietly. “Unless your mother had an awful sense of humor and named you Bucky from birth.” 

He laughed, the sound echoing in the empty street. “John Egan, ma’am.” 

“Ma’am,” you repeated, the word slippery on your tongue. “Makes me feel old.” 

“You don’t look a day over twenty.” 

“Twenty one,” you replied. “Last week.” 

Up ahead, yellow street lamps tossed delicate rings of light into the road. It was a T junction. You could go left or right. He stopped underneath the lamp at the intersection and you turned to face him. “Y/N,” he said. “I’m leaving tomorrow. What do you say we make this a night we won’t forget?” 

“Do you say that to all the girls?” you whispered. “Or just the ones you pick up in clubs.” 

Bucky smirked. “I say it because it’s true.” He paused, his face falling. “And because this time, we might not come back.” There was something dark and defeated in the way he said it. 

Again, without thinking, you reached up, trailing one hand over his cheek. He pressed into your palm without thinking, closing his eyes for a second before popping them open. “Can’t let a soldier go off to war without a proper sendoff,” you replied quietly. “Wouldn’t be very patriotic of me, now would it?” 

He reached out, pressing both hands to either side of your face, delicately stroking your cheek with his rough, large thumb. “No, it wouldn’t. And you’re a good little American, aren’t you sweetheart?” 

“For my troops?” you whispered. “Anything.” 

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours. You felt goosebumps prickle at your skin. He tasted warm, like tobacco and whiskey, and his mouth opened gracefully, accepting your lips across his, his tongue finding yours with soft padding. 

Bucky pulled back, sliding both of his large, warm hands across the sides of your face. His slate blue eyes bore into yours for a moment and even though you were standing in the middle of the sidewalk in London, everything else faded away. It was just the two of you, and empty space all around. 

At the hotel, you slipped off your heels near the door, looking around. It was a small room, just a bed in the middle, a chair next to one wall, and a window overlooking the street. Bucky closed the door. You turned to him, eyes wide. “You ever done anything like this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You shook your head. “Can’t say that I have.” 

“So why me?” he asked. “Why tonight?” 

“It’s war, Bucky,” you whispered. “People do things because they can. While they can.” 

He stepped closer, his scent surrounding you. He was tall, so much taller without your heels on, and you craned your neck up to look at him. He cupped your face gently. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Might be the last pretty face I ever see.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“It’s true.” He pulled away, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Silently, you admired the way his thighs stretched the dark green fabric of his uniform, how long his legs were as he tapped one brown leather shoe against the carpet. “You don’t know what it’s like up there. Not knowing if we’re ever coming back.” 

“Do you have a wife back home?” you whispered. 

He looked up, frowning. “You think I’d be here with you if I had a wife?” 

“I don’t know. Some men might.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No. I don’t have a wife. Or a girl.” 

“Tonight I’ll be your girl,” you whispered, slotting yourself between his legs, Bucky’s fingers automatically reaching out, tracing along the lines of your legs covered in hosiery. His fingertips ran along the back seam of your pantyhose behind your knee as you sucked in a breath, winding your arms around his neck.

“Is that a promise?” he asked, voice thick and deep. His eyes pierced yours. 

“Are you going to come back safe?” you whispered. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

“Then it’s a promise,” you murmured, leaning down, pressing your lips to his, Bucky’s hands circling your waist, tugging your body against him, one of his hands threaded in your hair at the base of your neck where it was pinned under. He tasted of tobacco and drink and you let him slide his hands up beneath your dress, gasping as his fingers gently brushed over your bottom, fingertips grazing the snaps of your garter where it clipped to your thigh highs.

“Can’t tell you the last time I touched real stockings,” he whispered. You didn’t have the heart to tell him they were your last pair, and that you had been saving them. Most days, you drew a line up the back of your leg like all the other women, replicating the seam of stockings but going without in order to support the war. 

“And how do they feel?” 

Bucky looked up, his enormous hands clasped around the back of your thighs where your bare flesh sat between the edge of your panties and the top of the stockings. “Amazing.” 

You tipped your head back in a sigh as he gripped your bottom, squeezing the bare flesh tightly. He unclipped the stockings, rolling them down your left, then your right, leg, slowly. You reached out, undoing his tie, his blue eyes watching yours with rapt attention as your fingertips shook while you undressed him. 

His skin was warm as you slid your fingers over his bare chest, admiring the smattering of hair in the center of his sternum, the small scar on his left shoulder blade. You couldn’t help but run your hands over his abs, so clearly defined but still soft, the way the muscles melted into each other like rounded mountaintops. 

You spun around so Bucky could undo the buttons on the back of your dress. There was an intimacy as he worked his way down your back until the dress peeled off. You placed your hands over your chest, turning around shyly. 

“Don’t cover up, baby,” he whispered, voice low and gravely. “Let me see you.” 

Slowly, you removed your hands, standing in front of him in only your sheer ivory slip dress. Buck reached up, tracing one hand over your breast, your nipple straining against the fabric, the air in the room full of expectation. You gasped as he slid the lacy strap off of your shoulder, exposing your chest, leaning forward and taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as you threaded your fingers into his curling dark hair. “Oh!” 

He pulled you down against him, rolling you over until your back was against the bed, his head still level with your chest as he kissed across your exposed skin. Your fingertips dug against his back, eyes closing as you widened your hips, letting him sit between your thighs. 

You had been with men before. Oxford, for all of its poshness and etiquette, had seen a spike in debauchery since the war broke out. So different from back home. You were different here than you were at home. 

But being with those other men was nothing like being with Bucky. His mustache tickled over the exposed skin of your neck as he pressed inside of you, his arms wrapping around your whole body, keeping you warm, holding you as close as possible as you moved together, your fingers tangled in his hair, your ankles curled around his hips, your moans drenching the small gap of air between the two of you. 

And as he finished, his forehead pressed against yours as he moaned into the night, hips shuddering against your body, you let go. 

You laid in the bed, tucked squarely in Bucky’s embrace, your face close to his chest as he lit up a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from you. His fingertips danced over your shoulder. “So how do you like England?” he asked. 

You pushed up off of him, chuckling. “England? Oh it’s fine. All beans and toast and pints. Still not used to the accents. I have to ask my professors to repeat themselves all the time, they think I’m hard of hearing.” 

He smiled. “What are you studying?” 

“Biology.”

“Biology?” He took a puff of his cigarette. “To do what?” 

“Research. I like plants and gardening and animals.” 

He reached out, playing with one ringlet of hair that had fallen loose from your updo. “A New Yorker who likes gardening? Never heard of such a thing.” 

“We had plants on our rooftop. I used to go out there every afternoon to sit with my schoolwork, reading by the fire escape. Dream about being anywhere else. Somewhere green.” 

“England is green,” Bucky said. “Outside of London of course. From up there, it’s all green.” 

“What’s it like?” you asked. “Flying.” 

“Scary as shit,” he replied and your eyes widened. He stubbed out the cigarette in a bowl on the nightstand. “No matter how good you are, no matter how many times you’ve made it back, you never know what you’re going to find.” 

“You’re scared?” 

“Fucking terrified.” 

You traced one hand down the side of his face. “What if you didn’t go back to base tomorrow?” you whispered. 

“I have to. I have my men to worry about.” 

“Tell me about your friends.” 

“Well there’s Croz. Smart sonofabitch, but sick every time he gets in the air. There’s Curt and Rosie.” He smiled. “And then there’s Buck.” 

“Buck?” You frowned. “I thought you were Buck.” 

“I’m Bucky, he’s Buck,” he clarified. “It’s a long story.” 

“Two peas in a pod, then?” 

“He asked me to be his best man,” Bucky said and you saw the way his face turned up in a soft smile. His eyes were far away, like he was dreaming. 

“Bet you look good at a wedding,” you whispered. 

His eyes returned to yours. He grabbed your hand, pulling it in, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “Be my date?” 

You laughed. “To a wedding for two people I’ve never met?” 

“They’ll love it. Trust me, it’ll be great.” 

“Alright, you promise me to come back home safe, and I promise to be your date to this mysterious Buck’s wedding. Unknown date or location.” 

He grinned. “Now don’t go breaking that promise, sweetheart. You’d just about break my heart.” He leaned in for a kiss and you tumbled back onto the bed, a heap of arms and legs and sighs. 

In the morning, you crept out of bed. Bucky laid on his stomach, arms tucked beneath the pillow, snoring softly as you rolled on your stockings, buttoned your dress behind you. You sat down at the desk in the corner before tucking the note into his jacket pocket and stepping into your heels. 

As you opened the door, you took one last look back. He was handsome. So damn handsome. 

You hoped with your whole heart that he would return from the skies. 

A/N: This is my first time writing for MOTA or doing anything set in a different period so please bare with me as I work on my period writing skills!

Tagging some people I think may enjoy this:

@gretagerwigsmuse @gigisimsonmars @iangiemae @tgmavericklover @sunny747 @perfectprettypisces @na-ta-sh-aa @ryebecca @kmc1989 @spinning-away @yorkshirekiwi @clancycucumber230

they are so pretty here!

.☆.

yes.

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

he looks so good omg

Dylan O'Brien beaching in Thailand

this healed something in me, so beautiful... thank you for sharing this with all of us 😭🩷

part one || part two || part four coming soon! tw: mentions of burns, grievous injury, death, suicide ideation, etc. post shibuya au. a/n. can be read as a standalone, but i'm doing this as a mini-series.

[09:14] . . .

nanami kento hates this.

he has been home for three weeks now. twenty-one days of stillness so thick it settles into the walls like dust. twenty-one nights where the air feels too heavy, too quiet, where time passes in a hush, like the house itself is holding its breath. three weeks of watching you move around him with tireless grace, every second stitched together by your hands—your footsteps, your touch, your voice, the only things that keep him tethered to the reality he can barely stand to look at.

you do everything. you do too much.

you help him eat when his fingers tremble, help him bathe when the act of standing feels like too much, guide him to the bathroom with a steadiness that makes his stomach twist. you clean him. you lift him. you speak to him softly, with gentle words and careful smiles, never letting your voice crack, never letting him see just how exhausted you are.

and he lets you.

not because he wants to. not because he believes he deserves it. but because he can’t do anything else.

he hates it. he hates that you never flinch, that you never grimace, never complain—not even when you're helping him through the most humiliating moments, the ones where he can’t even raise his arms enough to pull a shirt over his head, the ones where he has to ask you for help to piss.

he watches you hold his shame like it's a secret between you. watches you kneel beside the tub with your sleeves rolled up, washing the burn-scarred skin of his back, as if it’s a holy thing. watches the way you press cool compresses to his shoulder, whispering words that mean nothing and everything. it would be easier if you screamed. if you cried. if you threw something against the wall and shouted that you couldn’t do this anymore.

but you don’t.

instead, you smile. not the smile he used to know—the bright, full one that stretched across your face and made his chest swell with something soft and dangerous—but this new one. thin. quiet. a shadow of what it was. and still, you wear it like armor.

you say his name so gently. you carry him without complaint. you wake before him every morning and fall asleep long after he does, sitting beside his bed in silence, brushing your thumb along his bandaged hand like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

he knows it now. maybe he’s always known it, deep down.

you’re not doing this out of pity. not out of duty, or guilt, or some noble sense of compassion.

you’re doing this because you love him. and somehow, that makes everything worse.

because kento doesn’t feel worthy of love anymore. not like this. not when he can’t even stand on his own two feet. not when his body feels foreign to him, like a cage he can’t escape. not when every movement reminds him of what he’s lost. not when he sees himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize what’s left.

he thinks, maybe, it would’ve been easier if he had died. if his last words—you take it from here—had been exactly that: a parting gift. a permission. a surrender.

because he knows you would have survived. he knows it would have broken you, shattered you, dragged you through hell—but you would have kept going. you would have healed in time. become someone new. found joy again, even if it took years. even if it was only in small, quiet ways.

that future feels kinder than this one.

kinder than being rolled through the threshold of your shared home in a wheelchair, burns still healing, body still aching, watching you press a kiss to the top of his head like it’s all okay.

kinder than being the weight you carry now, day after day, without ever setting him down.

"hey, you're growing a beard," you say softly, almost absently, as you collect his empty breakfast plate. the clink of ceramic against ceramic is gentle, as if you're afraid even the dishes might startle him. "you want a shave?"

kento doesn't look at you. not immediately. instead, he lowers his gaze to the blanket draped over his lap, where the faded cotton is bunched up slightly from how his legs shift, restless. he knows what you're remembering when you ask—knows the picture in your mind without needing to see it. because it's in his too.

he remembers it all. the sun bleeding into your shared room like something divine, soft golden light spilling over the bedsheets like melted honey. he remembers the curtains billowing from the morning breeze, linen fluttering like they were dancing just for you. he remembers the way you used to sit on top of him, legs straddling his hips, bare thighs warm against his stomach, your fingers coated in shaving cream as you smoothed it over his jaw with more reverence than necessary.

back then, you did it because you could. because he let you. because you liked the way he looked at you through the cream, all soft-eyed and patient, like he belonged to you in every way that mattered.

but that version of him—the one who could lift you, kiss you, hold you steady while you leaned close with a blade and a smirk and your sleep-creased pajamas—that man is gone. and this new version, the one who can’t even stand without assistance, who still winces when he shifts too fast or breathes too deep, cannot bear the thought of you kneeling in front of him again. not like that. not when everything between you has shifted into a quiet kind of grief neither of you will name.

"uh, it's fine," kento says, voice so low it nearly gets swallowed by the morning silence. his eyes stay fixed on the folds of the blanket, the lines of his fingers, the dullness of his knees beneath cotton.

"you sure?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder from the sink, where you're already running water. your tone is too careful, the kind reserved for glass things with cracks too deep to fix.

he nods slowly. once. doesn't look up.

and that’s the end of it.

you don’t push. you never do. and he wishes, briefly, violently, that you would. just once. that you’d say something sharp, anything to shake him out of this state. but you only turn back around, wash the plate, and carry the silence like it's just another thing you’ve chosen to carry—for him.

when you're done washing the dishes, you dry your hands on the old kitchen towel—the one that’s permanently damp no matter how often you change it—and walk back toward him. your steps are quiet, deliberate. as if loudness might somehow snap the delicate thread holding the morning together. you hover beside him for a second, the air between you heavy with something unsaid, before you ask, in a voice so careful it almost sounds like a memory, “do you wanna go somewhere today? the park, maybe. the mall?”

kento doesn’t look at you. just lowers his gaze to his trembling hands, pale against the dark fabric of the chair’s arms. his fingers curl slowly, like he’s still not used to the effort, like every movement is rehearsed but not yet mastered. “no,” he says, shaking his head. the word is small, too small for a man like him. it floats between you like a leaf in water—weightless, but still heavy with meaning.

you don’t move. not right away. just watch as he pushes himself away from the breakfast table, his fingers fumbling against the metal, weak and worn. and you wait. because maybe this time you’ll say something. maybe this will be the moment you snap—tell him that he should go outside, that fresh air might help, that being stuck in here, in this “stuffy” house that’s turned into a shrine for everything he used to be, isn’t doing either of you any good.

but you say nothing. you only stand there, hands folded against your stomach, knuckles tight, watching him wheel himself slowly—agonizingly—toward the living room. his back is straight, but the shake in his shoulders betrays him. and still, he doesn't ask for help. not even once.

he rounds the corner. you watch his figure pass, just a sliver of him disappearing down the hallway. he’s so slow, so deliberate, like even this—this attempt at independence—is a punishment he’s giving himself.

you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, the dish towel still clutched in your hand like some useless symbol of peace. you watch as he reaches your bedroom door, hands trembling against the wheel, pushing through the frame. he doesn’t tell you where he’s going. doesn’t thank you for breakfast.

and when he closes the door—too hard, maybe on purpose—kento swears he hears it.

that tiny intake of breath from you, soft and sharp all at once.

he swears he hears you flinch.

and as he sits there, in the quiet that feels too loud, in the stillness that scrapes at his ribs like broken glass, kento lets his eyes drift upward. to the wall. to the soft, cream-colored paint above the bed you both used to curl into like vines, tangled and warm and content.

his gaze settles on the photos. the ones you insisted on putting up, one by one, like sacred relics. you'd fought for that wall, not with anger, but with that gentle insistence that always seemed to win him over. back then, you’d smiled—hands on your hips, heart in your throat—and told him that you didn’t want to walk into this room and ever feel sadness. not when the world already offered more than enough of it. not when you could build something that pushed back against it.

you'd said, “this wall is going to be a home for all the things that make us happy. every milestone. every memory.” and he’d nodded, not because he fully understood, but because he trusted the way your voice trembled when you spoke about joy.

so you’d filled it. slowly, over the years. framed your first date, that one with the rainy sky and the overcooked noodles. framed your wedding, where his tie was crooked and your eyeliner had smudged from crying during your vows. you’d even framed that hideous, grainy picture from high school—the one where his hair hadn’t been cut in months and he was scowling at the camera. and he let you. god, he let you. he even smiled when you kissed the glass after hanging it up.

now, kento looks at it, and something in him collapses.

his throat tightens. his chest burns, not from the wounds or the healing skin, but from something worse. from the unbearable weight of love. from the way it grips him by the collar and doesn't let go.

his face crumples. the tears come fast, angry and soft all at once, trailing down his cheeks in silence before the sobs make it impossible to hold them back. he’s crying. not carefully, not quietly, but like it’s the only thing he’s capable of doing now. his body shakes. the sharp sniffs echo in the room. his vision blurs, but the photographs don’t disappear.

he doesn’t think about the pain anymore—not the itching of raw, pink skin or the way the bandages pull at his nerves. not the dull ache of muscles unused and healing too slowly. not the way his hands still tremble from weakness. all of that fades, is nothing compared to this. to what he feels now.

he can only think of you.

of how tired you must be. of how you smiled as you helped him button his shirt this morning, even though your hands were shaking. of how you sat beside him last night, reading a book aloud even though your voice was hoarse. of how you’d kissed his temple and told him it would be okay, when everything inside him screamed otherwise.

he cries harder. because you didn’t sign up for this. and he knows it. you were meant for something softer. something gentler than this. and yet here you are, anchored to him by love or duty or something in between, and he can’t tell which hurts more—that you’re still here, or that he sometimes wishes you weren’t.

he sobs like a man who has nothing left to give, except for the wreckage of what he used to be.

his hands tremble. not the kind of tremble that comes from weakness alone, but the violent, aching kind—shaking born from rage and humiliation and grief too long kept inside. it starts in his fingers, curls through his palms, climbs up his arms until his whole body is unsteady, quivering like a snapped wire. he clenches the wheels of the chair so tightly his knuckles flash white beneath fragile skin.

then he moves. pushes. forces. not gently, not carefully, but with the full, brute force of desperation. of hatred for this chair, this room, this body that refuses to feel like his own anymore. the muscles in his thighs scream, the burns along his back pull taut, but kento grits his teeth. he stands.

it's shaky. it's pathetic. it's barely anything. but he stands.

he's breathing hard, like he's run a mile. sweat beads at his brow, catching against the curve of a healing wound near his temple. his chest heaves. and before he can fall, before he can even think—his eyes lock onto it. that photo. the one from high school. the ugliest one of them all.

you love it, he knows. you love the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his scowl didn’t hide the curve of his cheekbones. you call it nostalgic. soft. formative.

he calls it disgusting.

his bandaged hand reaches out, trembling, half-dead and aching, and grabs the frame from the wall. his fingers slip, the glass slick against gauze and sweat, but he grips it hard. and then—

he throws it.

the crash is loud. glass shatters like a scream against the bathroom door. the frame splinters, shards raining down across the floor, over the threshold, across the rug you'd chosen together.

he stands there, panting. hands shaking. body sagging under the weight of it all. he doesn’t cry. not now. now he’s just fire. bitter and barely breathing.

and seconds later, you're there.

you burst into the room like a storm breaking through silence, wild-eyed and breathless, hair still damp from the shower, your hands half-raised as if to catch him, steady him, stop time itself.

"are you okay?" your voice is high, almost shrill, choked with panic. "are you hurt? what—what happened?"

your chest rises and falls so fast it aches to look at you. your bare feet crunch softly on broken glass as you step forward, and he flinches, just once, at the sound. because now it’s real. now you’ve seen it—this ugliness inside him, this rot.

and he's hurting you.

but you don’t move closer just yet. you don’t touch him or reach out. instead, your hand floats to your mouth in slow disbelief, your fingers trembling like his were just moments ago, and you gasp.

not a sound of fear this time. not worry. something softer. awed. and your eyes go wide—not with terror, but something else entirely. something almost holy.

your gaze doesn’t drop to the shattered frame on the floor, to the mess, to the ruin. instead, you look up at him. truly look. like you haven’t in weeks. like you’re seeing him for the first time again. and he watches your face shift—so gently it makes his heart twist.

that smile. god, that smile.

the one you wore at the altar, tears glistening under your lashes, hands trembling as you slipped the ring onto his finger. the smile you gave him when he first brought you coffee at work, still in his pressed shirt and tie, nerves hidden behind the straight line of his mouth. the one you gave him in the middle of a fight, when you both knew you’d find your way back. the one he never thought he’d see again—not like this.

“ken,” you breathe. and his name from your lips feels like a benediction. a prayer. a rebirth. “you’re standing.”

he blinks at you, dazed. “what?”

his voice cracks, and he frowns, lips parted in disbelief, his whole body still humming with pain and exertion. he doesn’t look at his legs—because how could he possibly be standing?

but you point. slowly, like you’re scared if you say it too loud, it’ll vanish. like this is a dream.

you point at his knees, at the empty wheelchair beside him, the faint tremble of his calves where they bear the weight of him.

“you’re standing,” you say again, and your voice breaks on the second word. “on your own.”

and kento looks down.

and finally, he sees.

he is.

his legs are shaking, his balance is off, every inch of him feels like it could collapse any second—but he’s not on the chair. he’s not being held up by anything but himself. it’s not much. it’s not heroic. it’s not graceful.

but it’s real. he’s standing.

and when he looks up at you again, your smile’s still there—shining and tear-struck and full of so much love that it splits something open inside him. something he thought had already been reduced to ash.

“there’s glass on the floor,” he murmurs, voice soft, like it’s already breaking. “y-you stepped on glass.”

his eyes dart to the sharp glittering pieces scattered across the hardwood, to the broken frame lying face-down by the door, the photo inside half-visible—his hair in it a disaster, your face blurry from laughing too hard. he remembers hating it. he remembers how you’d refused to take it down.

“i threw the ugly photo,” he says. “at the bathroom door.”

you blink at him, then glance down, and for a second he swears you’ll yell. or worse, cry. but then you look up again, eyes warm, and you say, “in case you didn’t notice,” with a lilt that almost sounds amused, “i’m wearing bunny slippers. the ones i forced you to buy me. the cinnamoroll ones.”

your voice trembles on the last part—not from sadness, but from restraint. you’re trying not to let it crack.

he looks down at your feet. the ridiculous white and blue slippers with floppy ears and little pink cheeks. the ones you made him buy at two in the morning in some grocery store that had no business selling such things. you’d worn them the night you moved in with him. you wore them the first night you made dinner together. you wore them when you danced to no music in the kitchen.

“oh,” he breathes.

and then he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t know what to say. so he waits.

he waits, like he used to wait at train stations with flowers in hand. he waits like he did that first night he told you he loved you, eyes on your lips, terrified of what might come next. he waits like he did in the hospital bed, praying—that you wouldn't leave. that you'd stay by his side.

he waits, yearningly. aching.

hoping you’ll come closer. hoping you'll ignore the mess on the floor, and just reach for him. hoping you’ll step around the broken pieces and press yourself to him like you used to, head on his chest, arms around his waist. hoping you'll remind him that he still gets to be touched, still gets to be held, still gets to be yours.

you take one step. then another. and for a moment, he forgets about the burns, the pain, the way his legs shake beneath him like twigs in a storm.

because you’re here. and you’re walking toward him.

and when you place your head on his chest, finally, finally resting your cheek against him like you've been dying to do for weeks, your ears catch the thump of his heart—loud, steady, alive. his arms, uncertain at first, slowly wrap around you, one settling against your back, the other trembling but determined at your waist. he sighs, deep and full of relief. something unspoken in him settles.

“will you give me a shave?” he asks, voice low, breath stirring your hair.

you blink up at him, eyebrows raised, lips twitching. “i thought you didn’t want one.”

you say it with that teasing lilt he remembers from quieter mornings—back before the world turned sharp around the edges. and for a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.

he breathes out a sound that almost resembles a laugh. his eyes soften, tender, threaded with affection. “i always want one,” he says, “if it’s you.”

you narrow your eyes, already stepping into the joke like second nature. “you have other people giving you shaves, nanami kento?”

he shakes his head, dry as ever. “ah, yes. i’m cheating on you with gojo.”

you gasp, hand flying dramatically to your chest. “how could you? with gojo of all people?”

“he insisted. said he had the better razors.”

you snort, half-laughing into his chest. “he uses a hair straightener on his clothes when they get too wrinkly. he doesn’t get to talk about razors.”

kento smiles then—really smiles—and something in the air shifts. the heaviness lingers, yes. the pain, the fear, the grief of what almost was—they don’t disappear. but they take a step back. they let the warmth through.

you squeeze him a little tighter. he leans into you a little more.

“go sit in the bathroom,” you say, grinning now. “i’ll be there in five minutes. and i’m using the aftershave that smells like that cinnamon candle you hate.”

“i deserve it,” he murmurs, voice light.

you kiss the underside of his jaw, just where the stubble begins to grow, and smile. “yeah,” you say, pulling away, “you kinda do.”

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

Me: my writing is so bad

*colleen hoover's books existing*: 😼

Well put. (Source: Writing About Writing Facebook page)

I actually need him so bad I can't do this anymore.

nanami likes to read his book before bed.

what you didn't know was that he likes it even more when you suddenly decided to climb onto his laps, wrapping both arms around his neck; asking for his attention that never really left you. your fresh out of shower scent crowded him like a dream.

his book was quickly long forgotten somewhere on the bed as his hands were already doing wonders on your sides, massaging your hips gently, washing away the fatigue you didn't even know you've been holding. there isn't even a hint of annoyance in his face as he welcomed you.

to your disruption of his reading time he only offered his most endearing smile while letting out little, "hi love," he softly said, sounding like a man who succesfully had his ways.

looking like a someone who had expected that outcome, as if he had been waiting the whole time for it to happen.

and, well, that's not wrong.

Hello! so, I know we don't know each other... but stabbing someone without reason is not a very sweet thing to do. don't do that again. thank you.

ONLY ONCE, ALWAYS FOREVER || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Stiles Stilinski’s world shatters when you’re gone, leaving him to grapple with grief that consumes him like a storm. In the silence that follows your death, he clings to the fragments of you he can still hold: a letter, a box of forgotten notes, the remnants of your presence scattered throughout your room. As Stiles digs through the past, he uncovers the depth of your love and the unspoken moments that meant everything to you. But no matter how much he holds onto, it never feels like enough. Years pass, and he struggles with the weight of his loss, torn between the desperate desire to keep you alive in his memory and the painful truth that holding on to everything only keeps him tethered to a grief that never heals(it never will).

Memo — I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I was sobbing while writing this and while editing it.

Word Count — 6505

Warnings — Death, Main Character Death, Grief, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Loss of a Loved One, Heavy Angst, Heartbreak, Suicide (Mentioned/Thoughts), Emotional/Physical Exhaustion, Self-destructive Thoughts (Implied), Crying, Sadness, Abandonment, Isolation, Bittersweet, Haunting, Painful, Emotional Overload, Heavy on the Heart, Soul Crushing, Deep Emotional Impact, Heart-wrenching, Unresolved Grief, Longing, Unbearable Love. Unhealed Wounds, Haunted by the Past, Echoes of a Lost Love, Lingering Heartache, Enduring Love, Eternal Love, Fleeting Moments, Unrelenting Grief, Post-Death Romance, Memory of Loved One, Longing for Lost Love, Stream of Consciousness, Nonlinear Narrative, Angsty Flashbacks, Stiles' Inner Thoughts, Heavy Focus on Emotions Over Plot, Memory Loss (for the fear of forgetting), Unresolved Trauma, Obsessive Grief, Emotional Paralysis, Living in the Past, Silent Struggle, Internal Conflict.

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

The room was quiet, save for the sound of your unsteady breathing and the occasional rustling of fabric as you shifted under the sheets. The air was thick, heavy with something neither of you dared to name aloud. The dim glow of the streetlights filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the walls, painting the moment in the kind of stillness that only comes when the world is preparing to shatter.

Stiles sat beside you, his back against the headboard, his fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie—nervous habit, always has been. But his eyes never left yours. They were darker than usual, wide and wet, the way they got when he was trying too hard not to cry. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, to make this lighter, to pretend it wasn’t what it was, but no words came.

Because what could he even say? What could fix this?

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, blinking up at him. The weight of reality pressed down on your chest, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness eating you from the inside out.

"I'm sure," you whispered before he could ask. Before he could try to convince you otherwise, before he could remind you that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

Because you knew Stiles. Knew how he overthought, how his mind ran a million miles an hour even when he just needed to feel. But there was no more time for second-guessing. No more time for pretending this wasn’t what you both wanted—what you needed.

And Stiles must have known it too, because his breath hitched in his throat, and then—then—he was kissing you.

It wasn’t perfect.

His lips crashed against yours too fast, noses bumping, teeth grazing, his hands trembling as they cupped your jaw. But none of that mattered. Not when his lips were warm and desperate against yours, not when he was kissing you like you were slipping through his fingers—like maybe, if he held on tight enough, he could keep you here, keep you his.

His hands moved to your shoulders, to your arms, to your sides—like he was memorizing the shape of you, tracing every inch like a cartographer afraid of losing his only map. Like if he let go, even for a second, he’d forget the way you fit against him, the way your body felt beneath his touch.

It was messy, clumsy even, both of you fumbling in the half-dark, driven by something deeper than desire. This wasn’t about lust—it never had been. It was about this, about being here, about carving each other into your skin, into your bones, into the very fabric of existence before the universe could rip you apart.

Stiles pressed his forehead against yours, panting, his fingers tangling in your hair as if to ground himself. “I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t want this to be the only time.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words settle into your ribs, feeling the ache of them. Because you didn’t either. God, you didn’t.

But it would be.

Because you were dying.

You both knew it, but neither of you said it.

Instead, you reached for him, pulling him closer, hands slipping beneath the fabric of his hoodie, fingers brushing against warm, trembling skin. Stiles shuddered beneath your touch, but he didn’t stop you. He wanted this. Wanted you.

“I love you,” he whispered, and it sounded like a confession and a plea all at once.

You exhaled shakily. “I love you too.”

And for a little while, there was nothing but the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet sighs, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either. It was desperate, needed, something inevitable that had always been meant to happen but never had—until now.

He held you like you were something precious, like you were something fragile. You held him like he was your only lifeline, your last tether to a world that was slipping away too quickly.

And when it was over, when you were tangled together in the sheets, your chest rising and falling in time with his, he didn’t let go. Didn’t move.

Stiles just held you, arms locked around your waist, his face buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His grip was tight—too tight, like he was trying to keep you here through sheer willpower alone.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

So you just lay there, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, letting it lull you into something close to peace. And for now—for this moment—you let yourself believe that forever was real.

Even if forever was only tonight.

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the two of you like a heavy, unshakable fog. Stiles' arms remained locked around you, his fingers tangled in your hair, his body curled into yours as if he could shield you from something neither of you had the power to stop. And maybe he really thought he could. Maybe he believed that if he just held on tightly enough, if he just loved you hard enough, he could rewrite fate.

But fate had never been kind.

Your fingers ghosted over his spine, slow and featherlight, tracing each vertebra like you were etching him into memory. As if remembering the shape of him, the feel of his breath against your skin, the way his heart still beat so stubbornly beneath his ribs—so alive—would be enough to keep you tethered here. But you both knew it wouldn’t.

Nothing would.

"You have to let go," you whispered, your voice as fragile as glass, sharp with the kind of grief that dug into the marrow of your bones.

His entire body tensed. "No."

"Stiles."

"I said no," he snapped, and this time his voice cracked like something shattering apart, like a dam breaking under too much pressure. His hands curled around your waist, clutching, fingers digging into your skin, as if he was afraid you'd vanish right in front of him.

You swallowed hard. "I don’t want to go either."

"Then don’t," he pleaded, and the way his voice trembled made something inside you ache so violently it nearly stole your breath.

You turned your head slightly, pressing your lips against his temple, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth of him, the life that you’d never get to have. "You know I don’t have a choice."

His whole body shook. He let out a breathy, choked laugh, one that held no humour—only bitterness, only the kind of grief that burned from the inside out. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I know."

He didn’t loosen his grip. Not yet. He just held on, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in like he could keep you if he just remembered every detail—your scent, your warmth, the way your fingers trembled against his back.

But you both knew memory wasn’t enough.

Slowly, painfully, you pulled back, just far enough to see his face. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, filled with the kind of pain that left scars in its wake.

And he was crying.

Stiles never cried in front of you.

Something inside you fractured, your own pain unravelling like a loose thread in the seams of your already fragile heart. You reached up, cupping his face, brushing away the tears that slipped down his cheeks. He let you. Didn’t flinch, didn’t turn away. He just let you.

"I don’t know how to do this without you," he admitted, voice so quiet it was nearly lost beneath the sound of your breathing. "I don’t—I don’t want to."

Your chest tightened like a vice, your own breath shuddering out in uneven, broken exhales. "You have to."

He shook his head fiercely, his fingers trembling where they gripped you. "No. I don’t have to do anything."

But you both knew that was a lie.

So instead of answering, instead of arguing, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was different this time. Slow. Lingering. A goodbye in the form of lips pressed to lips, a silent promise of love that couldn’t outlast time, no matter how much you both wished it could. And the moment he realized it, the moment he felt it, Stiles broke.

A soft, choked sound escaped him as he kissed you back, but this time, he wasn’t trying to hold you here. This time, he was letting you go.

When you pulled away, his hands remained on your face, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, as if he was memorizing the way you felt beneath his fingertips.

"I should take you back," he whispered, but his hands weren’t moving, his body wasn’t shifting away from you. He wasn’t ready.

Neither were you.

But time didn’t wait for love.

You nodded, even though it felt like signing your own death sentence. "Okay."

The car ride was quiet. Not peaceful—never peaceful—just heavy. The kind of silence that crushed rather than comforted, that dug into the spaces between your ribs and made it hard to breathe.

Stiles gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, like if he let go for even a second, everything would fall apart. His jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin, unsteady line. He didn’t look at you. Not once. Because if he did, he might not be able to go through with this.

When he pulled up in front of the hospital, he didn’t move. Neither did you.

For a long moment, you just sat there, staring at your hands in your lap, fingers trembling, body exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with your illness.

You didn’t want to open the door.

Didn’t want to leave.

But you had to.

You turned to him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, the way the streetlights cast golden shadows across his skin. You committed everything to memory—the messy strands of his hair, the freckles dotting his nose, the way his lips parted just slightly, like he was about to say something but couldn’t quite force the words out.

"Hey," you whispered.

He swallowed hard but finally, finally, turned to face you.

You forced a smile, even though it hurt. "I’ll see you later, okay?"

His throat bobbed as he tried to speak, but no sound came out. His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his breathing shaky and uneven. And then, after a long pause, he nodded.

A lie.

You both knew it.

You leaned over, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before reaching for the door handle. The night air hit you like a slap, cold and empty, wrapping around you like a cruel whisper of everything you were leaving behind.

You hesitated at the door, looking back one last time.

Stiles still hadn’t moved. His grip on the wheel was so tight his hands were shaking, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, like if he didn’t look at you, maybe you wouldn’t really be gone.

Maybe this wouldn’t really be goodbye.

But it was.

And by the time he worked up the courage to turn his head, to reach for you—

You were already gone.

~

Stiles still dreams about that night.

It never changes.

It always starts the same way—the weight of your warmth lingering in his arms, the ghost of your lips still pressed against his, the distant hum of the streetlights buzzing overhead. His hands on the wheel, gripping it so hard his bones might snap, his breath uneven, his pulse a drumbeat of don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.

And you.

Opening the door, stepping into the cold, leaving behind nothing but the scent of hospital antiseptic and something uniquely you, something he can never quite describe but will chase for the rest of his life.

He watches you walk away, because he has to. Because if he so much as twitches, if he so much as breathes in the wrong direction, he knows he’ll run after you.

And then, just when his chest cracks open from the weight of it all, when his lungs burn and his mind screams what the hell are you doing?—

He finally turns his head.

He reaches for you.

He opens his mouth to call your name—

But you’re already gone.

And that’s when he wakes up.

Every single time.

~

Stiles hates himself.

Not in the way most people do, not in the passing, self-deprecating, ugh, I’m the worst kind of way. Not in the way he used to joke about before his world caved in on itself and took you with it.

No—this is deeper. This is rotting.

This is self-loathing carved into his ribs, splintered beneath his skin like shrapnel from a war he lost long before he even realized he was fighting.

He hates himself for not looking back soon enough.

For letting you walk away.

For letting you go back to that sterile, colourless, too-bright place alone, knowing full well you’d never step outside again.

He could have been there.

Should have been there.

Should have driven you back, held your hand all the way to your room, sat in that uncomfortable plastic chair beside your bed and stayed. Should have let the weight of sleep take him with his fingers still intertwined with yours, waiting—hoping—that maybe, just maybe, there’d be another tomorrow.

But he didn’t.

Because he was hurting too.

Because he didn’t know how to sit at your bedside, knowing he’d never see you open your eyes again.

Because he was selfish.

So he let you go.

And you never came back.

~

The call came in the morning.

His dad had woken him up—soft, careful, like he already knew. And maybe he did. Maybe it was written all over Stiles’ face, in the dark circles beneath his eyes, in the way his hands had been shaking for months, in the way he had been coming undone ever since you told him the truth.

"It happened in the middle of the night," they said. "Unexpected."

Unexpected.

The word made him want to laugh, made him want to scream, made him want to put his fist through a wall just so he could feel something else.

How could it have been unexpected?

You had been dying from the moment they diagnosed you.

From the moment you whispered it to him in the dark, your voice thin and fragile like the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch before the wind finally took it.

From the moment he kissed you like you were something eternal, knowing damn well eternity wasn’t something either of you could have.

But still.

He should have been there.

Should have stayed.

Should have whispered all the things he still had inside of him, still needed to say.

But he hadn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he had left you to die alone.

~

Some nights, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, going over every single second of that night, the way one wrong decision had led him here, to this absence of you that he can’t ever escape.

What if he had stayed?

What if he had just asked you—begged you—to stay with him a little longer?

What if he had been braver?

Would you have lasted another day? Another hour?

Would he have at least had the chance to say goodbye properly?

He’ll never know.

And that’s the worst part.

The not knowing.

The endless loop of what ifs carving themselves into his ribs like tally marks, like a prison sentence that will never end.

~

Your funeral is unbearable.

The sky is gray, bloated with clouds, thick with the scent of rain that never quite comes. The kind of sky that feels like it’s waiting for something.

The flowers are all wrong. Too bright, too vibrant, too full of life for something so empty. The murmured condolences, the hushed voices, the weight of all the people who didn’t know you like he did—it’s suffocating.

But worst of all is the silence.

The heavy, crushing kind. The kind that presses against his skull, fills his lungs like water, drowns him in the reality of it all.

You're gone.

You’re not coming back.

And this—this cold hole in the earth, this casket covered in roses that don’t belong to you—this is all that’s left.

Stiles doesn’t cry.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

But because if he starts, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop.

So instead, he just stands there. Hands clenched into fists. Teeth sinking into his tongue. Watching as they lower you into the ground, as they cover you in dirt, as they take the last piece of you he had left.

He thinks about how wrong this is.

How you should have had more time.

How this shouldn’t have been the first and last time you ever got to love each other like that.

How he should have been there.

How he should have held your hand.

Should have whispered to you that you weren’t alone.

Should have told you that he loved you one last time.

But he didn’t.

And now all he has left is regret.

Regret, and the unbearable weight of knowing that for the rest of his life—

You will always be the greatest thing he ever had, and the greatest thing he ever lost.

Stiles doesn’t remember driving to your place.

One second, he’s staring at the ceiling of his room, feeling like his body is just an empty shell, like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. And the next, he’s standing in your doorway, blinking against the sharp sting in his eyes, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

Your room looks exactly the same.

The bed is still unmade, the blankets rumpled from the last time you slept in them, as if you might come back at any moment and crawl beneath them again. Your clothes are still scattered across the floor, half-folded laundry left forgotten on your desk. There’s a mug on your nightstand, long since gone cold, a book flipped open to the last page you read.

It’s like stepping into a moment frozen in time.

Except you’re not here.

You’ll never be here again.

The realization slams into him like a freight train, stealing the air from his lungs, making his legs buckle. He collapses onto your bed, his fingers clutching at the sheets, his body curling in on itself as a sob wrenches free from his throat.

And then he breaks.

He cries like he hasn’t let himself cry before.

Not at the funeral, not when he got the call, not even when he sat in his car gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands went numb.

But here, surrounded by you, by the pieces of your life you left behind, by the scent of you still clinging to the pillows—he can’t hold it in anymore.

He sobs until his chest aches, until his throat is raw, until he’s gasping between shuddering breaths, curled into your blankets like they might somehow hold you, like if he just stays here long enough, you’ll come back.

But you won’t.

And the silence that follows is deafening.

~

It’s on the third day that he finds it.

He hasn’t left your bed in nearly seventy-two hours. The room is dim, the blinds still half-drawn, the world outside moving forward even though his own has come to a screeching halt. His eyes are swollen, his body drained, exhaustion pressing heavy against him like a weight he can’t shake.

He doesn’t know why he finally moves. Maybe it’s desperation. Maybe it’s some last-ditch effort to find you in something, somewhere.

Or maybe it’s just fate.

His fingers tremble as he pulls open the top drawer of your desk, sifting through old papers, notebooks, half-written letters you never sent.

And then he sees it.

A folded envelope with his name written across the front in your handwriting, slightly smudged, like you’d hesitated before sealing it.

For a moment, he just stares at it.

It’s not possible.

You’re gone. You can’t have left something for him. You can’t have known.

But you did.

His breath catches as he slowly picks it up, his fingers shaking so hard he nearly drops it. The paper is slightly crinkled, the ink slightly faded, but it’s real. It’s you.

And it was meant for him.

He swallows, throat tight, chest aching as he carefully peels it open. The letter inside is short. Simple. But it’s everything.

Stiles,

I don’t know when you’ll read this. I don’t even know if you ever will. But if you are—then I guess I didn’t get the chance to say everything I wanted to.

I wanted to thank you. For being my best friend. For loving me, even when I wasn’t always easy to love. For making me laugh when everything felt too heavy. For just being you.

I’m sorry.

I know this is going to hurt. And I wish I could make it easier. I wish I could promise you that it won’t always feel like this, that one day you’ll wake up and it won’t feel like the world is missing a piece. But I don’t know if that’s true.

All I know is that I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. And if there’s anything after this—anything at all—I’ll still love you there, too.

Always.

P.S. Please don’t let this destroy you. I need to believe that you’ll keep going. That you’ll be happy. Even without me.

Because you deserve that, Stiles. You always did.

The letter slips from his fingers, landing softly in his lap.

And Stiles—who thought he had no tears left, who thought he had already cried every last sob, who thought the pain couldn’t possibly get worse—feels something inside him shatter.

Because even in death, you’re still trying to take care of him.

Even when you were the one who was leaving, the one who had to be scared, the one who had to say goodbye—you were still thinking about him.

And now, all he has left of you are these words.

And they’re not enough.

They’ll never be enough.

Stiles tears through your room like a man drowning, grasping at anything that might keep him afloat.

He’s desperate—desperate in a way that turns his hands frantic, his breath short, his mind racing with the unbearable certainty that he’s already lost too much, and if he doesn’t find something—one more piece of you, one more sliver of your existence that he hasn’t seen before—then he might just break apart completely.

It feels like losing you all over again.

Because everything in this room is a reminder of what’s gone.

Your scent still lingers on the pillows, faint but there, like an echo of your presence, teasing him with the cruel illusion that if he just closes his eyes, he might feel you beside him again. Your desk is still cluttered with half-finished things—books left open to pages you’ll never turn, a coffee cup with your fingerprints still smudged against the ceramic, a sweater draped over your chair that you’ll never pull over your head again.

It’s like you just stepped out for a moment. Like you might walk back in, laughing at the mess he’s making, rolling your eyes and calling him a disaster.

But you won’t.

And he knows that.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

So he keeps searching.

Tearing open drawers, flipping through notebooks, pulling clothes from hangers, his fingers shaking so hard he can barely grip anything. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. All he knows is that he needs more.

Because that one letter—those few words on crinkled paper, that final goodbye you left him—can’t be the last thing of yours that he gets to hold in his hands.

It’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

His breath is uneven, his throat raw from crying, but he doesn’t stop. He ransacks every inch of your room like a thief in the night, desperate and reckless, searching for some hidden part of you that you left behind, something that can tether him to you just a little longer.

And then—

Then he finds it.

A box.

Small. Worn around the edges.

Tucked away at the back of your closet, half-hidden beneath old sweaters and forgotten belongings, as if it had been placed there with the quiet hope that one day—someday—he would find it.

His hands shake as he pulls it out.

The lid is slightly dusty, the weight of it heavier than it should be, as if it’s carrying something more than just paper and ink. As if it’s holding pieces of a heart that once beat just for him.

He lifts the lid.

And his breath catches.

Letters.

Stacks of them.

Folded notes, torn pages from journals, crumpled receipts with tiny scribbles in the margins, napkins covered in half-finished thoughts, post-it notes stuck together in clumps. Some are neatly written, carefully folded with the kind of deliberate care that spoke of meaning. Others are rushed, hurried, like you’d needed to get the words down before they slipped away.

And they’re all for him.

Every single one.

~

The first letter is dated years ago. Before you were even friends. Before he even knew you existed the way you knew him.

His hands tremble as he unfolds it.

Stiles,

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. You barely know I exist. But I see you. Every day. And I think you might be the best person I’ve ever met, even if you don’t know it.

You’re loud. You never shut up. You ramble about everything, and I don’t think your brain has an ‘off’ switch. And somehow, it’s my favorite thing about you.

I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could say any of this out loud. But for now, I’ll just keep writing it down.

The ink is slightly smudged, as if you had hesitated before finishing, as if the weight of your own feelings had been too much even then.

His chest aches as he reaches for another.

This one, from months later.

Stiles,

You talked to me today. Do you remember? Probably not. It was just one small conversation, nothing important, nothing that will stick in your memory. But it meant something to me.

You asked if I had a pencil. I gave you one. It was my favorite one, actually. But I didn’t care. Because for those few seconds, I had your attention.

God, I sound pathetic.

But I think I might already love you.

His breath shudders out of him.

The words blur on the page, his vision swimming, but he keeps reading.

Letter after letter.

Your first impressions of him. The first time you realized you had feelings for him. The first time he made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe. Tiny moments that were probably insignificant to him at the time but monumental to you.

And then—later.

When you were together.

Stiles,

Sometimes I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine.

I don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t know how the universe decided to give me you.

But I’m so, so grateful.

(Even if you do steal all the blankets. You menace.)

He laughs. A broken, choked sound that barely escapes his lips.

But then—

Then the letters change.

The handwriting is the same. But the words feel different.

The tone shifts.

There’s still love. But there’s something else, too. Something raw. Something terrified.

Stiles,

I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to leave you.

I don’t want to.

God, I don’t want to.

But if I have to—if this is how it ends—I just need you to know that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.

And I wish we had more time.

His chest aches.

His fingers tighten around the paper, his heart shattering into pieces so small he doesn’t know how he’ll ever put them back together.

Because this—this is everything you never got the chance to say out loud.

This is proof of how much you loved him. How much you always had.

Even when you were scared. Even when you knew your time was running out.

And now—

Now, these letters are all he has left of you.

These crumpled pages, these ink-stained words, these scattered thoughts you never said out loud.

This is you.

And it will never be enough.

But he will hold onto them anyway.

Because they are the only pieces of you he has left.

And he can’t bear to let you go.

Stiles grows older.

Not in the way some people do, where time gently dulls the edges of grief like waves smoothing out jagged stone. No, Stiles ages like an open wound—slowly, painfully, never truly healing, just scabbing over in thin, fragile layers that break open at the slightest touch.

Because grief isn’t something he moves through. It’s something he lives in.

It settles into his bones like an old, unwelcome tenant, curling in the spaces between his ribs, winding its fingers around his lungs until every breath feels just a little too tight. He carries it with him like a phantom limb, a part of him that no one else can see but that he feels constantly.

And he carries you with him, too. Always.

At first, it was everything. Every single thing of yours he could get his hands on. He became ravenous for it, desperate, like a drowning man clawing at driftwood—because if he could just hold onto you, in any way, maybe he wouldn’t sink.

He wanted your hoodies, the ones that smelled like you, the ones you used to drown in, sleeves pulled over your hands, your laughter spilling out from inside them. He wanted your notebooks, the ones filled with your scribbled thoughts, your ideas, the stupid doodles in the corners of the pages, the pieces of you that still existed in ink and paper.

He wanted the CDs you left in his car, the ones you insisted were better than his music taste, the ones that still skipped in the exact same places where you'd played them too many times. He wanted the little things, the stray bobby pins, the broken headphones, the receipts you shoved into his glovebox without thinking.

Anything.

Everything.

And when your parents started packing up your room, started folding up your life into boxes marked for donation, he begged them.

No, he fought for you.

Spent entire nights outside your house, screaming through the door, pleading, please, please don’t throw him away.

They didn’t understand. They thought holding onto your things would keep them stuck in grief. But for Stiles, holding on was the only way he knew how to survive.

So he begged.

Sobbed in the driveway, his body shaking, his voice hoarse, his dad gripping his arms and dragging him away because he wouldn’t leave on his own. Because he couldn’t.

And even after all that, he still lost most of you.

Because they couldn’t stand the reminders.

Because they needed to let go.

But Stiles—Stiles couldn’t.

So he took what little he could get.

And he kept it.

Every hoodie. Every dog-eared book with your handwriting in the margins. Every crumpled note you ever left him, even the ones that just said be back in five or you left your jacket at my place.

Because if he let go of those things, if he let you slip away again, he might not have it in him to stay from you any longer.

~

Years pass.

And he knows it’s stupid.

Knows he should have moved on. Should have stitched himself back together, let the wound scar over, learned how to exist without feeling like something is missing every time he takes a breath.

But this is Stiles.

Overthinking, ever-loving, never-letting-go Stiles.

He doesn’t know how to let go of you.

Doesn’t want to.

Because if he does, who else will remember?

Your parents stopped saying your name out loud years ago.

Your friends moved on. Got married. Had kids. Kept living.

And the world—God, the world—kept spinning like it didn’t even notice you were gone.

Stiles is terrified that if he stops holding on, if he loosens his grip for even a second, you’ll disappear for real.

Not just in the way that means your body is buried in the ground.

But in the way that means you’ll fade from memory.

That the exact shape of your laughter will become a sound he has to guess at. That the color of your eyes will blur at the edges, shifting into something almost right but not quite.

That your voice—God, your voice—will slip away like sand through his fingers.

And if that happens—

If he loses the last pieces of you—

What reason will he have to stay?

Stiles keeps getting older.

But it doesn’t feel like growth. It doesn’t feel like time is sweeping him forward, gently shepherding him toward healing, toward new memories, toward a future that doesn’t have your absence carved into every second.

It feels like drifting.

Like being stuck in the deep end of a pool, treading water until his muscles give out. Like watching the world move past him through the wrong end of a telescope, everything getting further and further away while he stays exactly where you left him.

Everyone else has moved on.

Scott, Lydia, Malia—they found a way to keep living. They built new lives, new loves, futures with meaning, with laughter, with purpose. They smile in the kind of way that reaches their eyes. They talk about you sometimes, in hushed voices or wistful sighs, but for them, you are a beautiful, bittersweet memory.

For Stiles, you are every breath he takes.

You are in every shadow that stretches too long, in every song that catches him off guard, in every quiet, stolen moment where the world slows just enough to remind him of what’s missing.

And he’s so, so tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, because this exhaustion isn’t in his muscles—it’s in his bones, in his heart, in the marrow of him. It’s an ache, a dull and endless weight, a fog that never quite lifts.

He wakes up every day into a world that doesn’t have you in it.

And that’s the part that never gets easier.

~

He still has your things.

They sit in a box at the back of his closet, old and worn and untouched but never forgotten.

He never could bring himself to get rid of them. Not even the smallest things—the half-empty bottle of your favourite chapstick, the keychain you left in his car, the pen you used to chew on absently while thinking, the stupid movie ticket stubs from that night you both thought the world would keep spinning for the two of you.

Sometimes, he stands in front of that closet with his hand on the door, breathing heavy, heart pounding, thinking, maybe today is the day I finally let go.

And then his fingers tighten. And his stomach knots. And his lungs forget how to take in air.

And he walks away.

Because letting go doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like erasure.

Like wiping away the last evidence that you were here at all.

Like losing you all over again.

And he can’t.

Because if he does—if he lets you slip away, if there’s nothing left of you in this world except his memories—then what’s keeping him here?

~

The worst part is how easy it would be.

He’s thought about it.

More times than he’ll ever admit.

And it’s not that he wants to die. Not exactly. Not in the way that makes people leave notes, makes people plan things out, makes people whisper about them in hushed voices when they’re gone.

It’s just that living without you is exhausting.

It’s like walking through a world that’s missing all its color, like moving through a life that isn’t really his anymore, like everything that once felt solid has turned to smoke in his hands.

And sometimes, the idea of just stopping—of letting go, of slipping under, of not having to fight anymore—sounds so, so tempting.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows what it feels like to be the one left behind.

Knows what it’s like to sit in a room filled with ghosts, with memories so thick they choke you. Knows what it’s like to wake up in a world that feels permanently less, to sit in the aftermath of someone else’s absence and wonder how you’re supposed to keep breathing when they’re gone.

And he can’t do that to the people who love him.

Can’t make his dad get that phone call.

Can’t make Scott sit through another funeral.

Can’t make Lydia stand in the cold, watching another casket go into the ground.

So he stays.

Not because he wants to.

But because he has to.

Because even though you were his reason for staying once, and that reason is gone, he refuses to let his absence be someone else’s grief.

~

Life keeps moving.

Whether he wants it to or not.

The years stack up like old books in a forgotten library, collecting dust, their stories unread. He gets older. Watches his friends get married, have kids, build lives for themselves. He pretends it doesn’t hurt.

Pretends he doesn’t still feel eighteen, still frozen in that moment, still gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, watching you walk away and not knowing it was the last time.

Pretends he doesn’t think about you every single day.

Eventually, people stop asking if he’s okay.

Eventually, he stops pretending that he is.

And he just… exists.

Not happy. Not really sad, either. Just… there.

Like a ghost that never got the chance to haunt the person they lost.

Like a shadow of someone who used to be whole.

And maybe, in the end, that’s all grief really is.

Not something you get over.

Not something you heal from.

Not something you don't carry.

Even when it makes your knees buckle.

Even when it makes your hands shake.

Even when it turns your whole world into a before and after.

Even when the only thing you can do is wake up every morning and keep going.

Even when you don’t know why.

just started watching “The OC” today and oh my god Seth Cohen is basically the rich and curly version of Stiles.

i love him so much.

"does this mean I can be your boyfriend again?" he asks against the skin of your neck, your eyes squeeze shut as you try to form a coherent answer.

"S-stiles-"

“Let me be your boyfriend again, I miss it so much.”

a small snippet of an one-shot I'm currently writing :3

I wish Tumblr would put a saving option for posts like IG or Tik Tok, so that I could save fics and re-read them when I want to 😫😭

“uh…ok. how many drinks would it take, y/n?”

ZERO. FUCKING ZERO.

how many drinks?

stiles stilinski x fem!reader NSFW

a dirty lunchroom hypothetical gets stiles hot and bothered. hopefully no one notices the suspicious placement of his hands over his crotch, especially not you.

word count: 2.8K  read time: 10min

warnings & info: nothing is in canon, everyone is probably ooc, pining, crushing!stiles, masturbation, spice, other suggestive nonsense

<_______>

“stiles, how many drinks would you have to down to fuck me?” you ask matter-of-factly, turning your head to meet your sentence’s subject from across your full lunch table.

“i said about twelve shots, at least,” scott states passively from your left side, not bothering to look up from his biology textbook.

“and i said, you don’t count. you couldn’t get drunk if you tried,” you sneer back. you turn your eyes back to stiles’s amber ones. “then lydia said like, five. i mean we’ve made out at parties before so…” you trail off with a sinful smile, exposing both your palms in the act of confession.

“i thought that was our little secret, y/n!” lydia feigns indignation at your right side, turning her head away from her boyfriend to pout her red lips at you in an exaggerated manner.

“when have you guys made out at a party?” jackson asks, almost licking his lips with excitement.

“you’re lucky she doesn’t swing that way, or it wouldn’t have just stopped at making out,” you snipe back. jackson’s face seems to loose all color at this sentiment and lydia rolls her eyes at you as she begins to reassure him in a quieter tone. you couldn’t stand his consistent pattern of insecurity, as evident by you asking such a personal question to your entire friend group in the middle of the lunch period, without a care in the world.

stiles is grateful that this bickering exchange took place quicker than he could answer your question. he’s also grateful that he’d already finished eating and naturally placed his hands in a clasp over his lap. he hadn’t realized how helpful that position would become, as he feels his blood rushing downward, something he was unfortunately used to happening around you.

there was the first time he saw you in a bikini at one of lydia’s summer parties. he was already in the pool when you came out of her house in the hot pink number and thus became trapped. unless he wanted to expose his aching hard-on to his entire friend group, (which was barely concealed under the paper-thin fabric of his fucking neon green swim trunks), he thought it’d be best to just stay in the water until he felt he could control himself. 

that time didn’t come until two hours later when you’d finally decided to change back into your clothes in lydia’s room. after cursing at himself for conjuring that mental image, (which did not help the uncomfortable throb of his too-hard cock), he finally went soft enough to get out of the damn pool and dry off. that was the day he crossed swimming off the list of activities he could do in your presence.

another time, stiles had tagged along with you and lydia as you went homecoming dress shopping. it was supposed to be a lot bigger of a group, but melissa had grounded scott for whatever indiscretion he’d committed that week, jackson had a mandatory family thing, allison & issac had opted out of hoco that year, the twins skipped town for a few days, all of your girlfriends were busy and all of lydia’s scoffed at her when she suggested buying a dress from the mall instead of a luxury boutique. 

lydia had disappeared into the jewelry section for a comical amount of time and then it was just you, modeling dress after dress for stiles. his jaw was clenched as he tried his best to keep his gaze focused on friend-appropriate areas of your body and will the blood to drain from his cock, which was poking uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans. 

you’d exited the changing room in a form-fitting red dress that ended just past your knees with a problem that stiles knew would further his arousal; you couldn’t zip your dress up on your own.

you’d easily let him inside the enclosed space, shooting down his dazed protests that he was pretty sure this store’s staff wouldn’t approve of two teenagers in a closed changing room together. you’d gathered your hair to one side and turned around, and stiles had felt all the air leave his lungs. 

this dress’s zipper started at your tailbone so the entirety of your back was exposed to him, causing his erection to pulse, almost painfully now. he approached you slowly, his hands shaking as one of them gripped the tiny metallic zipper. he placed the other one’s open, sweaty palm on the fabric over your shoulder, being careful to not grip down. as he started to tug on the zipper it was giving him a lot more resistance than he expected. 

you ordered him to stand closer and pull harder, as the dress was tight and wouldn’t close easily. stiles had complied and tried his best to keep his brain from melting out of his ears at this entirely unexpected close contact. he had been even less successful at keeping the precum from leaking from his cock, which was now screaming at him to close the short distance between you two. when the dress was finally zipped up and you turned to face him, his face was bright red and he breathlessly excused himself to the bathroom.

stiles needed a release and couldn’t wait until he got back home; this shopping trip was already hours long and he couldn’t stand to be this hard around you for even another second. so he dropped his pants in the first open stall he saw and wrapped his shaking hand around his cock, pumping desperately. 

he pictured that silver zipper moving in reverse, downwards, and then the dress being removed entirely, forgotten on his bedroom floor as he explored more of your skin than he’d ever seen before. he came nauseatingly quickly, in one thick spurt that he’d actually had the forethought to aim into the toilet. 

as he came down from his rushed orgasm, stiles gave himself a few more slow pumps from his well-experienced right hand and it finally dawned on him how pathetically perverted he was. that he had to resort to jacking off in the stall of a mall restroom to be able to function around you for the rest of the day. he’d vowed never to go shopping with you again.

“i’d say i’d need a solid seven or so,” allison muses, clearly giving the prospect some thought, “if it weren’t for him, obviously,” she smiles sweetly at her boyfriend’s brooding figure.

“my girlfriend is a connoisseur of deadly weapons, so i’m staying out of this,” issac continues modestly, leaning in to kiss allison on the cheek. the gesture is sweet but also definitively off topic, so you turn your gaze to the twins.

“sweetheart, if i could get drunk, i’d need to be blackout to sleep with you. i haven’t looked at a girl since i discovered young leo dicaprio in like, the fourth grade,” ethan retorts playfully.

“if i could get drunk, i’d only need like, three drinks to fuck you,” aiden chimes in boldly, wagging his eyebrows suggestively at you. you deadpan at him.

“that wouldn’t count even if you weren’t a werewolf; you’d fuck anything with a pulse and two X chromosomes,” you drawl venomously. for the upteenth time, you turn your eyes back to stiles.

“stiles, please. you’re the only guy at this table that isn’t taken or a cursed-to-be-sober werewolf. how many shots would you have to take to fuck me? i’m just curious; i won’t be offended if the answer is like, fifty,” you chuckle.

stiles chuckles as well, for an entirely different reason. his dick is rock-hard in his sweatpants and you think it might take him fifty shots to want to fuck you? now that’s laughable.

of course, he can’t tell you the real answer, which is a resounding zero. he would want to fuck you after a night of blissful sleep, completely stone-cold sober, at nine o’clock in the morning but if he said that you’d almost certainly sic the literal pack of wolves at this table on him. he searches his mind for an acceptable number of drinks that would make it ok for him to reveal he wants to fuck you when his friends suddenly chime in, their comments snowballing into an avalanche that threatens to bury stiles alive.

“come on stiles, y/n’s hot. surely it wouldn’t take that many,” lydia goads in a sing-song voice.

oh i’m aware that y/n is hot. i’m so aware, lydia, that most nights i moan her name out loud as i cum into my hand.

“yeah, you’re a teenage boy. all teenage boys are stupidly horny,” allison chimes in, backing up her friend as she shoots wild eyes at issac, clearly aware of this trait in her own boyfriend.

all teenage boys are stupidly horny, allison, and i am stupidly horny for y/n, thanks for seeing right through me.

“that’s true,” issac concurs with a mischievous smile.

“can’t argue with that,” scott agrees with a slight nod.

“glad i’m not the only one,” aiden jokes with a smirk.

“so, stiles, you gonna answer or just sit there like an idiot?” jackson quips, his confidence clearly recovered from the verbal blow you dealt him earlier. stiles’s eyes narrow.

“are you gonna answer jackson?” stiles spits. he knows that comment is a low blow considering his girlfriend is practically sitting on top of him but he’s desperate to turn the attention away from himself.

“y/n’s not my type. i prefer redheads,” jackson pinches lydia’s hip and leans in to kiss her, ending his participation in this discussion.

“and thank god for that because i don’t understand why lydia doesn’t find him repulsive,” you reply, returning your eye contact with stiles. “i’ll tell you how many drinks it’d take me to fuck you, stiles, if that’ll help,” you continue slyly.

stiles’s heart begins to race at just the thought of there being a bar to cross that might get you to fuck him. his mouth has gone too dry to speak, which actually isn’t too much of a problem because his brain is entirely drawing blanks as to how to respond to the most terrifying, wonderful sentence you’ve ever said to him.

“uh…ok. how many drinks would it take, y/n?” stiles finally asks in the most even, non-desperate tone his perverted mind can muster in this moment. whatever the answer is, as soon as the lunch bell rings he will be racing to the nearest bathroom to relieve himself over it. precum is already sliding down his agonizingly erect tip and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to start stroking himself through his sweatpants right then and there.

“hmm,” you hum, your eyes raking over stiles in an analytical manner. your friends are all only half-listening now, with most of them breaking off into separate, two-person conversations on the side. stiles has your undivided attention and he’s probably the only person who will remember your answer to this question anyways.

“i’d say i’d need like six shots and a few beers in me to try and fuck you, stiles,” you say with indifference. an awfully specific answer, but stiles’s mind is already delusionally spiralling. you could be quite the heavy drinker at parties and you’d easily clear that many at one of lydia’s house parties. what would happen if he actually tried? is this just a hypothetical? or is this a legitimate bar to cross?

“why that many?” stiles squeaks out, trying not to sound desperate.

“i don’t know,” you shake your head and keep your gaze fixed on a spot far away, above stiles’s head, “i mean, you’re cute and all dude, don’t get me wrong. but you’re pretty awkward. if i wanted to fuck up our whole friend group dynamic i’d have to be drunk enough to not remember all the bad jokes you’d probably make,” you explain evenly, ending with a snort.

stiles’s ears are ringing. he can’t decide which emotion is more intense; the deep, swooning pride swelling in his chest at the ‘cute’ comment or the pit-in-his-stomach embarrassment at the ‘awkward’ comment. he’s also still impossibly hard, which adds an extra level of confusion to the emotion of cocktails brewing in his addled mind.

“that’s fair,” he responds somewhat softly. giving that you just gave him an incredibly detailed answer that he was trying not to etch into the walls of his mind as a tutorial for later, he finally feels confident enough to try to answer back.

“i think i’d need about the same,” he starts, his voice betraying him with a crack on the last syllable. he pauses, before deciding to be bold; “probably a few less though. i am a horny teenage boy, after all,”

“true true. so let’s go with like, 5 shots even, then?” you ask with a dazzling smile that somehow makes stiles’s knees weak even though he’s seated.

“yeah,” he nods sheepishly, his dick throbbing along with the movement of his head. if he doesn’t get his hand wrapped around himself in the next few minutes, he might just cum in his pants. the images of you letting him fuck you after a booze-filled party is almost too much to bear. and then, as if god himself wanted to give him an out, the bell rings.

“y/n you are seriously strange. i don’t know how you come up with these questions,” lydia asks with a disgusted look on her face, as the entire group stands and collects their things to leave.

“yeah how’d we even get on the topic in the first place?” scott asks.

“we were talking about lydia’s party this weekend and then about some of the worst things we’ve done while drunk. then allison said she tried to hook up with a friend while she was drunk once like a year ago and that prompted me to ask how many drinks it’d take all of us to hook up with each other,” you rattled off, grabbing your backpack and your ridiculously large, pink metal water bottle.

“oh yeah the party this weekend,” aiden interjects loudly. “well i guess we’ll have to put your theory to the test, huh stiles?” he claps stiles on the shoulder, sending an unpleasant lurch through his already on-edge body. aiden is the last person he wants to be touching him right now, as he holds a large notebook in front of his crotch and prepares to make a beeline for the bathroom, lest he blow his load right now onto this poor college-ruled writing apparatus.

“what theory?” he manages to question in a low voice that’s thick with lust. aiden doesn’t notice and continues.

“the drink theory! you and y/n are both single. lets see if she’ll really fuck you after a couple of shots,” he finishes devilishly, catching the door to the lunch room from the person in front of him and holding it for you to walk through. aiden relishes in being the instigator, but it doesn’t seem to phase you.

“stiles, if we fuck this weekend, promise me it won’t ruin our friendship?” you ask in a sugary sweet voice that’s dripping with sarcasm. it doesn’t matter though. the pent-up hormones racing through stiles’s body don’t care if you’re joking or not. his cock twitches and even more precum slides down his bricked shaft. he’s seriously starting to believe that all the blood that’s supposed to be in his brain is in his dick right now. 

he weakly whispers “no promises” under his breath as he ducks into the nearest bathroom, leaving you to wonder aloud to your friends why the fuck he exited the conversation so quickly. then ethan tugs on your shirt sleeve to ask you a question about the math homework from the pre-calc class you share and your mind moves on.

stiles doesn't though.

finally. he thinks to himself as he pulls down his sweatpants and now-sticky boxers with record speed in the locked stall. the warmth of his hand around his aching cock after so many torturous minutes of it pulsing untouched in his pants almost makes him cum instantaneously.

he strokes himself furiously, finally feeling the knot in his stomach start to unwind after being driven insane by your words fueling his fantasies. he grabs a left handful of toilet paper, anticipating his sticky finish.

when he finally blows his load in strong, thick streams into the too-thin toilet paper, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to suppress the moan that so desperately wants to escape his lips. he tries to come to his senses quickly, flushing the toilet paper, pulling his pants back up and washing his hands feverishly in the sink.

as he leaves the bathroom, only one thought occupies his mind.

if y/n lets me fuck her this weekend, i’ll never complain about anything ever again.

my baby Kat 😭 I couldn't stop reading it!

The Heart Cracks Before it Shatters (Pt3) ⋆｡°✩ Bakugou Katsuki

Masterlist ୨ৎ pt1 pt2

Katsuki Goes home.

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Glitter 𐔌 𐦯 : Bakugous perspective again, alot of sad internal thoughts here. Hope you like! thank you for the support on this yall.

Warnings : Angsty, Female!Reader, Reader is a wife, Reader has children, bakugou is very sad, agruments, swearing, sadness, aged up characters, childern, babies.

W/C : ~5.8k

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Katsuki loves to cook for you. 

It was your third date, and your first time at Katsuki’s house. Though he’d never admit it, he spent hours scrubbing down his small, somewhat cramped apartment (too much money went into his car, after all). Spending an absurd amount of time considering whether or not he should hide his All Might merch, before deciding to move it into his bedroom for safe keeping. 

Your last date had been at some overpriced restaurant downtown when he’d proposed the idea. “I’ll cook for you next time,” he’d said, cocky and sure. “Show you what real food tastes like.” You had laughed, and he had raised an eyebrow, because he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t lying about his food being fucking fantastic, cause it was usually, he just didn’t anticipate that he would be acting below optimally today. 

He didn’t confront it at the time, but cooking was proving difficult from the bubbling nerves in his stomach, the knife shaking in his careful hands. He’d already restarted the dish twice—first after dropping a whole garlic clove in, then again when he over-salted the sauce. And it was all due to his shaky fucking hands. 

He settled on katsu curry, a recipe from his dad. Simple, reliable, and good enough to impress without making it obvious how much effort he was putting in. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. You’d be there in 30 minutes. His pulse spiked, though he wasn’t sure if it was excitement or nerves. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time—not for someone normal like you.

Not that he meant normal as an insult. You just weren’t a hero, or a celebrity, but you still had him hooked. And that was rare.

When he was younger he had been actively avoiding it, busy with more important things to be wasting his time on things he considered trivial. Then after, it was more he just wasn’t finding anyone that interested him, no one worth exchanging a second glance with. So now, with you, he feels like a teenager. 

It isn't until you take your first bite, when awe flashes in your eyes and you smile while you chew, that Katsuki finally feels air in his lungs and his shoulders drop.

“I’ll make you something even better next time,” he had said, and he meant it.

And he did. Over and over, he did. He liked seeing that look on your face. Liked making you happy.

Until… well. Until he stopped.

Now, he can barely remember the last time he made you and the girls a proper home-cooked meal. Maybe a year ago, when your parents came over for your birthday. He remembers the way you had come downstairs that morning, hair a little messy, eyes bright with surprise.

“Katsuki…?”

He had turned to look at you, but there was no warmth in his expression. Maybe even a flicker of annoyance.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, I…” You had laughed nervously, shifting on your feet. “Just… um. What are you cooking?”

“Katsu curry.”

“Oh!” You had moved closer, peeking over his shoulder. “Wow… it smells really good. Like always.”

And that was it. No teasing. No awe. Just a small, hesitant smile, like you weren’t sure if this was something you were allowed to be happy about.

Like it had been so long since he did something like this, you didn’t know what it meant anymore.

He chops the onion harder at the memory, the knife clinking against the cutting board from the force. In the living room, the girls are still in their pajamas, curled up on the couch despite the time. He tries to recall what you would usually do to keep them entertained on a Saturday, chopping faster with each thought, each memory that feels further away.

After an awkward breakfast of pancakes—because pancakes felt like the safe choice, and all kids like pancakes, right?—he busies himself in the kitchen, prepping soup for lunch. Something simple. Something safe. Kids need their vegetables… or something like that. He had looked up recipes online, scrolled through a dozen articles about “healthy meals for picky eaters,” and gotten to work. Because the alternative (asking his own kids what they actually like) sits like lead in his stomach. They wouldn’t think twice about the question, wouldn’t realize it’s because their own father doesn’t know their preferences.

But Katsuki would know. And his pride won’t let him admit it.

His head is already aching when a sharp scream cuts through the apartment. He whips around, eyes immediately locking onto Koharu, red-faced and wailing. Riko is at her side, whispering something soft, trying to calm her down. Would she be doing that if you were here? Would she feel like she had to?

His chest tightens.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, quickly setting the knife aside and crossing the room. He lifts Koharu into his arms, cradling her close as he gently bounces her. “What’s wrong, huh?”

Her tiny fists clutch at his shirt as the sobs shake her little body. He presses his lips to the top of her head, rubbing slow circles on her back.

“Don’t cry, baby. You’re breaking Daddy’s heart.”

His voice is softer than he thought it would be, almost pleading. He wipes the tears from her hot cheeks with the pad of his thumb, shushing her lightly. 

He rocks Koharu gently, her hiccupping sobs slowing, little hands still clutching at his shirt. He doesn’t know what set her off. Doesn’t know what usually comforts her best. When she cries like this, what do you do?

He can guess. He’s seen it, even if he never really paid attention. You’d take her into your arms without missing a beat, murmur something soft against her temple, rub slow, sure circles into her back. You’d hum, maybe sing—off-key, but the girls loved it anyway. Maybe you’d take her to the kitchen and grab her a snack, something small, something easy. Something she likes.

His stomach twists.

“I got you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her forehead, hoping the words will be enough. “I got you, baby.”

She sniffs, breathing uneven against his chest, but she’s settling. He lets out a quiet breath. It’s barely past noon, and he’s already exhausted.

Kirishima had texted earlier, checking in. Said he could swing by if Katsuki needed a break. He’d almost said yes before he caught himself. You wouldn’t get a break. You never did.

His phone buzzes again, but this time, it’s a different name.

[12:14 PM] The Hag : Don’t forget Katsuki, we’re expecting you all at dinner tonight. 

He exhales sharply through his nose. Right. Dinner at his parents’ house. You’d planned it weeks ago. 

“Your mom wants us over for dinner next Saturday,” you said, standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Your voice was soft, like you weren’t sure how he’d take it. “She says the girls need a proper meal.”

Katsuki barely looked up from his phone. “They eat just fine.”

You let out a breath, pushing your fingers against your temple. “Yeah, I know, I just—” You hesitated, chewing your lip. “She thought it’d be nice.”

There was a pause, the words lingering, like maybe there was something else you wanted to say.

He scrolled idly through his screen. “You already told her we’d go, didn’t you?”

You let out a small, tired laugh. “Yeah.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Whatever.”

Silence stretched between you, but you didn’t move. You were watching him—he could feel it, that quiet, exhausted sort of stare. He glanced up just as you shifted your weight, like you were thinking about something, like you were deciding whether or not to say it.

“…You know, you could start cooking again.”

The words were careful. Like you were testing the waters, trying not to step on a landmine.

His brow twitched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed, thumb pressing against your temple again. “It’s just…” You hesitated, voice quieter now, almost cautious. “You used to like it. Remember that?”

“I don’t have time to cook.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t say anything right away. Instead, your shoulders dropped slightly, a slow breath leaving you.

“I don’t either,” you finally murmured. “But I still do.”

There was no bite behind it. No anger. Just a fact. A quiet truth laid bare between you, almost too fragile to touch.

His eyes snapped up then, irritation flickering. “Not all of us have the luxury of free time you have.”

You flinched, just a little, but you covered it quickly, shaking your head. “No, I just…” Your fingers rubbed absently over a spot on the counter. “I just thought it’d be nice, that’s all.”

He exhaled through his nose, barely looking at you now. “Okay, then.”

You nodded, like you hadn’t expected anything more. Then, without another word, you turned back toward the sink, shoulders drawn, something weary in the way you moved.

He never cooked that week. Or the week after.

And now, standing in the kitchen with his daughters waiting in the other room, that moment hits him with a new kind of weight.

It wasn’t just about the food. It never was.

~

He cleans up the living room while the girls start getting ready to head over to grandmas, barely keeping his eyes open. 

Katsuki rubs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. His mother is going to take one look at him, at the girls, at the empty space beside him, and she’s going to know.

And she’s going to say something.

He can already hear her voice in his head. What the hell did you do this time?

Because Mitsuki Bakugou raised him. She knows every stubborn inch of him, knows exactly what kind of man he grew up to be. And she sure as hell knows you. She likes you too much not to notice the way you’ve suddenly vanished from the picture.

And if they don’t show up, if he even thinks about bailing, she’s going to lose her damn mind.

Not just because she’ll know something is off, but because she’s Mitsuki Bakugou, and the woman has no patience for bullshit. She’ll call, and when he doesn’t answer, she’ll call again. And again. And again. And if he still doesn’t pick up? She’ll just show the hell up at his front door.

A small sigh pulls him from his thoughts, and he turns to see Riko standing in the doorway.

She’s already in the dress you picked out for her weeks ago, but her face is twisted in frustration, lips pulled into a pout.

“Daddy,” she huffs, arms crossing over her chest. “I can’t do my hair.”

Katsuki blinks. “Huh?”

She groans, marching over to him and spinning around, pointing to the mess of tangles at the back of her head. “It’s all wrong.”

He stares at her. Then at her hair. Then back at her.

Oh.

Shit.

He suddenly realizes he’s never actually done her hair before.

You always did it. Every morning, without fail. Brushing it out, tying it up, pulling it into little braids or ponytails—sometimes you even put those dumb sparkly clips in it that she loved so much.

And now she’s looking at him like he’s supposed to know what to do.

He clears his throat, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh. What… do you want me to do with it?”

She lets out another dramatic sigh. “Just make it nice.”

Before he can respond, she’s already stomping off to her room, and he hesitates before following, comb in hand.

Riko plops onto the floor in front of him, and Katsuki crouches behind her, comb in hand. He squints at her hair like it’s some kind of puzzle, hesitating before dragging the comb through it.

Riko yelps. “Ow!”

Katsuki freezes. “What?”

“You yanked it!”

“I barely touched you!”

She huffs, twisting to glare up at him. “Mommy never pulls my hair.”

“Tch.” He exhales through his nose, loosening his grip. “Well, Mommy isn’t here, so quit whining and hold still.”

Riko grumbles but turns forward again, and in the mirror, she’s still glaring daggers at him. He almost smirks.

You always used to say she was a mini-him, loud and stubborn just like he was, but he’d never really seen it before. She’d always been his little princess. And sure, she’s still a princess—just one who’s currently scowling at him like she’d take him down if given the chance.

Yeah. She’s definitely his brat.

With a sigh, he works through her hair a little gentler this time, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest when he realizes how much work this actually is.

How much work you did every single day.

How much work he never even noticed.

When he finally finishes, the ponytail is a little uneven, but it’s secure. Good enough.

Riko turns, running her hands over her hair with a thoughtful expression. Then, to his surprise, she grins.

“It’s not terrible.”

He snorts. “Gee, thanks.”

She giggles, then suddenly launches forward, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Katsuki stills, caught off guard, before gently squeezing her back.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she mumbles against his shoulder.

“…Yeah.” His voice is quiet. “Anytime, bug.”

He pulls back slightly, ruffling her hair with a smirk. “Alright,” he huffs. “Let me go wake up brat number two, and then we’ll get going.”

Riko gasps, scandalized. “I’M NOT A BRAT!”

Katsuki just snorts, already walking out of the room, smirk still firmly in place.

Katsuki wakes Koharu with as much patience as he can muster—which, admittedly, isn’t much. She whines, burrowing deeper into her blankets, tiny hands gripping onto his shirt when he tries to sit her up. Eventually, he manages to get her dressed, all while Riko stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, offering extremely unhelpful commentary.

By the time they’re in the car, Koharu is still pouting sleepily in her car seat, and Riko is humming some song under her breath. Katsuki grips the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw set as they pull out of the driveway.

He doesn’t want to do this.

He’d always complained about dinners with his parents, even back when you were first dating. It took him nearly nine months to introduce you, and it would've been even longer if you hadn’t come to him one day, quietly asking if the reason he hadn’t introduced you was because he ‘didn’t see this as something long term.’

It had hurt more than he liked to admit—he hated seeing that look on your face. So, against his usual stubbornness, he agreed. He suffered through that first dinner with them, and he continued to suffer through them for years after, because his mom absolutely liked you more than him.

She used to tease him about it, laughing softly when Mitsuki would pull you aside, talking your ear off about some childhood story Katsuki really didn’t need you knowing. You’d give him a little look over your shoulder, amused, like you knew he was barely holding it together. And later, when you two were alone, you’d tell him how nice his mom really was, how she just cared, and he’d scoff, grumbling about how you were wrong—but deep down, he liked that you got along.

Now, though? He’d take his mother favoring you over him in a heartbeat if it meant you were still here.

The drive is quiet, the weight of his thoughts heavier than the silence in the car. By the time he parks in front of his parents’ house, his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight. He barely has the chance to unbuckle before the front door swings open. 

“My angels!” Mitsuki wails dramatically, her arms wide as she stands in the doorway, a soft smirk playing on her lips. Behind her, Katsuki’s dad stands by the door, casually leaning against the frame, wearing his usual apron.

Koharu lets out a small whimper as Katsuki lifts her from her car seat, the little girl immediately burying her face into his shoulder. Riko, on the other hand, sprints over into her grandmother’s arms, dragging her little bag behind her, a grin on her face as Mitsuki scoops her up.

“I’m kidnapping you both, AND THAT’S FINAL!” Mitsuki huffs, smothering Riko with tight, exaggerated affection, but her eyes immediately scan past Katsuki, searching. She doesn’t find who she’s looking for.

Her eyes narrow, sharp as always. Then, they flick back up to him, and he knows exactly what’s coming.

“Where’s your wife?” she asks, her voice a little too calm, too knowing.

Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose, shifting Koharu in his arms as he meets her gaze. “Busy,” he mutters, trying to keep the discomfort from creeping into his voice.

Mitsuki’s brows furrow deeply, the usual softness in her gaze replaced with something closer to concern. She takes a long, deliberate look at him, then at the girls, before her eyes settle back on him again.

Finally, she exhales, shaking her head. “Dinner’s almost ready. Get inside.”

It’s a temporary reprieve. He knows that. Mitsuki will press him on it before the night is over.

As his mother drags Riko inside, Katsuki gently follows, carefully toeing off his shoes with Koharu still in his arms.

“How are you doing, Katsuki?”

His dad’s voice is soft but full of that quiet concern, a gentle smile on his face as he watches his son carefully.

Katsuki adjusts Koharu in his arms, avoiding his dad’s gaze, and mutters, “Fine… fuckin’ busy or whatever.”

His dad steps a little closer, that calming presence always so different from his mother’s sharpness. With a tender touch, he strokes Koharu’s hair as she clings to Katsuki’s chest, half-asleep and unaware of the silent exchange happening between them.

“You shouldn’t curse in front of the little one,” his dad muses, his tone more lighthearted than critical.

“Yeah, 'cause she knows what I’m saying,” Katsuki mutters, glancing at Koharu, still resting in his arms.

His dad chuckles softly, shaking his head. "You look tired, son. Have you been overworking again?"

Whenever his dad uses that tone, Katsuki feels like he’s 13 again, and his dad is correcting him for the way he would talk to Izuku. In some ways, it hits harder than his mother’s loud words ever could, because she’s direct, and his dad—his dad can see right through him, in a way that makes him retreat into his shell even more.

“A little, not a big deal,” Katsuki mutters, his eyes drifting away, not wanting to meet his dad's gaze.

His dad doesn’t let it slide. "And Y/N? How is she?"

The question catches Katsuki off guard, the mention of your name feels like an unexpected weight. His dad’s gaze is soft, almost too knowing. Katsuki shifts Koharu in his arms, his mouth suddenly dry.

“She’s…” he trails off, staring down at Koharu, as if the answer is buried in her messy curls. “She’s fine, just... busy, you know?”

His dad’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t press further. He just watches him quietly, giving him the space to either lie or open up. But for now, his dad doesn't press. He just watches him quietly, as if letting Katsuki decide if he’s ready to say something real.

The lie he’s telling isn’t even a good one, cause no matter how busy you are, you always made sure to make time for these sorta dinners. And his dad knows that. But, he doesn’t say anything in return, which is somehow worse.

He sighs quietly and reaches out, gently lifting Koharu from Katsuki’s arms. The little girl, now wide awake, babbles happily as her grandfather coos at her, running his hand through her hair. "Go settle in, son," his dad says, his voice soft, but firm. “I’ll take care of her for a bit.”

Before he turns to go, his dad adds, his tone gentle yet knowing, “But… maybe let’s speak later? Okay?”

Katsuki swallows hard, he hates that the way his dad is talking already makes him sound like a failure, like he already knows it was Katsuki that messed up. Like he can read through all of Katsuki’s bullshit and see the cracks he’s trying so hard to hide. It makes him feel like a damn failure, like it’s obvious to everyone that he’s the problem

“Why? You got something you need to say?” Katsuki snaps, the defensive tone escaping before he can stop it. His dad doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, just stands there like he’s waiting for the storm to pass.

The sharpness in his voice cuts through the house, and even the chatter from the kitchen quiets just a bit. Why is he making everyone walk on eggshells around him?

He isn’t a villain, he tells himself. So what if he… messed up a little? It’s not the end of the world, right? He could’ve done worse. He could’ve been unfaithful, or a bad provider, or—

His thoughts come to a screeching halt as he meets his dad’s gaze.

His dad has always been the perfect role model. Attentive. Doting. Patient. And here Katsuki is, a mess of frustration, guilt, and pride that’s been spilling over more and more lately. He could never be like his dad.

Katsuki’s jaw clenches, but something in him softens, ever so slightly, as he exhales a frustrated breath. He’s tired, so damn tired. One minute, things were okay—well, good enough, and then somehow, it all unraveled. Too fast.

He wishes, selfishly, that he could find a way to blame you for all of this. If he could just shift the blame, maybe he could breathe again, maybe he could sleep a little easier at night. But that’s not the truth. He knows it. You tried. For years. You tried to tell him, to show him how tired you were, how stretched thin, how hungry for something that was no longer there. And instead of listening, he put up walls, focused on his life, his goals, because what he was doing mattered. What you needed didn’t. Not to him.

And when he looks back, he hates himself for it. For all the moments he chose his work, his career, over you. Over us. Thinking that being a pro hero, providing for the family, ensuring everything was safe and secure, would be enough to make you stay. Enough to keep you from wanting more. But that was never the problem. He never saw it, not until it was too late. You didn’t care about the things he thought mattered, the things he believed were enough to prove his love. You wanted him. Just him. And now, that selfishness—his lack of attention, his ignorance of your needs—has landed him here. And still, despite it all, there’s a part of him that wants to blame you. Even now. If you’d said something earlier, if you’d tried harder…

But he knows that’s a lie, too. Deep down, he knows it was his choice to ignore it. To dismiss you. To push you aside. And that realization hits him like a punch to the gut. He’s the one who let it all fall apart, the one who took the love you gave and turned it into nothing more than routine, something he could neglect without consequence.

His breaths become shallow, and suddenly his vision blurs. He blinks hard, trying to force back the sting in his eyes. No, no, not now. He can’t do this. Not here. Not in front of his dad.

“Whatever,” he mutters through gritted teeth, the words coming out rough. His voice cracks, but he can’t let it break.

He shoves past his dad, stomping his way toward the bathroom, his hands trembling.

~

Katsuki has a gnawing feeling that his dad spoke to his mother about the little… moment earlier at the door. Because the hag doesn’t utter a word about you during dinner, which is weird. She keeps having these moments where she’s clearly about to say something, but hesitates, glancing at Katsuki before abruptly changing the subject. Every time it happens, he grips his fork a little tighter. It’s bizarre.

Despite that, dinner goes off without a hitch—or maybe it does, Katsuki wouldn’t know. He’s in a daze, zoning out through most of the meal.

Now, the kids are playing with toys on the living room floor, and Katsuki’s trying his best not to check his phone to see if you’ve texted him. He’s spent the entire dinner avoiding it, but now it’s starting to feel impossible. That’s when his dad touches his shoulder.

Katsuki jolts slightly, whipping his head around, quickly dropping his phone onto his lap to hide his shame. He scowls instinctively.

“Will you help me and your mother tidy in the kitchen, son?”

Despite it sounding like a question, it’s really not one. It’s an unspoken command. Katsuki grits his teeth, but he doesn’t protest.

His dad’s gaze flicks briefly toward the kitchen, the quiet message clear, before he looks back at him. Katsuki knows what’s coming, even before he enters that kitchen.

"Yeah, whatever," he mutters, desperately trying to hide the shame coiling in his chest.

He stands up slowly, dragging his feet. He’s too damn tired to even bother trying to escape what’s coming. He knows this conversation is inevitable, and he doesn’t have the strength to avoid it anymore.

As expected, the kitchen is already spotless, and his mother is leaning against the counters with nothing but a blank face. 

Even though nothing about this situation feels casual, Katsuki decides to pretend it is. He strides into the kitchen, plops himself down in one of the chairs, and looks between his parents like he has no idea what's about to go down.

His mom doesn’t miss a beat.

“Katsuki, where is Y/N?”

Straight investigation style, he would laugh if this conversation wasn’t about to get very depressing. 

“She’s at some spa hotel, outside Tokyo,” he mutters, trying to shrug it off like it’s no big deal.

Her gaze hardens, her eyes narrowing as she presses on.

“And why is she there.”

He grits his teeth, irritation flaring despite himself. "Can’t my woman enjoy a weekend away? Jesus, you’re uptight." He leans back in the chair, trying to appear nonchalant, his arms crossing defensively over his chest. He’s not convincing anyone though, especially not his mom.

His mother, stays eerily calm, not biting back as she usually would to his behaviour. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t demand an explanation. She simply waits.

"She’s been stressed," he mutters, almost as an afterthought, like he's trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "Too much going on, with the kids, work... You know how it is."

It's a little more truthful, but still a half-hearted attempt to avoid the core of it. He leaves out the glaring factor—he is the unanimous source of most of this. His mom’s eyes never leave his, and he can tell she’s not buying it. Fuck.

“And what have you been doing, Katsuki?” Her voice is low, but the sharpness is there, cutting through the air.

“The fuck you think?” he mutters, his voice dripping with frustration. “You see me on TV. Same shit every day. I’m out there saving people, doing my job. What do you want from me?”

“For your wife, Katsuki,” she says, her tone firm and unwavering. “At home. What have you been doing for her.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at her. He’s afraid to.

“The fuck I’ve been doing?” he repeats, this time more quietly, though his frustration still simmers beneath the surface. “I’ve been working, putting food on the table. Making sure everything’s... taken care of.”

His voice cracks slightly, though he tries to mask it. He’s avoiding the real question. Avoiding what he knows—what they all know.

His mother doesn’t let it slide.

“For her,” she presses, her voice a quiet, insistent reminder. “Not just for the house, or the girls. For her. You can’t give everything to the world and leave her with nothing, Katsuki.”

What’s he supposed to say to that?

“She needs you, son,” his mother adds softly, her eyes searching his for something he’s not sure he has anymore. “Not just as a provider, but as a partner. A husband.”

He doesn’t know what sets him off—whether it’s his mother’s tone, the warm laughter of the girls in the other room, or the weight of his empty phone burning in his pocket.

But in that moment, Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero everyone fears, breaks down in his childhood kitchen.

“I’m…” His voice cracks, unable to form the words properly. “I’m not good enough. I don’t know how to fix this.”

He hiccups his words, his father’s hands rubbing careful circles into his shoulders, trying to ground him, but it only makes him feel worse. He wants to pull away, to hide the vulnerability, but he’s too far gone.

He wishes you were here, the things he would sacrifice for it. To have you bring him close, to kiss the tears off his cheeks, to hear your soft voice telling him everything would be okay—that you know he’s trying, that you love him even in his mess.

But all he has now is his sniffling in the kitchen, the awkward silence pressing in, and his mother looking at him with nothing but pity. He’s never felt more ashamed in his entire life.

"Mom..." he starts, his words still coming out in ragged bursts. "I messed up. I... I thought I could handle it, but I didn’t. I thought... I thought being a hero was enough."

The words come like poison, the shame burning through his throat as his mother just watches him silently. 

She takes a long, steady breath, carefully considering her words, a rare softness in her tone. "I don’t know exactly what has been happening at home, son, but I know Y/N married you for a reason. She loved you when you were just a rookie, working constantly, because you made the time, you made the effort. She wants her husband back. It’s the little things, Katsuki. Don’t let your own neglect make you lose her."

"I know you can do it," she adds, her voice gentle but firm. "She loves every part of you. So let her see that again. Let her see you."

He wants to argue. To lash out and defend the way he’s been living. He wants to tell her he’s trying—he’s trying so damn hard—but the words don’t come.

Instead, he nods, stiff and uncomfortable, wiping his face with the back of his hand clumsily. 

He doesn’t know how to fix it all. He doesn’t know how to go back and make the changes he should have made years ago. But he does know this; the longer he waits, the further he drifts away from the person who used to be his everything.

~

After a shitshow of a day, he find himself crafting a text for you again. A new, sad, routine of his to feel close to you.

The message is light, almost mundane. Pictures of the girls at dinner and a small note about his mother asking after you.

He doesn’t expect you to reply, not really. But his sleepy eyes jump with surprise when he watches the typing bubbles appear. 

[10:36 PM] Wifey : aw, my babies. tell them I miss them. 

[10:36 PM] Wifey : I’m sorry that I missed dinner, your parents are lovely. 

Katsuki lets out a shaky breath, something warm spreading through his chest despite the ache that lives there. He can almost hear the words in your voice. If he allowed his selfishness to win, he would call you immediately just to hear it for real. But he knows it's not the moment. Not yet.

He types quickly, keeping the tone light, masking the vulnerability creeping through him.

[10: 39 AM] Katsuki : they miss you more. All Koharu does is pout. Haha.

[10: 39 AM] Katsuki :  dont worry about dinner. They will be here when you get back. 

When you get back. He adds it with a little more confidence than he feels, the hope that you will confirm, that you are indeed coming back, coursing through him.

[10:43 PM] Wifey : I should be home monday, the train comes in around 1pm. 

[10: 44 AM] Katsuki : Okay, looking forward to it. I’ll pick you up. 

[10:45 PM] Wifey : You don’t have to Katsuki, just because of how our last conversation went. I know you have work. 

Katsuki’s brow furrows as his fingers hover over the screen. He hates how distant that sounds. He doesn’t want you to feel like a burden.

[10: 46 AM] Katsuki : Do you not want me to? 

[10:46PM] Wifey : I dont want to force you

[10:47 AM] Katsuki: You’re not forcing me. I want to. I’ve missed you.

[10:47 AM] Katsuki: And if you’re up for it, maybe we can talk more when you get back.

[10:49 PM] Wifey : Okay, thank you. 

God, he hates how stiff and formal this has become. He swipes up to the previous texts, seeing how things have shifted over the past few months, and for the millionth time, he chastises himself. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

[10:50 AM] Katsuki: Goodnight Sweetheart. See you soon. 

You like the message. Progress. 

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊

🏷️ : @dragonscribble @coldnightshark @huntyhuntycunty @thychuvaluswife @boojaynaqueen @kalulakunundrum @purplegaussianprocess @harryzcherry @bubbleguppieshh @geekessi @itzjustj-1000 @nuo0n @hana-patata  @ilovemushroomss @notokinthehead @obsessedwiththesturniolos @djlance-rock @j1tterbugaboo @ch3rryjampi3 @gayheterosexual @hauntedstudentobservationus @onlyisaa @rika-chan-12 @eddie-bonzo @meikoo @barrythestrawberry041 @littlestinkybastardman @incognit7 @hhhhhhhikariiiiiiii @sachikomwahxx @d4rlinxs

(Hopefully i got everyone that wanted to be on the taglist, if you want added, let me know!)

Reblogs and comments appericated! Also, send me requests on how you want it to go... what you think might happen !

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

"Babe," the silence that filled the room for five, incredible minutes is interrupted by Stiles, again. You sigh and close your eyes, reminding yourself that if you kill him now you won't find another Stiles and that it's probably easier to just answer another one of his dumb question and then move on with studying again.

"Mh?"

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?" he asks, it takes a few seconds for you to process that he interrupted you a fifth time to ask this, but when you do, you turn your head around to meet his eyes on the opposite side of the bed: unlike you, he's leaning his back against the headboard of his bed, with his book closed on his legs and the pen he's lazily gripping hits the book cover over and over again.

You move to rest on your side and prop yourself up on one elbow, "seriously?" you ask without any humor in your voice… if Stiles hadn't interrupted you every five minutes for the last hour you would have already finished your homework, but from what you can see he is not in the mood to get any work done today and that means that you can't do anything either.

He rolls his eyes, "just answer the question," his right foot closes the notebook that's in front of you on the end of the bed.

"Will you let me get my homework done if I answer you?"

He shrug his shoulders, "depends on what you answer."

"…ok." A huff leaves your mouth as your body unwillingly moves to sit up straight on the bed, "that depends, would I be a worm, too?"

His mouth hangs agape and his eyebrows furrows in shock, "what do you mean 'it depends'!?"

"If I were still a human I wouldn't even think of falling in love with a worm."

Silence falls in the room for a few seconds while Stiles nods repeatedly with his tongue poking his cheek in the way he does when he is annoyed… "ok then, I see how it is." He opens his book and diverts his eyes from you to it.

Thinking the conversation is over, you resume your initial position on the bed, with your belly resting against the soft mattress and the notebook now open in front of you again.

...

"I can't believe you actually said that." Your head hits the notebook in front of you with a loud groan.

Your head hits the notebook in front of you with a loud groan. "Stiles…"

"No seriously, what if I get turned into a worm tomorrow? Will you break up with my worm form during the lowest point of my life?"

You turn back towards him again, "of course not! I would find a way to turn you bac-"

"what if it's not possible?"

"then I would turn into a worm, too."

Stiles shakes his head, "you're purposely avoiding the question." He sits up straight and pushes the books off the bed and onto the floor, yours too. "Okay, pretend that I get turned into a worm tomorrow and there's no way you can turn me back into a human or you into a worm… would you still love me even though we're two different species?"

"I was using those boo-"

"Babe!" he whines and you giggle.

"Okay, okay... I mean... we could try to make that work? But I don't think it would honestly last." you answer with way too much sincerity for such a dumb question.

"So you would be with someone else? damn."

"Not necessarily! What if you're the one that finds a cute worm to share your life with?" you ask amused but it doesn't affect him in the slightest, instead, he smirks proudly.

"That's impossible, I would still love you."

"Then I would still love you, too." You answer and crawl closer to him to kiss his cheek, hoping he will let this topic drop if you kiss him stupid.

"I don't know if I can believe you now..." still, his hands move to caress the sides of your thighs.

"Come on, you're being a hypocrite! You would never love me if I was a worm either... I would be small, slimy, ugly and with too many disgusting feet."

"I would! I would buy a jar, fill it with lots of soil and grass and put you in it so that I could carry you everywhere I go!"

"Aw, you know what? I would do that, too-"

"Don't steal my ideas, find your own way to love the worm-me."

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Do not copy or repost.

who needs therapy when nightwing!Gojo exists?

nightwing x gojo 🦇

ac: kayaxxo

RIP Stiles Stilinski, you would have loved Jonah Simms

this has to be the cutest thing I've ever read omg I love it and I LOVE THE PERSON THAT THOUGHT ABOUT THIS. THANK YOU.

THE BOYFRIEND CODE

Memo — Part of 'The Boyfriend Code' series. These are the rules themselves. I also don't know why I wrote every fourth rule to be weirdly long in comparison to the others.

(A guide to maintaining a happy and thriving relationship with one Stiles Stilinski.)

As drafted by Stiles Stilinski

(To be signed in blood. Or, you know, ink. Whatever’s available.)

1. Thou shalt not steal the last curly fry without proper negotiations.

2. Thou shalt always laugh at thy boyfriend’s jokes, even if they are terrible (which they are not).

3. Thou shalt never, under any circumstances, team up with Scott against thy boyfriend in any and all debates, disputes, or Nerf wars.

4. Thou shalt not hold thy boyfriend’s hand just to warm up thy own freezing fingers and then let go once they’re toasty. My hands are not a temporary rental service—they require long-term commitment. Hand-holding is a big deal, okay? It’s a sacred act of love, comfort, and subtle flexing. If thou initiates contact, thou must maintain it for an appropriate amount of time (i.e., until I say so). If thou dares to pull away too soon, be warned: I will be needy about it. I will pout. I will stare at thy hand longingly. I will dramatically sigh until my hand is reclaimed. I don’t want to beg, but make no mistake—I absolutely will.

5. Thou shalt not threaten to replace thy boyfriend with Derek Hale, Chris Evans, or any fictional hottie with a tragic backstory.

6. Thou shalt not wake thy boyfriend up at ungodly hours unless there is (a) a fire, (b) a werewolf attack, (c) pancakes, or (d) an ungodly amount of love and affection.

7. Thou shalt always check behind thee in horror movie situations because thy boyfriend will absolutely be too scared to.

8. Thou shalt not initiate tickle fights unless fully prepared for the consequences. (The consequences include, but are not limited to: uncontrollable giggling, immediate retaliation, loss of breath from excessive laughter, potential betrayal by nearby allies, an all-out war that lasts for days, and, most importantly, the risk of thy boyfriend holding a lifelong grudge and striking when thou least expects it. You have been warned.)

9. Thou shalt not let Lydia convince thee that thy boyfriend is not cool. Thy boyfriend is cool. Very cool. The coolest. Tell Lydia.

10. Thou shalt always pretend to be impressed when thy boyfriend does a Cool Car Slide™ over the hood of the Jeep, even if he falls. Especially if he falls.

11. Thou shalt not judge thy boyfriend for excessive hand gestures during storytelling.

12. Thou shalt not change the music in the Jeep without a full democratic vote, which requires at least a two-thirds majority and an impassioned speech justifying the change. Veto power is reserved exclusively for thy boyfriend, as the rightful ruler of the aux cord. Exceptions may be granted in cases of extreme emergency, such as a truly terrible song choice (unlikely), spontaneous karaoke needs, or the requirement of a dramatic soundtrack for an impending battle, chase scene, or epic road trip montage. Abuse of this privilege may result in a permanent aux ban. (Also, if the Jeep breaks down, it is not because thy boyfriend’s music taste is cursed. We do not entertain such slander.)

13. Thou shalt not put socks on thy boyfriend while he is sleeping just to mess with him. (Seriously, why would you do this? Are you a monster?)

14. Thou shalt not let Coach Finstock know that thy boyfriend has, in fact, finished his economics homework. He thrives on the chaos.

15. Thou shalt not insult Star Wars in any way, shape, or form. Ever. No exceptions. (Even about the prequels. We do not speak of the prequels.)

16. Thou shalt always respond to thy boyfriend’s "I love you" with "I love you more," or at least pretend to fight about it. Because love is a competition, and thy boyfriend refuses to lose. Bonus points for dramatic declarations, exaggerated swooning, and impromptu Shakespearean monologues. Failure to engage in this battle of affection shall result in excessive, possibly puppy-eyed pouting until the matter is properly resolved.

17. Thou shalt not hide sticky notes with increasingly unsettling messages around thy boyfriend’s room just to see how long it takes him to find them. (I will NOT be gaslit in my own home.)

18. Thou shalt not give Scott better cuddles than thy boyfriend. (I see you. I know what you’re doing.)

19. Thou shalt prevent thy boyfriend from naming any future pets after fictional detectives, no matter how endearing his arguments may be. (We are NOT adopting a dog names "Spooky Mulder.")

20. Thou shalt not eat the last Pop-Tart and then blame the supernatural—especially not ghosts, banshees, or mischievous forest spirits. (They have better things to do than steal my breakfast.) If thou art the culprit, thou must accept the consequences, which may include but are not limited to: dramatic sighs, betrayed expressions, and a well-documented grudge lasting no less than 48 hours. Restocking the Pop-Tart supply immediately may lessen thy sentence.

21. Thou shalt not record thy boyfriend’s sleep talk and use it as blackmail. (Even if it’s hilarious. And yes, I am Batman in my dreams.)

22. Thou shalt not use thy boyfriend as a human shield during werewolf-related incidents. (It is rude and it hurts me physically even if I do appreciate you wanting me to protect you.)

23. Thou shalt not tickle thy boyfriend while he is driving. (Unless thou hast a death wish.)

24. Thou shalt not challenge thy boyfriend to a duel with pool noodles unless thou art truly prepared to suffer the consequences. A challenge once issued cannot be taken back. There will be no mercy. There will be no surrender. There will only be the sound of plastic striking plastic, the cries of the fallen, and the inevitable betrayal when one of us decides to wield two noodles at once. Victory is never guaranteed, but humiliation is. And should thou lose, thou must accept thy fate with dignity—or prepare for a rematch at dawn.

25. Thou shalt always accept spontaneous dance breaks in the kitchen. No exceptions.

26. Thou shalt not bribe thy boyfriend’s dad with baked goods to get classified FBI-level intel on thy boyfriend’s embarrassing childhood stories. (I know he caves for cookies. This is betrayal.)

27. Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, allow thy boyfriend near a Ouija board. (We do not need to summon ghosts. Again.)

28. Thou shalt always remember that thy boyfriend is the funniest, smartest, most charming, and overall most lovable human being in the universe. This remains true even when:

I'm ranting about a conspiracy theory at 2 AM with a suspicious amount of red string.

I'm attempting to parkour off the Jeep and failing spectacularly.

I'm using sarcasm as a defence mechanism instead of admitting I have emotions.

I'm dramatically narrating my own life like I'm in a noir film.

I'm absolutely convinced that I could take a werewolf in a fight “if given the proper motivation.”

I'm getting side-tracked in the middle of an argument because I thought of a joke and simply must share it.

I'm clinging to thee like a koala after a scary movie but still pretending I’m totally fine.

I'm being an absolute menace in every way, shape, and form—but, let’s be honest, that’s part of my charm.

In conclusion: I am a menace, but I am thy menace. Act accordingly.

Reading so many tumblr fics has completely ruined me from ever reading a Wattpad story that ain’t in 2nd person POV😭😭