#FoG fic

[netherfeildren]

My Whole Life : A Fear of God Story

(Joel Miller x OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary: The family celebrates Joel's birthday.

Content Warnings: Fluff and smut (like the fluffiest fluff ever); Miller Family Fun; Joel being overrun by wild little girls; Dirty old man & inappropriate groping; Established relationship; Joel Miller is a Wife Guy; Competence kink; Breastfeeding; Lactation kink; Oral sex (M! & F! receiving); Come eating; Pregnancy kink; Size difference; Daddy kink; Possessive behavior; PIV sex; Ass play; Romantic anal :) ; Body worship; Dirty talk; Pussy slapping; Over stimulation

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Happy happy happy birthday to our bestest and most beautiful old man. This might just be some of the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever written, and it’s all for him :)

Word Count: 9.8K

Read on AO3

MY WHOLE LIFE

And you’ll always love me, won’t you?

Yes.

And the rain won’t make a difference?

No.

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell To Arms

He’s still asleep. Laying on his side, bent elbow tucked beneath his smushed cheek, messy curls strewn across his pillow, overly long and floppy against his forehead. It’s time for a haircut, but he’s been distracted and busy lately, evading your managing fingers and scissors. The quilt is pulled up high over a thick shoulder, and that soft, full mouth is slightly parted, the near silent whistle of his breathing passing through each exhale. You close your eyes and listen for a moment. When you open again, you reach up to run the tip of your finger along the damp edge, and he puckers his lips slightly, mouthing at your exploration. Ah, awake then. You lean forward to press your mouth to his briefly, taking his breath into yourself. 

Tell me you love me, you whisper the words onto his tongue. 

“I love you, Birdie,” voice like falling stones; graveled, sluicing into your ears, eternally familiar. An everyday thing that’s a small miracle each time it’s whispered into the small shell. 

“Happy Birthday, Joel.” And he finally opens his eyes, long lashes squeezing tight and spiky for a second before he blinks open, bleary with sleep. His half smile unfolds for you, slow and lazy, the lines around his eyes going deep and grooved, and your fingertips skim over the whiskered plane of his cheek, feeling the proof of his happiness around his eyes. Pulling his hand from beneath his cheek he reaches for you, skims the back of his hand down the front of your belly, undoing the buttons of  his old, worn to softness flannel as he goes. Backs of his knuckles following again, skimming down the soft swell, dipping into your navel, and then sneaking around your waist to pull you into himself. Belly to belly he sighs deep and rumbly, closes his eyes again, nods his head just a smidge, settling back into the pillow. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

You know that if he could skip this day every year, he would. Sleep through the whole thing of it, erase it from history. You know that it’s endlessly painful, eternally terrible, and that even after almost three decades it never hurts any less. Five years now, you’ve been married, and you’ve tried to make every year as special as possible. Not necessarily peaceful, an unachievable thing in a house full of four loud and scrambling little girls, but always special, always infused with as much happiness as you can give him. 

The sallow purple light from early dawn seeps in through the sheer blue curtains over the wide bay window of your bedroom, and as he presses you to him, the course hair of his chest and belly rubs against the skin of your own stomach, your overly sensitive breasts, full and extra tender from nursing. You’d made his gift extra special last year, your last baby, little Connie, now nearing six months old. 

-

“Another one?”

“Well, baby, that’s what happens when your husband can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he sighs, head falling back on his neck as he runs his palm over his mouth, two fingers tucked into his belt. Dad pose.

“We’re getting a nanny, Joel. Someone to help us – you go out there and find anyone, I don’t care who. There’s too many of them, we’re being overtaken. And we can’t keep asking Ellie and Dina – they’ve got JJ now, they’re busy too. You’ve saddled us with a whole kindergarten here because you can’t seem to stop getting me pregnant,” voice hitching with equal measures of anxiety and happiness, and an overabundance of hormones and love. 

He sidles up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist to hug you tight to his chest, one of his hands coming up to squeeze your full, heavy breasts gently, you gasp, extra sensitive already. He coos right into the soft shell of your ear, “Poor Birdie. S’just so fun makin’ ‘em baby. Can’t help myself.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see, and you kind of want to claw at his face and rip all his clothes off, all at the same time. This is all his fault. All of your sense gone out the window, can’t get pregnant while you’re breastfeeding, as if you didn’t know better. Too desperate for your husband to be more careful. And now look at the two of you… 

Your ass perks up, grinds back into his already growing erection, fucking beautiful, he murmurs with his forehead resting on your shoulder to look down at you, palming your ass. His hands sweep over you in an arc, skimming the soft dips and contours of your skin. 

Then shyly, head tuning over your shoulder to press your temple to his forehead, “Are you happy?” Because you still just need to make sure, you still just need to hear it. 

“You’ve never given me the option to be anything else but, my love.”

-

He’d gotten up in the middle of the night when he’d heard her fussing, bringing the baby to you still half asleep, cuddling her tiny, pink form against his naked chest, so that you could nurse her back to sleep. He’d sat at the edge of the bed, big hand cupped at the back of your skull as he’d looked down on you feeding his child from your breast, the look in his eyes like nothing you’d ever imagined before him. The birth of your children had infused a sense of tenderness, an intimacy so acute it brought tears to your eyes if you thought about it too much, into your relationship that had made the two of you closer than ever. More in love with each other than you’d ever thought possible. 

The memory of your parents was worn and faded with time, but you remembered they’d always approached each other with a sort of comfortable respect. Never ones for overt displays of affection or physical intimacy. So you’d never expected that the love of a man like Joel Miller, stoic and reserved and brusque, could be like this; an overwhelming sort of thing, scalding and suffocating in a way you needed. 

His hand skims back to your chest, undoing the rest of your buttons to get at the warmth of your breasts, rough palm gently, gently cupping the full weight. The dry abrasion of calluses catching at your sensitive nipples, handling you with such care. A low rumble in his throat, eyes still closed, “Gimme another kiss, little bird. It’s my birthday,” he whispers before sliding forward, taking your mouth with his. He starts off slow, a soft brush of damp lips, before he takes your upper lip between his, pulling gently, his hand moving back and down now, cupping your lush bottom to pull you up and into himself. Your hands flutter over his chest, still after all this time, easily overwhelmed by the heat and feel of him. You never want it to end, you never want it to lessen. 

The sex is still filthy, but everything else is pure. 

You can feel the hardening heft of his cock under his boxers between the two of you, and you skim your hand down the length of his soft belly, fingers tucking beneath the elastic to run the backs of your knuckles against the burning hot skin there, feel the tickle of his hair. He makes another one of those deep sounds, warm and masculine and smelling faintly musky from sleep, and you bring your knee up against his hip, pushing further into his boxers to feel the rapidly thickening base of his cock against the back of your hand, you brush the pad of your thumb there and his kiss becomes hungrier. Bringing his palm to the nape of your neck he rolls the two of you over suddenly, trying to take charge, licking deep and wet into your mouth, pressing his now full-on erection into your cupping palm. “Taste so good, Birdie. Is my little cunt wet and ready for me?” 

“Joel–” you whisper, drawing your hand up to his shoulder to try and keep him at bay. His wet mouth moves down to your throat, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples, settling more heavily between your spread thighs to grind his cock into your warmth. “We can’t,” you moan as his hot mouth pulls gently at your tit now, nipples dark and swollen. It’s been several hours since you’d nursed, and you feel the warmth of your milk as his tongue swirls around you. He groans, rough and hungry at the taste, bringing his knee up to lever himself over you, readying to rip your clothes off and take your cunt for himself, but as he moves to balance himself on one arm and knee while his other hand reaches for your panties, you press him off balance, dislodging him and rolling over as he goes, so that you’re left straddling the wide breadth of him. His eyes flash, provoked, and he jerks you forward, ripping the flannel off your shoulders so that your breasts are left bare and swinging heavily. With a rough grunt he bends his knees, shoving you up further on his stomach to wrap a big hand around your tit and bring it to his mouth. Mine, he growls, with your flesh in his mouth. He pulls on the taut peak again, another warm rush of your milk, his eyes locked on yours as he sucks from your nipple. It should be wrong, maybe it is, but like you’d said, the sex is still filthy, everything else is pure. 

“We can’t,” you whisper, carding your fingers through the long locks of his messy curls, the strands cool and soft at the ends, but hot and damp at the roots. You can feel your pulse thrumming at your throat, the insides of your wrists, the back of your knees. The slide of your wet cunt against his abdomen has the heat between the both of you ricocheting up to a sweltering dampness, and despite your protests, you moan as his hands roll you against him. “They’ll be up soon and banging on that door, you know it. Ellie and Dina can only hold them off for so long.” The girls had spent the night, not only so they could be here for birthday breakfast, but so that the two of you could spend a few extra peaceful moments in bed without three raucous monsters climbing in with you. 

“Don’t care – need you now.” He levers his head up off the pillow, following the swing of your breast until he can catch it with his mouth, teeth gently scraping across the bud. Joel, you whimper, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. He makes a self satisfied noise low in his throat, crushing you to himself and sucking hard on your skin, pulling a strangled moan from your throat. Trying to pull away, grabbing his marauding hands, you try to pin him down with your entire weight, small fingers clasping around the thick of his wrists and pressing them back into the pillows. The two of you pause to take each other in for a second, I love you, he mouths up at you, silent, eyes on fire. You can’t help the deep flush, trying to swallow your smile and shake your head at him in mock disapproval, pinning him harder. “That isn’t gonna work, little thing. Got the strength of a butterfly.”

“Shut up.” You lean forward, pressing your mouth to the thick bulge of his bicep, dragging your teeth across the swell. “You’re mine – I do what I want.” He gives you a soft, conceding laugh, and you press kisses along his shoulder, across his collarbone, letting the long tresses of your hair snake like water over his face, his chest, his stomach. Scooting down his belly to nuzzle at the springy hair covering his chest, little tongue darting out against his nipple, smiling at the sound of his soft gasp. Further, further down, kisses to his soft belly, thicker around the middle now, sympathy weight, he calls it. But he’s so strong, and so endless, and you need him so much. You wiggle between his legs, forcing him to spread his thick thighs to make space for you and nip at the sensitive inner slope there. Nuzzling his hairy limbs, you pause to look up at him, cheek resting there, feeling the restrained strength of his muscles. The two of you go quiet for a second, taking each other in, and there’s so much said in his gaze. He brings his hand to the crown of your head, cupping the small bowl of your skull in his palm, and smiles a little, a teasing crook of his eyebrow, and you can’t help but laugh, turning your face to hide your own smile in his thigh. 

“What’cha gonna do, baby?” Hmm, he croons down at you, sliding his fingers through your hair. You sneak your fingers below the waistband of his boxers again, tugging them down to free the straining, thick cock and heavy balls. You press a barely there kiss to the skin just beside the base and watch as his length jumps, flushed head starting to leak. You give him another wry look, and he runs his fingers along the line of your jaw, up the slope of your cheek bone, hot touch following the wing of your brow. It’s all soft caresses and the sort of comfort that only comes from knowing another person almost better than you know yourself. You finally bend down and press a kiss at the tip, opening your mouth to let your tongue flutter along the soft, spongey curve. He lets out a long, restrained breath through his nostrils, fingers still roaming along your face, through your hair as you start to take him deeper into your mouth, levering yourself up over his groin so that he has a better view of your breasts and hair dragging over his thighs. A desperate groan, and you smile around his cock, you know him too well. You drag the flat of your tongue along the ridged base, a swirl around the fat head, his hand cupped at the nape of your neck. You can feel the pulse and throb of him against your tongue, and you moan around him, fluttering lashes tickling your cheeks, you want to feel that pulse at the core of you, deep where he owns you. “Yeah, baby,” voice soft and strained, trying to swallow the sound of his own pleasure in the hollow quiet of your still sleeping home. “Hum a little song around daddy’s cock, little bird.” And your eyes flash hot and desperate up to his own. A wash of heat spreads from the crown of your head to the tips of your curling toes, backs of your knees smarting, pussy going tight and desperate as a knot. You wrap both hands around the length of him and focus your suctioning mouth at the head, moaning wantonly, twisting your palms around the slick spit left by your tongue. 

“Fuck, yes – yes, yes yes. That’s perfect, you’re doing so good, Birdie. Just like that.” He bears his teeth at you, a wash of color spreading across the crests of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. You slide your slick hands down to cup his balls and take him to the back of your throat, moaning ragged and choked around the too thick length, swallowing repeatedly, trying to breathe through your nose, eyes smarting and thighs clenching. His fingers twist in your hair painfully, and he swells almost impossibly bigger in your mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come, baby. Don’t swallow, don’t swallow.” He hasn’t stopped looking at you, eyes wide and frenzied. You pull back, squeezing his sack as he starts to spurt, thick and salty into your mouth. “Don’t swallow, lemme see. Gimme my birthday present, show me–” You pull away from his soaked cock, mouth sticky with semen, and present your tongue for him, the milky viscousness dripping sloppy while you continue to jack his still spitting length. He sits up suddenly, cock still fisted in your working hand to grip your jaw in his strong fingers. His eyes are filled with a sort of mania only you know how to bring out in him now that he’s been mostly tamed, and you bring your other hand up to your face, scooping the spurted drops of come on your cheeks onto your white splattered tongue. “Perfect fucking thing,” he growls. “You do what I say,” he gives your captured jaw a rough, little jostle. “Swallow now.” You close your mouth and obey, “Open again – lemme see,” sticking your now pink tongue out at him, he leans forward and licks into you, tasting himself. Filthy, filthy, filthy. I fucking love you, you can’t tell who says it, it doesn’t really matter. 

-

The farmhouse is a short ways outside of Jackson. He’d picked it after Lena was born, Kate and Clara had been two, and Connie would soon be on the way. The family needed more space, four children was a lot to manage, and he wanted his girls to have room to grow and play. You’d let him do as he pleased, and made the trek into the clinic every afternoon at first, but had taken on a partner two years ago, Jamie. She’d come to Jackson with her own medical background, and with four babies at home, the help was more than welcome. 

The house is old, but made of strong bones that Joel had painstakingly refurbished and now cared for meticulously. Filled with sturdy furniture he’d mostly made by hand, thick rugs and soft glowing lamps and books, books everywhere. And something else, something unknowable and invisible, but that was immediately obvious, nonetheless. A sort of love that was in such overabundance; it was an unbelievable sort of thing that a creature that had lived as he had could have ended up here, surrounded by all this goodness. Joel knows it is only because of you, all only your doing, his ending up here like this. 

As you step into the large dining and living space you stop abruptly, his chest bumping into your back, hands going to your hips to steady you. Your head cocks slowly to the side as you take in the new addition to the kitchen. “What’s that?” 

He presses his face into the warm, fragrant skin of your neck, smiling against the tender slope. “Made it for you.” It’s a kitchen table, long and thickly built, the warm oak color polished and cured to a glowing sheen. He’d snuck it in from the barn last night after you’d gone to sleep.

“It’s your birthday, you’re not supposed to be giving me gifts today.” He wraps his arms around your middle, his hand spanning across the soft swell of your postpartum belly. The change your carrying his children had wrought on your body was something that he’d not known would have such an effect of him. But the sight of you most days, wearing nothing but one of his oversized flannels, and his favorite itty bitty, pink, polka dotted panties. Swollen, leaking tits and the lush softness of your belly and hips underneath. Long hair, a tousled mess of a cloud around your head. Too fucking tempting. It brought out something not entirely civilized in him. How was he ever supposed to behave when you were prancing around your home together, surrounded by all your children, being the best mother the world had ever seen. Sometimes the urge to get you pregnant just one more time was almost irresistible. Soft and feminine and his, it did things to him, made him think unspeakable thoughts that he later acted out on you in explicit detail at night, in the privacy of your bedroom. Things had changed after the birth of your children, he had changed, in so many ways, in ways that Joel had never even thought possible. The intimacy, the closeness was something that he’d never even thought possible, something so vulnerable, so tender, his mind hadn’t had the capacity before this to imagine it. He’d never thought, never thought that he could love with an intensity like this, but you’d taught him so many things over the years. You taught him something new every single day. 

“It’s for me too,” he murmurs. “And giving you things makes me happy. Seein’ you happy makes me happy. This is my gift to myself.”

You’re quiet for a second, and he feels you tense and hiccup beneath his touch, trying not to cry. Finally, when you’re sure your voice won’t break, “Don’t be cheesy, old man.” But you turn in his arms, going up on your little toes to press your mouth to his, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. He sighs into the kiss, tasting you slowly, savoring you, feels himself thickening again already, just at the feel and smell of you. When he pulls back to look down at you, sure enough, your eyes are wet and gleaming, a soft flush across your nose. “Thank you, I love it,” A small sniffle.

“Get in there,” he says gently. “Stop provokin’ me.” He gives your bottom a gentle squeeze before letting go. 

After he helps you get the girls up and settled, he goes on a long walk with Ellie and Kate, leaving you and Dina to hold down the fort for a while. Sydney, panting along Kate’s gangly, coltish side as they lope ahead of him and Ellie. The old Newfoundland had shown up one day on the front porch, mud and bramble slewn, Kate and Clara had brought her in, told them her name was Sydney, and that had been it, the dog had stayed. The hound, covered in a nearly unmanageable chocolate brown mane, had what he called an old disposition, much like him, Birdie liked to tease, but gentle and slow. The perfect animal to patiently accompany the girls along their misadventures, but large and astute enough to herd and protect when necessary. They liked to wander sometimes, disappearing at any moment, hiding and jumping out to scare the two of you in your frantic searches for them. Trouble the two of them, Kate and Clara together. Clara especially, mind sharp as a whip and an inclination for trouble she could have only gotten from him, if he was being honest. Kate was always the cooler, more level headed voice of the two of them, even at five, nearly six, years old. With those deep blue eyes, like shards of sea glass with the very power of the sun shining through. They’d slipped out of the house a few months ago behind his back, and after his mad search he’d found them wandering, hand in hand, towards the treeline. Short legs setting a slow and stunted pace, Sydney had been following closely at their heels, towering over the two small frames. At the sound of his approach, she’d turned back with an aggressive growl, ready to protect the two vulnerable creatures in her charge, but he’d settled her with a gentle, It’s just me, Syd, and the hound had gone tame and sedate once again. He’d trusted her with them unfailingly ever since. 

They were meandering slowly along one of his and Ellie’s favorite paths now, slowly, allowing for child and dog to pause and investigate at will, dew-covered spiderwebs, bright tufts of moss and old, rotted logs covered in bugs Kate begged him to let her bring home. 

“Mom gets scared. We don’t want that, do we?”

“Mom doesn’t get scared,” Kate says, scrunching her nose up at him. 

“It’s secretly him that gets scared, Katie. Don’t let him fool you,” Ellie tells her. They walk for close to an hour in mostly silence, their ritual of sorts, listening to the sound of the woods around them and Kate’s soft voice going on and on at Sydney, while the dog seemingly pays the closest and most attentive regard possible. The quiet walks, something that calls back to their long journeys all those years ago, a way to remind themselves of where they’d been and what they’d come to. 

“What do ya think?” She breaks the silence after they’ve turned back toward home and the breakfast waiting for them. 

“‘Bout what?” 

“Anything.”

He shakes his head, watching Kate’s short leap over a puddle, sighs long and deep, “Dunno – so many things. Nice walk–” He gives her a wry look out of the corner of his eye. 

They reach the edge of the woods and pause to watch Kate breaking into a run towards the house, Sydney matching her pace. “I think we did good, don’t you?” He knows she means everything, all of it. Lena, three years old, bursts out of the propped open front door of the house, Dina on her heels. “We kinda made it, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, kiddo. We did good.”

-

“I drew you a birthday picture, Daddy,” Clara tells him.

“C’mere, my angel. Let’s see it.” Sitting around the new kitchen table, he pulls her up into his lap, Lena following suit to scramble up as well. 

There are seven figures: you, drawn with long hair that reaches your feet, Kate, Clara, and Lena, respectively, what he assumes is baby Connie drawn as a miniscule figure eight at your feet, something that resembles a tumble-weed more than a dog, poor Syd, and then… someone drawn as a big circle, with an even bigger head on top. “Where’m I, baby?”

“Right there.” She points at the big, round thing, “I made him soft like you, Daddy.” And she pats his belly so affectionately, looking up at him with the biggest smile he’s ever seen, poor Syd – fuck, poor me, he thinks.

“Thanks, baby. I love it.” He squeezes her into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you bent over the kitchen counter trying to strangle yourself in a kitchen towel to muffle the sounds of your hysterical laughter. 

After scrambled eggs and hot breads with honey and jam, bacon and fruit and coffee, perfect girl that you are, you’d somehow gotten him a tin of beans as a birthday gift, you bring out what the girls call the pancake cake. A large, wide stack of the fluffiest buttermilk pancakes, all lathered in Dina’s whipped cream, and a mountainous heaping of bright red strawberries. He watches you, a thing akin to awe in his eyes as you set the red and white cloud down in front of him, you’d put on a soft blue dress, robins egg blue, with tiny lace cap sleeves that fluttered with your movements and made his stomach dip and swoop and ache to reach out and toy with them. 

“The berries were a gift,” you say with a pleased smile.

“Oh, was it Jeff?” The grocer, Dina asks. “He’s so nice.”

“Who?” Joel frowns.

“Jeff, he works at the market. He–” You pause, a laughing smile playing on your lips. “He wanted me to wish you a happy birthday, baby.” His scowl deepens, your own smile widening. 

As soon as the cake’s set in front of him there’s a chubby little hand sneaking forward to stick grubby fingers into the confection. “Lena,” looking down at her, and the hand is immediately snatched back. “Oh, the candles,” you remember as you’re about to take the seat next to him. 

“Left them in the back room, with the other stuff I brought,” Dina calls as you head to what’s used as a makeshift laundry room at the back of the house. He gets up quickly, a murmured, I’ll help you look, following you and flicking the door shut behind him, the echoing sound of snickers and Ellie’s hooting, mesmerized by the swish and flow of the blue fabric around your legs, and with a bone to pick.

“You’re not allowed to go to the market anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take Ellie or Dina with you.” He pouts and scowls and fumes behind you as you rifle through the bags they’d brought with them.

“Excuse me?” You say again, voice soft and patient, infused with just a tinge of laughter. 

“You want me to say it again?” He steps forward, fingers ghosting through the ends of your long hair, hungry, possessive. “And who gave you permission to talk to other men?” And you snicker, not taking him seriously even a little bit. He wraps his arms around you, pressing you forward to squeeze your tits in his big hands, he’s obsessed, grinding his groin into the soft round of your ass. He drags his hands over the dips and contours of your body, squeezing lush curves as he goes, reaching to wrap around the delicate architecture of your jaw and pull your face around to look at him, taking in the beautiful heart shape of your mouth.

“Joel–” you chastise.

“Five minutes.”

“Behave, they’re gonna–”

“Don’t care. It’s my birthday.” He nuzzles your hair, searching for the small shell of your ear. “Just want a kiss, Birdie bird.”

“It’s never just a kiss with you,” but you turn in his arms anyways, pressing your mouth to his, licking into him before you’ve even fully got the words out. He gropes you, sliding a knee between your thighs to press against your mound and roll you against himself. Cupping the nape of your neck, he eats at you, sliding his tongue along yours. He can hear the desperate sound of his breath rattling in his own chest, and he slides his mouth down the slope of your neck, a soft nip to the tiny pulse there. He groans low in his chest, cock hard and straining against his jeans. “They takin’ them for the night, still?” He asks panting.

“They are,” voice a whimper, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging in frustration. You push him back by the shoulders, laughing gently, as you wiggle out from between his steaming, hard body and the counter. “Come on. Ellie’s gonna give you hell.” He braces his palms against the edge, head hanging trying to will his erection down and catch his breath. Jesus, Birdie. 

“Mama, why did Daddy go in there with you?” Clara’s little voice sounds as he steps back out into the kitchen behind you. 

“He was helping me–”

“They were making you another baby sister,” Ellie supplies unhelpfully, big fucking grin. Joel drags his thumb across his throat, staring daggers. 

“How do they do that?” Kate asks.

Ellie’s mouth opens, readying to worsen the situation, “Ellie–” Joel warns. 

Dina, ever the voice of reason, tells them patiently, “They write a letter to a stork, sweet. And then nine months later, he brings a baby.”

The girls are all quiet for a beat, digesting this newfound, eternally fascinating piece of information, until Kate says, in that solemn and level headed way of hers, hands primly set at the edge of the table, “I think the stork has come to our house too many times.”

Ellie cackles uncontrollably, Bridie’s giggle following suit, until the lot of them are caught in a net of laughter. Joel lets his head fall back, thumbs tucked at his belt, letting a long sigh out. “Jesus.”

“Jesus!” A little voice yells out in imitation. 

-

“What is a stork?”

“A bird,” Ellie provides. 

“Is that why mama is Birdie? Because she makes the baby come?”

“Yeah, baby. That’s why,” You tell Kate, smoothing a gentle hand over the crown of her bright blonde head. Inquisitive little thing. With your other hand you flick Ellie in the back of the head. Mother fucker, you mouth at her affronted look. 

“Father fucker,” she mouths back with a snicker. 

Once the candles are securely in the cake and lit, and Clara’s added her ever helpful, Mama, we need one thousand more candles, Daddy is so old, he nudges his head at you. “Come be a good girl, and sit on my lap,” he says quietly. You perch on the strong expanse of his thigh, one arm around the back of his neck, the other coming to entwine with the fingers of his hand at your waist, twisting the gold band of his ring round and round his finger. 

The girls sing Happy Birthday, Daddy, at the top of their lungs, and you watch him watch them, the clenching of his jaw, those fine little muscles that wrap around his mandible, fluttering as he grinds his back molars together, the ripple of his throat as he swallows again and again. The corners of his eyes go a little wet, tears lining the edges of those gorgeous hazel eyes as he stares into the flames of his birthday candles while the girls sing to him – off key, off harmony, so full of love. Clara clambers up onto his other knee midway through, plants herself on the endlessly strong surface of her father’s thigh, the safest place in the whole world. “Happy birthday, Daddy. I love you,” she whispers up at him, laying her little head on his shoulder, gazing at him with those same hazel green eyes that reflect his own image back at him, remind him of another little girl he’ll never stop missing, and he brings his hand up to cradle the back of her skull in his large palm, presses his lips to her forehead, love you so much, baby girl, whispered into her skin. Your first baby. His eyes fill further, and they flutter closed, trying to contain all that you know he’s feeling right now. Your hand on the back of his neck strokes softly at the overly long curls, soft and thick. You press your thumb into the notch of his skull, anchor yourself there, I’m here, I’m here, we are here together, look at all we have, and he turns to look at you, his cheek resting on your daughter's head. “Thank you,” he says, and you know that he means for all of it. 

Cheering squeals, laughter, and the padding rush of little feet over the floorboards as the rest of them start to run around the table, shrieking fills the air as they scramble over him, trying to climb up as well. He buries his face in your hair and shudders as he presses a tiny kiss to the soft lobe of your ear. Look at all we have. The whole world right here at our kitchen table. 

-

The birthday of a perfectly happy man is spent like this: a long breakfast with the woman of his dreams and all his daughters surrounding, a lazy afternoon, trying to doze on the deep, lumpy couch, intermittently interrupted by a knobby knee and a sharp little elbow to the gut or thigh, lunch and peach cream popsicles on the porch, watching the clouds, searching for shapes like treasures in the deep blue sky. 

He thinks of Sarah, as he lays there surrounded by her sisters. The sweet shape of her face, the dove green of her eyes surrounded by the thickest, darkest lashes he’s still ever seen to this day, Lena’s eyes are the exact same shade, the texture of her curly hair beneath his palm. Her memory is faded now, after so long, but he works it like a muscle in his mind every day, a staunch refusal to ever let her go. And no matter how far away he moves from that day, he still asks himself sometimes: How does one grapple with the loss of something that big, something that essential? He’s lived with a hole in his heart in the shape of a little girl for so long, decades, but now, with all of this surrounding him, he also has so many things that leave his heart so full he’s almost bursting with it. The two opposing feelings often leave him feeling bloated and without space within himself, and yet, he always finds another nook or cranny for more. Even when it’s left him tired, when his remembered past hangs over his head so that he feels, sometimes, like his edges are disjointed, not glued together symmetrically, you’re there to put him back to rights. 

And the memory will always be painful, it will never not hurt. It’ll never not be agony. But it’s easier now, to recall all the wonderful, all the good. Sometimes, he almost feels afraid of the intensity of this happiness, but in those moments, when that old fear returns you’re able to recognize even that, like everything else in his heart you know as well as your own, and you take him into your arms, reminding him that his whole life is right here in this house now, that you’ve saved him. 

“Look at the clouds, Daddy. There’s shapes.” 

Sprawled in the lush grass in front of the house, the three girls surrounding him. He presses a kiss to Lena’s soft curls, “Look at that one,” he says, “What d'ya see there?” 

“A bunny,” Kate says with all the self assurance of knowing she’s the eldest sister, and thus, the wisest. 

“A bunny? You sure?”

“Yes, Daddy. Don’t you see it?” Clara interjects. “He has big ears and funny whiskers just like yours.” Raucous giggles and screeches after that as they jump over and across him, with claims that he needs reminding how a bunny hops and leaps.  

Eventually, when they settle, Birdie brings out more cake, leaves the four of you to sit in a huddle criss-cross-apple-sauce and discuss the woes of kindergarten at the school house in town. 

“Mama told me I’m not allowed to bite,” Clara gives an exasperated huff, abandoning her cake to melt into the grass and crawl into his lap. “She bites a lot,” Kate adds. Irritated, pushing unruly curls out of her strawberry red face, “But– but I don’t like that Mama said that to me, Daddy,” she continues, looking at him very seriously, “I like to bite so much,” followed by the most conniving smile he’s ever seen, besides Ellie’s, blooming proudly across her angel sweet face. He’s forced to swallow his laugh and explain the merits of listening to her mother, something they must all do. When he turns back to look at Lena, she’s licking the spilled whipped cream out of the grass. They have to go inside for baths after that. 

At Kate’s behest, they have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner that night. Tommy, Maria and their son joining the family alongside Nancy, so that the table’s chock full of the people who care about him, all coming together to celebrate one more year of Joel’s life. By the end of the meal, he has all three girls perched on his lap, eating spaghetti off of his plate because, Daddy, it just tastes so much better from yours, obviously. He’s never been able to say no to them, and he isn’t about to start tonight, and you roll your eyes, but you also look at him with that gleam that tells him that if he asked you for another baby tonight, you’d probably not say no. They eat his food and yank on his hair and stab him with pointy sharp elbows in the ribs repeatedly, at one point someone sticks their finger up his nose, pulling his nostrils apart to look inside. 

“Daddy, why do you have so many hairs all over?”

“It’s so dark and scary in there, Daddy.”

Clara nods so fast her curls bounce up and down around her head, “I feel scared when I look up there,” green eyes wide. 

“What are they for, Daddy?”

Questions volleyed at him so fast he doesn’t have a chance to answer a single one of them. “If you eat spaghetti, will your boogers taste like spaghetti after?” Ellie, ever brilliant and helpful, suggests they try some to verify the theory.

“What is verify?” One asks.

“And what is seery?” Another calls. Birdie’s red in the face with laughter, and Joel feels very tired and very old and very ready to take his wife to bed. 

“A theory is when you think about something,” Tommy says, and gives him that look he’s wont to throw his way when he’s about to make fun of Joel for not being able to keep it in his pants and stop procreating. 

“And verify is to make sure,” Joel tells them.

“What is to make sure?”

“To know something.”

Kate nods solemnly, while Clara pauses, and then says, “I don’t think I know anything.” That worried sort of look only a five year old can get when an idea is just too big, crossing her little face.

Chuckles sound around the table, “That’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about it.”

-

As they say good night, the girls packed and ready to spend the night at Tommy and Maria’s, Ellie and Dina taking baby Connie, Ellie pokes and prods at you. 

“Would you quit, you little shit.”

“Dinner was nice, step mommy,” giving you a smarmy little smirk. 

“You know, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s serious.” 

She cocks an eyebrow at you, “Spit it.”

“Well, I was wondering if you’re going through something right now? If you’re okay?”

“What? What do you mean?” Face twisted in confusion. 

You snicker, pulling on the ends of her recently shorn hair, “Then what’s up with the new fuck ass little bob you’ve got going on?” She slaps you away, swatting at your arms, reaching down to get at your thighs too. 

“Fuck you, mother fucker,” she laughs, trying to yank on your hair too. 

“Stop it. You have to respect me. I’m your step mother, remember?” 

“You’re so annoying.” You hear Joel call at the two of you to knock it off, but goes entirely ignored. 

“Poor Dina’s gotta look at this mess. Let her know if she ever needs to get away from it, she can come stay here any time she likes.” 

“I hate you,” she laughs, and you pull her in for a tight hug, another pinch to your side before she hugs you back. 

“Tough shit, I love you.” She squeezes you tight, grumbles a little before returning the sentiment. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into your shoulder, “For making him so fuckin’ happy.” You squeeze her tight as you can before she shoves you away, pretending not to sniffle and rolling her eyes at you. “Now stop being so fucking weird and sappy, and say good night to your football team.” 

-

“Blood Meridian again?” You ask him from where you’re standing at the kitchen island, snipping the ends of the flowers Nancy had brought with her and arranging them in a vase. “How many times’ve you read that?” He’s sitting on the sofa, facing you, reading glasses sitting crooked and bent on his nose from where someone’s little foot had crushed the frames. You watch the flicker of his gaze as he peeks at the page number, and then snaps the book shut. He never uses a bookmark, always just remembers. 

“Dunno–” big sigh, long stretch, “More than I can count now, I suppose.” He settles back into the couch, pushing his hips forward to slouch deep, tired, spreading his thighs wide, tempting you. You finish with the flowers, walking the vase to take center stage on the new table. At the far end of the table, right by your spot, he’s carved a tiny little sparrow into the surface of the oak. The etching so fine, so delicate, in comparison to the sight of him, big and brusque. It would be almost unbelievable to someone who didn’t know him as you do, who didn’t know the violence he’d endured to make him so gentle, someone who hadn’t watched him pull your newborn daughters from your own body, who hadn’t witnessed the incredible sight of him cradling those tiny little babies in his infinitely strong arms. You turn back to look at him over the hill of your shoulder, taking in the sight of him watching you, appraising your form. The slow rove of his eyes starting at your bare feet, moving up your legs as if his gaze was a physical manifestation of his hands on your skin, over the swell of your bottom, the slope of your spine, the fine crest of your shoulder, landing on your face. You can see his eyes moving over the planes of you, your chin, your mouth, cheeks, your eyes. He lands there, stays. You know he’ll be hard beneath his jeans when you go over to him. 

“C’mere – come sit on me,” voice soft and sultry. 

“Sit on you?”

“Mhmm, come tell me how much you love me.” He pats his thigh, and you move towards him slowly, shaking your head at him. 

“Needy.” You reach him, hitching your knee over his lap to straddle him, and he pulls you close and tight against his warm, wide chest.

“So needy.” He nuzzles into the fine tendrils of hair over your forehead, his breath hot and soft on your skin. “Need ya so much, Birdie.” A soft kiss to your temple, another to the flared end of your eyebrow, and you squirm on his lap, hot and restless and needy also, a fine thrumming ache flaring throughout the various pressure points in your body. Your throat, the inner curves of your elbows, the backs of your knees, deep in the pit of your belly. You feel weak and trembling, and he fills his hand with your hair, bringing it to his face and rubbing the soft curls against his cheek. “It’s time I take you to bed, isn’t it?” You hum against his collarbone, taking in the scent of his skin, fresh and clove-like, cedar sap and sage and Joel, you nod slowly against him. 

He runs a bath for the two of you, filling the deep clawfoot tub in the master bathroom. He’d outfitted the house from the get-go with the same system for electricity and water that Jackson ran on. And he pulls your clothes from you slowly, running rough, caressing hands over the sensitive slopes of your curves, gentle pinches and squeezes to the places he likes most which is all of you. When the two of you sink into the tub, he sits between your legs, wide back leaning back on your chest so that you can run your hands along the strong breadth of him. You taste the water off his skin and listen to the sound of him rumble and purr like some sort of overgrown wolf beneath your touch. 

“Did Clara tell you what happened at school yesterday?”

“Said you told her no more biting.”

“Did you tell you she punched some poor boy?”

“She did what?” He tenses, long fingers wrapping tightly around the circumference of your ankle in his lap.

“She called one of the boys in her class, and I quote, a little fucker, and then socked him in the nose.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Clara,” he sighs, laying his head back on your shoulder. “Why in the hell did she do that?”

“She’s your daughter.”

He hums as if he can’t bring himself to disagree with the reasoning. “Little fucker probably deserved it.”

“You’re not supposed to call children fuckers, Joel.” He grunts. “She also told him that her dad was going to beat up his dad.”

“Oh my God. I’m too old for this shit.”

“They’re heathens because of you. I hope you know this.”

“They ain’t heathens. They’re perfect.”

“You weren’t saying that last week when they painted your face blue.”

“Jesus, you’re right. Thought it was never comin’ off.” You snort, rolling your eyes at him, but hugging him closer. The best father anyone could ever want for their children, surely. “Gotta teach her how to throw a good punch,” he adds to himself. 

You wash each other’s hair after that, taking turns lathering each other up, rinsing out the suds, and when he’s finished with you, he carries you to bed. Lays you out like his own personal feast and tastes you everywhere. The pads of your water-wrinkled toes, the backs of your knees, the crest of each hip bone, cruelly bypassing the place you need him most. Dragging his mouth over your stomach, tongue savoring the silvery streaks left behind by the growth of your daughters inside of you, over your nipples, dark and swollen. His mouth rests at the notch of your throat lightly, and then, whispered against the moist spot he’d made with his tongue, “You’re the only dream I’ve ever had. You know that?” And you tell him that you do, you do know, your husband who is, in his own right, like a dream figure. 

Finally, taking pity on you, he slides down between your thighs, making room for the incredible breadth of his shoulders, and gently as possible spreads you apart with his thumbs, takes in the sight of your embarrassingly slick, untouched cunt. He blows a slow stream of cool air over your pulsing clit, and bends his head to lightly drag his tongue over the swollen bundle. And you’re going to cry, real, desperate tears. “Joel, please, don’t be mean.” But he’s never been very good at that.

“Oh, I know,” he tuts, “My poor baby. Been waitin’ all day haven’t you?” He’d purposely not made you come all day. This had been his plan all along, you know it. Another, light as air slip of his tongue, his mouth, sliding down to your leaking opening, mouthing against it, barely there. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the whole world, little bird. You know that?” And he licks your clit for real this time, the broad, flat of it pressing against you in one long, slow swipe. You can’t answer, ragged moan clawing up your throat. You reach for his dark head bent to your sex, one small foot propped against his thick shoulder to anchor yourself as he starts to eat you. Sucking hard and fast on your poor, throbbing clit, moving down to spear the strong muscle of his tongue into your pussy. You want more, you want his cock, you want it, you want it, you want it. He sucks the orgasm out of you, lapping and kissing at your cunt until you’re shuddering and shivering, clenching around that terrible, painful emptiness, leaking onto his tongue, and then surging up quickly. Massive fist around his cock, he presses the drooling head at your clit, teases you there slowly, watches the heave of your breasts as you struggle for breath. You bring your knees up, spread wider, inviting him in, and he notches the head slowly, giving you nothing more than the flared crown. He pauses there, thrusting shallowly, watching your swollen, red pussy swallow him, and head catching on the blushed rim, he spits, rubbing the flat of his fingers over the crest of your sex, the unsheathed length of his cock, and then presses in, in, in, in, all the way. You give a warbled whimper, trying to twist away, clawing at the sheets. You’ll never be used to it, never not enjoy the twinge of hurt when he gives you the whole thing. “Fuckin’ love it when you sing for me, little bird,” he moans. And he doesn’t give you a chance, doesn’t give you a second, he never does, setting a hard and brutal pace, riding your cunt like he owns it, because he does. 

He wraps his hand around the round of your breast, squeezing, but still careful of how sensitive you are, thumb flicking at the tender nipple, and you spread your legs wider, one hand hooking beneath the sweaty back of your knee to pull yourself open, your other hand reaching down to cup the swinging weight of his balls as he thrusts up into you. He bares his teeth at you, wide palm landing with a little snapping slap low on your pelvis to press down, feel himself from the outside as you squeeze his balls. He shakes his head at you, fire in his eyes, “You’re gonna end up pregnant again, Birdie,” voice chastising, a little like a threat.

You close your eyes, back arching to take him deeper, don’t care, you want to say. “N– no, noooo, can’t” you pant instead, “Can’t get pregnant – breastfeeding.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said last time, little girl.” He lets himself fall forward, the bone of his pelvis grinding against your clit, and your cunt goes tight and so, so fucking wet, throbbing and fluttering around him, trying to suck him deeper, working around the hard invasion as you start to come. His sweaty, steaming head falls to your breast, mouthing wetly, fucking you through it, just like that, he murmurs, my perfect girl. 

“Don’t– Don’t come in my pussy then.”

“No?” He slows his thrusts once he’s felt the trembling of your walls around him settle, lets his hips seesaw in and out slow and languorous, long provoking strokes. “Should I fill that sweet ass instead?” And despite the fierce blush that washes along the length of your body, you nod shyly at him, running your hands down his belly. The fact that he still possesses the ability to drive you to shyness after all this– “Say it, baby. I gotta hear it.” You flush impossibly deeper, little toes curling in humiliated excitement and lust.

“Please, daddy, please– I want it in my ass.” He pulls out suddenly, the lewd wet squelch of your cunt closing hungry around nothing. He spreads his fingers over the length of your sex, slick, gleaming cock, flushed so red it’s almost purple, veins pulsing along the length. “Gorgeous thing,” he murmurs as he starts to pet at your ass gently, thumb swiping, giving you light pressure, and then pushing in slowly, slowly. Your mouth falls open, gasping, eyes wide and wet and probably, definitely, a little pleading. “Lemme in, Birdie. Let me have this sweet little hole.” You nod, a marionette caught on his string, hips starting to hitch and follow the thrust of his invading thumb. “I’m gonna fill it with my come, and then watch it drip out of you. That what you want, baby?” Yes, yes. He pulls his thumb from you, slides his slick hand over your leaking sex again, and then fists his cock, the dull pressure of the wide head at your back entrance, pushing in slowly, making you feel the stretch and burn of it. Your fingers claw and scrape against his chest and abdomen, trying to pull him towards you, push him away, legs shifting restlessly at his sides until he’s buried to the hilt, heavy sac pressed against the curve of your bottom. Sweat slides in steaming rivulets down his temples, his neck, and a bright red flush moves across his chest and up his thick neck. You watch a violent shudder jerk through him, lashes fluttering closed, and then screwing shut tightly as he tries to control the rush of his oncoming orgasm. He runs his hands up your stomach, the dips of your waist and hips, wrapping around your breasts. “You’re doing so well, my little love.” He opens his eyes to take you in, pulls his hips back, and then pushes in again. “Taking my fat cock in this tiny hole. Look how messy and wet your greedy cunt is. You want me to fuck you here too?” He pulls your lips apart, wide, thrums at your swollen clit, and then starts to press a single finger slowly into your pussy. And oh, it’s too much, it’s too much, stretched and stuffed so full of him everywhere, the play of his fingers also on your clit, he starts to fuck your ass in hard, jolting thrusts, growling your name through clenched teeth. 

“Look at it,” he spits, “Look at where I’m fucking you open. Look at how you’re all fucking mine.” Your heart beating out of your chest, insides twisting and throbbing, you take in the sight of your blushed sex stretched to obscenity around him, his soaking fingers, two of them now, pressing slowly in and out of your cunt as he slams into your ass. You let your head fall back, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come – oh God.” You cross your arms over your face to hide the sight of your overwhelmed tears, and he pulls his fingers out to slap the top of your cunt in a single stinging swat that you feel reverberate in the place he’s impaling you with his cock. “Nuh uh, you let me look at that gorgeous face when you come all over me.”

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t – it’s too much. 

He doesn’t give you a choice. There’s never been much of that where he’s concerned. Everything below your navel goes painfully tight, white light streaking across your eyes as you twist and writhe beneath him, and he follows suit, starts to fill you in thick pulses, the heat of his spend coating your insides with a savage snarl of your name, the breath nearly knocked out of you with the intensity of your shared orgasm. He lets his weight fall over you, pressing you into the bed, massive body shivering and jerking, buried deep inside of you, and after the last spit of his cock, he pulls from you slowly, moaning softly and rolls the both of you over. Draping your listless form over his chest, arranging your limbs how he pleases. You shiver and feel the sweat cool along the slope of your spine, enjoy the tickle of your lashes catching in the coarse hair of his chest. You feel him play with the long tresses of your hair, draping them over his chest and shoulders, rubbing the smell of you against himself. Picking up the hand curled over his shoulder, he absently draws the backs of your fingers against the edge of his jaw and his ear, kissing and sucking on the soft tips. 

“Tell me you love me,” you tell him.

“I love you, Birdie.”

Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.

“Tell me that you’ll always love me.”

“I’ll always love you. For the rest of my life, as long as I live, I’ll love you.”

-

Nights later, after the excitement of celebration has died down, and the family’s settled back into peaceful routine, you think about when you’d first realized you were pregnant with Clara, and how you’d worried the news would disturb the happiness and peace he’d fought so hard to find for so many years, terrified that in some way, you’d force him into a situation he didn’t want, wasn’t prepared for. Now, looking across your large bed, two dark, curly heads, another bright, blonde as a star, separating the two of you while he sleeps deep and peacefully, Connie in her crib at your side, you are once again, like so many other times, hit with the full appreciation for the miracle this family is, how wrong you were to ever worry about it being anything but. 

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[soapsbaby]

☆ Day 1 // First time // Leon Kennedy ☆

Summary: You're his first.

Characters: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Themes: NSFW (18+), oral (both receiving), PIV, virginity

Word Count: 1.5k

Leon quietly moaned into your kiss, hands tangled in your shirt as if he was desperate to have something to hold onto. 

His hair had fallen into his face, a smile on his face as you pulled back for a second to gently swipe it away so that he could see. 

The reaction to your makeout session was hard against your thigh. 

You pushed your hand between your two bodies, running over his erection, smiling as he let out a quiet moan.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

You gave him a quick kiss again.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” 

“What is it, hm?”

“I… I have to tell you something.”

His hips bucked into your touch, almost involuntarily, an embarrassed whine escaping his throat as he realized the way his desperate body had betrayed him.

His pale cheeks were now bright red and you could tell that he was struggling to even look you into the eyes.

“I’ve… I’ve never done this before.” 

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I’ve never… Slept with anyone.”, he said so quietly that you could barely understand him. 

You hid your surprise well, luckily. 

You gently cupped his face, he eased into your touch immediately. He was so receptive, so eager for any of the attention you could provide him. 

“Do you want me to be your first?” 

He nodded, still bright red.

“Yes. I’d… Really like that.”

Your hands slipped under his shirt, fingers exploring the ridges of his muscles under his soft skin.

His lips found yours again, kissing you needily.

“Please be my first.”, he whispered, a certain sense of desperation in his voice.

“I want to take off your shirt.”, you said softly, watching his reaction closely, hoping he wouldn’t feel any type of discomfort by your request, but beyond blushing a little harder, he seemed eager.

He pushed himself up from the mattress to give you access to remove his shirt, pulling it over his head. 

The flush on his cheek went all the way down his neck, across his pale chest. 

“You’re so beautiful.”, you said quietly, your hands roaming his chest still, taking in all of him. 

He tugged on your shirt until he had removed it as well, tossing it to the floor.

His eyes scanned your body, gaze falling to your breasts, then jumping up to your eyes again, as if there was any shame in how he wanted to look at you.

"It's okay. You can look. You can even touch if you want, you know?"

You unclasped your bra with a smile, baring your breasts to him. 

"Are you sure?" 

You grabbed his hands, moving them to your chest, smiling as you could feel his inexperience in the way that he touched you, awkwardly kneading your flesh.

Your body tensed as one of his thumbs slid across your nipples, feeling it harden under his touch. 

"Do you like that?", he asked, looking up at you with those puppy eyes of his. 

You nodded, now you were the one to blush.

He hesitated for a moment, then he leaned in, his lips closing around your nipple, tongue darting around it.

His hand moved to the small of your back, anchoring you as your body arched into his touch.

"Fuck… Leon…", you muttered, sighing as his other hand came upward to massage your other breast with a new found confidence from the way you reacted to him.

His hands were so gentle on you, as if he was afraid he'd hurt you otherwise.

"I want to taste you.", he said quietly, lips still pressed to your chest, but slowly working up to your neck.

The hand on your back traveled forward, the tip of his index finger slipping into the waistband of your shorts.

You could see the eagerness in his flushed face, he genuinely meant it. 

You didn't answer, instead just pushing your hips upward, letting him undress the rest of you. 

"You're so beautiful.", he said softly, carefully pushing you back on the bed so he could get easier access to you.

He pushed your legs apart with a gentleness that sent shivers down your spine, kissing across your parted thighs as he worked his way closer to your core.

His eyes fluttered shut as he dragged his tongue across you for a first, almost hesitant taste.

You ran your fingers through his hair, biting back a moan.

"You taste so good.", he whispered, before he leant back in, shorter, quicker licks around your clit now.

Even though his inexperience was obvious, he read you like an open book, interpreting your every noise until he had learnt how to work you, where you needed his tongue, his lips.

"Why are you so good at this?", you panted, feeling yourself slowly build up to your release, your breaths coming in stutters.

He didn't answer, his arm wrapping around your thigh a little tighter as he devoured you.

The moment he sucked your clit between his lips was when you lost it, arching yourself against his face, riding out your orgasm against his lips.

"Fuck… Fuck.", you quietly moaned, grabbing him and pulling him upwards so you could kiss him again.

Your taste was on his lips and you could feel the desperation on him. 

"You did so well.", you muttered as you slowly regained your composure.

His hips grinded against your hand as you palmed him through his pants, he was rock hard.

"I'm sorry you got so little attention.", you said quietly, but he immediately shook his head.

"No. Don't apologize. I could do that forever."

He licked his lips with a grin as if to drive the point home further.

"Still. It's your turn."

He nodded obediently, moving his hips off the bed so you could take his pants off, dragging his boxers down with them.

His erection strained against his stomach.

He bit his lip as you wrapped your hand around him, giving him a gentle first stroke.

His eyes followed you as you bent down before him, kissing along the V lines of his hips.

“Please don’t tease me.”, he whispered breathily, his hand gently in your hair, but not pushing you.

The desperation in his little moans made you try even harder, doing your best to draw even more noises out of him.

He groaned quietly as you took the tip of his cock into your mouth, his body tensing at the new sensation.

“Please…” He didn’t finish his plea, but you knew what he wanted, taking him further into your mouth, tongue swirling around him. 

“How’s that?”, you asked quietly, licking up his shaft with a smile, replacing your mouth with your hand for a moment.

“So good.” He looked at you with a look on his face that you could only interpret as awe, his eyes glazed over in desire.

“Do you want to fuck me, then?” 

“But fuck… I don’t know how long I can last like this.”

There was something akin to embarrassment on his face, but you shut it down immediately, sitting up so you could put a kiss on his lips, gently reassuring him.

You climbed onto him, grabbing his hands and placing them onto your hips, giving him something to hold onto.

He nodded eagerly, even though you could see the nervousness on his face. Your choice of words flustered him even more.

“Hey, there is nothing you can do wrong, okay?”

You kissed him again, gently, passionately, until you pushed him backwards onto the bed.

He whined quietly as you grabbed his cock, lining it up with your pussy. 

You gave him a questioning look, he just answered with a nod, so you slowly lowered yourself on him.

His lips parted with a gasp, grip tightening on you as he took in the feeling, overwhelmed by your warmth and wetness.

“So fucking good.”, he repeated.

You leaned forward, kissing him hungrily, drowning out his quiet moans with your lips as you slowly lifted your hips before moving downward again, giving you a few slow, first movements to adapt to his size.

“You feel so good.”, he panted, his eyes finally opening again, watching you in amazement, eyes wandering down to the spot where your bodies met.

You slowly picked up the pace, always keeping watch of him and his reaction, but there was nothing on his pretty face other than adoration.

His body fit against yours almost perfectly, the way his hands were grabbing you, your chest against his, his cock inside of you.

“I think I’m close already.”, he said, almost apologetically.

You stopped your movement for a moment, gently cupping your face.

There were beads of sweat on his forehead, his hair damp against his forehead.

“Do you want to try to be on top?”

He nodded. He grabbed you without slipping out of you, pushing you to be the one on your back.

He pounded into you quicker than you had ridden him earlier, panting heavily next to your ear, lips pressed against your neck.

“I’m so fucking close.”, he muttered, his voice breathy.

“Keep going, then.” 

You grabbed his face, pulling him in for another kiss as you could feel his thrusts start to stutter, hands grasping the sheets next to your head.

He pulled out of you, leaving you almost painfully empty as he shot thick ropes of cum onto your stomach, moaning desperately against your lips.

With a final groan he collapsed on top of you, easing into your embrace as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

“That was perfect.”

#the fanfic writer's curse is real bc why did my insulin pump just disconnect and now my bloodsugar is like 400 while i was #trying to finish this damn fic wtf #sorry I'm not 100% proud of this but my brain fog is killing me i need to lie down lmao #Leon Kennedy #Leon Kennedy x Reader #Resident Evil fanfiction #ari writes #resident evil x reader #re fanfiction #leon x reader

[softartemisart]

i wish my cooking was so good that you could never resist eating everything i put in front of you. i want to cook a feast just for you and watch you struggle against your fullness to keep going, unwilling to stop despite the straining of your stomach. when you're truly too stuffed to do anything yourself, i want to rub your belly gently and hand feed you the rest, tell you how well you did, how beautiful you look, how proud i am of you. and i want to tell you how much i want to feed you again tomorrow

#art writes #the brain fog has been brain fogging and words have been Hard #but here's this thing #tummy kink #wg writing #feedism fic #stuffing #stuffing kink #feeding kink #feedism writing

[tennessoui]

writing warm up that got away from me

It takes thirty-two more hours for the realization to come to Sidious, and he blames Skywalker wholly for the delay. The boy's own stupidity and black-and-white view of the galaxy must be rubbing off on him, that's the only reason Sidious can think of for not having thinking of this sooner.

Kenobi. 

And Skywalker.

The answer has been sitting right before him this entire time, but he had been too blinded by his own hatred of Kenobi to see it. And Skywalker's hero worship of the man hadn't helped, of course. The way Skywalker talked of his old Jedi master evoked images of untouchable saints, glowing angels, benevolent deities...the same way he talked of those sentients he fancied himself in love with at the height of his relationships with them. Gilded and perfect and infallible. It was the way Skywalker loved, to paint his paramours as idols placed upon a pedestal.

How had Sidious missed that Skywalker had already done the same thing with Kenobi? Years ago! For years, he has endured Skywalker's fanatical praise of his Jedi master. He has listened to him complain about the man, his fastidiousness, his devotion to the Jedi Order--but oh, those moments that Sidious had made the mistake of agreeing with Skywalker's own words! He has never felt closer to losing Skywalker's trust than those times he let a bad word about Kenobi slip past his lips, even though Skywalker himself had already said much more damning things.

And yet no matter the argument, no matter the disagreement between Kenobi and Skywalker, Skywalker's faith in his master did not waver. He never took his master down from that pedestal, no matter how many times Kenobi revealed himself to be just a man.

Sidious has spent years resenting that, resenting Skywalker's unshakeable devotion to his master. He has spent years trying to ingratiate himself to the boy, trying to replace Kenobi as the boy's mentor, his father. And every time he has failed because it seems that no matter how often Kenobi manages to break Skywalker's heart, Skywalker gives it to him again without hesitation.

But...but if Skywalker were to see Kenobi through the lens of a man in love, if they were to fall into bed together and strike up a romance, then surely...surely Kenobi would flinch at the force of Skywalker's naked devotion.

#obikin #basically sidious decides to push the two of them together #thinking that kenobi will turn skywalker away or break his heart #but of course kenobi does not do that #because kenobi is also insane about skywalker #and sidious did not take that into consideration #this fic is challenging for two ways tho im writing directly into the ao3 box which i have never done #and also i am writing through massive brain fog #so i think half these words are not the right words #rip kit

[flowercrowngods]

for @evergreennwilloww, i’m sorry it kinda ate your ask but here’s your steddie first kiss prompt fill, hope this is fine 🌷🤍

There are many versions of Steve Harrington and Eddie is kind of obsessed with every one of them. But this one? Oh, this one might be his favourite.

Steve, comfortable in his bed, his eyes closed and small smile tugging at his lips, illuminated by the soft warm glow of the fairy lights they installed above the bed the other day.

Lying on his side, Eddie traces the play of light and shadows with his eyes, his hands itching and aching to follow, but he clenches them in the douvet so he won’t do anything stupid. Steve’s lashes are casting long shadows over his cheeks and Eddie wants to draw him. Again.

He sighs a little, sounding wistful even to his own eyes and he can feel his cheeks burning already, bracing for the worst. But Steve’s smile only widens, and even though his eyes are closed and he doesn’t move his head, Eddie feels like he’s been found out.

Steve’s hand is resting right beside his on the covers, and Eddie looks at it for a moment. They’re so close. They’re always so close lately, and Steve is always smiling, never moving away. Always staying, never leaving.

It drives Eddie insane. Takes his breath away, makes the world stop, leaves him aching and yearning and itching to reach out.

It would be so easy, too, to stretch out his fingers, move his hand just slightly until his pinky can wrap around Steve’s thumb. To play with his fingers, careful and gentle until his hand rests on top of Steve’s and their fingers can slot together like they were made to do.

So easy. And he can’t breathe, can’t hear anything above the sound of his own heartbeat when he moves, slowly, so achingly slowly.

And then Steve turns his hand. Palm up. Inviting. And Eddie’s breath hitches.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, though he barely has a voice, “or think it’s too much… Just pull away.”

Steve doesn’t.

The first touch is light, tentative, and it tickles. Makes Eddie huff on a smile, giddy all of a sudden. Giddy and disoriented and so, so brave.

Steve hums with the second touch, Eddie’s finger slowly running along his middle finger, tingling and warm, all the way down palm to his pulse point. It makes Steve’s hand twitch, almost reflexively, and Eddie wants more of it.

And then Steve’s eyes open and he turns to lie on his side, facing Eddie, never once moving his hand from where Eddie is playing with his fingers now, still so very tentative despite everything.

But Steve isn’t looking down at their hands like Eddie, and it makes him look up, meet his eyes. He’s never seen them so gentle, so bright in the soft light of the room, and it almost makes him look away again. But he doesn’t. Because he’s already being brave.

“Hi,” Steve says after a moment, finding the words he didn’t have all day. It fills Eddie with a different kind of warmth, knowing that Steve is being brave, too.

“Hi.” He rests their palm together now, his fingers moving in between Steve’s. But it’s Steve who really tangles their fingers, slowly, because Eddie can pull away anytime, too. He doesn’t.

And then Steve lays his other hand on Eddie’s shoulder, moving up, up, up, gently caressing the skin of his neck until it comes to rest on his cheek.

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, and Steve whispers, “Pretty.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie opens his eyes again, because Steve needs to know. He needs Steve to know.

“Yeah.”

And then they’re both smiling, holding hands in the soft glow of this moment they made for themselves and each other. The world stopped and they improvised to make a better one. A gentler one.

Steve is the one to close his eyes first, breathing for a moment, before, “Eddie?”

“Hm?”

Steve’s thumb caresses the back of his hand, drawing patterns of gentle bravery that send goose bumps all over his body.

“Can I… Do… Permission to lean in?”

He wants to think it’s ridiculous, wants to huff and chuckle and find some witty way to retort. But not now; not with Steve, not when he’s been fighting to find words all day and finally, finally has them.

This perfect, perfect boy is asking to kiss him. Asking if it’s okay. And Eddie wants to write poetry about it, about permission sought and granted. Permission to give you my heart? Permission to stop the world with you and make a new one, just for now, just for us, just for this?

Permission, because Steve wouldn’t do anything to hurt Eddie or make him uncomfortable. Permission, because Eddie gets a choice in this.

“Permission granted,” he breathes, revelling in the smile he gets for it.

And then Steve is kissing him. Gently, sweetly; a chaste little thing, hand on his cheek, thumb stroking along the dimples of the smile he can’t contain.

When Steve pulls away, his eyes are still closed but his smile speaks for itself. Eddie’s hand comes up to comb through his hair; and Steve rests his forehead against Eddie’s, their hands still holding, their knees now touching.

Steve Harrington has many wonderful versions. But this one? Oh, yeah; this one is definitely Eddie’s favourite. He leans up to brush a kiss to Steve’s forehead, and another when he hums happily.

Yeah. Definitely his favourite.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #hi uh words are HARD. i hope this is okay. maybe it isn’t. the brain fog is real and covid really left me with letter soup for a brain #dio words #prompt fill

[fogsblue]

Compared to the noise of Meridian, it's quiet in the mountains, and she enjoys the peace as she lands not far from where Kotallo asked to meet.

He looks back over his shoulder as she nears, a small smile on his face. Similar to the one he shares with their squad, but a softness Aloy has learnt is just for her. It would be easier to stop a Thunderjaw, than stop her matching it.

Not that she tries very hard.

Almost next to him, she catches the way his hand twitches, almost reaching back. Before all the reasons why she shouldn't—the end of the world, he might not feel the same— Aloy's reaches out, ready to take his hand. Her fingers brush his and he tenses. She stops moving,

Kotallo turns his head as his fingers curl gently around hers.

"Join me?"

Aloy doesn't reply, not in words. She simply smiles, threading her fingers between his and warms under his gaze, focused on her as she steps up beside him.

"Yes."

#look i just have a tiny little thought #i can't do a whole fic #but... i can do this. #at 6am and no sleep #aloy x kotallo #kotaloy #kotallo #hfw #horizon #fogs fic #or close enough #fogs game stuff

[fastcardotmp3]

Jonathan & El cw: implied past child abuse

The first time he hears her call herself bad it strikes him so hard in his sternum that he can't buck up and do something about it.

Jonathan looks at this girl, his sister, who has saved the world time and again, who had saved his brother from a slow death in a terrible place, and she lays claim to a badness that makes him feel kind of sick, actually.

It's the same feeling he got when Will started calling himself a freak, the same feeling he got when Jonathan himself first started learning to play music loud enough he couldn't hear his parents fighting in the other room, even years before he taught that trick to Will.

It's a feeling, ultimately, that swallows stability whole and leaves you to stumble across uneven ground until you find your footing again.

Jonathan just has to-- find his footing again. And that means someone needs to talk to El.

"Because I am," she says when he asks why she calls herself that, sitting at the kitchen table with two mugs of her latest culinary obsession between them-- hot chocolate.

"But what makes you think you're bad?" Jonathan asks, genuinely curious, genuinely getting thrown to the ground by the shake in the earth. "I don't think you're bad."

El presses her lips together, eyebrows low over her downturned gaze as she looks intensely at the little marshmallows sitting on top of her drink like she's trying to solve the puzzle of the world.

Jonathan supposes she kind of is, in a way, contemplating human nature after spending so many years being told what to be, how to fit within a certain set of parameters, how to behave the way Papa wanted her to.

That's another thing that gives him big feelings. Those feelings could probably be solved by caving Brenner's face in, though.

"I have hurt people," is what she lands on, still not looking up but the scowl line between her brows deepening.

And there's no denying it, she has hurt people; she's killed people, as a matter of fact, and she's watched them die, so there's no point in dodging the reality of that here, in trying to say you didn't mean to when he knows she did.

Jonathan opens his mouth and then shuts it again, though, catches himself in the act of trying to tell her that the good she's done outweighs the bad because, for one, he doesn't know if that's true, and for two, maybe it doesn't matter.

"You know," he clears his throat, elbows digging into the table and shoulders hunching up around his ears, "stories-- like Will's books and Hop's TV?-- have really obvious villains most of the time. Bad guys, right?"

El looks up at him, thinks about it, nods.

"Right."

"Okay," Jonathan keeps going, "well, that's because people have always been trying to find-- easy answers for hard things. Things like good and bad. So they created monsters who only ever hurt and heroes who only ever help.

"But, just because it helps us understand why people do bad things, it doesn't mean that-- none of it is really that-- black and white?"

"Black and white?" El questions, but she's not pushing back against him so Jonathan has hope that this is working in some way or another.

"Like, clear and obvious. Like everything has just one answer, but that's not really the case, is it?"

"No," she says with zero hesitation. "Some things are-- confusing."

"Yeah, they are. People are," he pulls his mug closer to himself and taps his fingers along the ceramic.

"So there aren't... bad people?" she looks confused, like she doesn't believe it, like she's actively losing faith in his judgement, so Jonathan shakes his head quickly.

"It's-- It's more like there are just people," he flounders. "And I really-- I don't think I've ever met a person that's only ever been good or only ever been bad."

El looks down at her hot chocolate. Grabs the can of whipped cream and sprays more on top of her cooling drink.

Doesn't take a sip.

"You've only ever been good," she says it slowly, obvious confusion still touching her tone in ways that don't even overpower the rush of emotion Jonathan gets and knowing she really feels that way about him of all people.

He breathes sharply through his nose, opens his mouth and shuts it twice before he manages to say, "I've hurt people too, El."

It's not going to be an easy thing, Jonathan thinks, making sure she understands that people are largely just the choices they make and that people are allowed to choose to change, to get better, and that the people who hurt her, the people she hurt in return, won't be missed by anyone who loves El but might be missed by someone and that no matter how complicated it is and no matter how messy and no matter how surface level wrong it may be she is still not bad.

It's not going to be an easy thing, made clear by the way she looks at him now and visibly tries to make sense of the fact that someone she had deemed as good could possibly have ever done wrong, because those people in that fucking lab drilled absolutism into her head from birth, but fuck. Fuck.

"You're just a person, is all I'm saying," he implores, because it's going to take longer than one conversation over hot chocolate to make any of it make a modicum of sense, even to him. "You're a person and we love you."

Something shakes loose in her gaze at that, a tension releasing from her shoulders, because if there's one thing Hopper and Joyce and those damn kids have done right it's making this make sense to her.

"I love you too," she tells him, and Jonathan has the self control of a saint to not start crying.

When she adds more whipped cream to her drink, he just follows her lead.

#dot post #dot fic #jonathan byers #el hopper #the byers hoppers #jonathan & el #stranger things #was going through my drafts bc I have the worst case of brain fog I'm trying to shake loose and found this half written #so have this attempt at jostling words out of my body!! #because jonathan and el deserve a sibling moment

[thewolvesof1998]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

Tagged by @jeeyuns (early but its already Tuesday night for me-it's that NZ time)

This is a secret fic that I started yesterday and only one person knows about it 👀 And if all goes to plan I'll be posting it in the next few days...

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads for his truck. He throws his useless toolkit in the back seat before getting behind the wheel. It only takes him fifteen minutes to get home and he really wishes that he lived further away from his aunt. He sits in his driveway for a conspicuous amount of time but he can't seem to get his legs working, something akin to panic making his body feel like lead. Buck will be texting him any minute now, asking where he is, he knows how long it takes from his Tia’s, which seems like intimate knowledge but Buck’s been intertwined with his family for about as long as he has known him. Just last week he’d helped Eddie fix Tia Pepa’s back fence and afterwards they had driven home in Eddie’s truck, Buck behind the wheel and trying not to be distracted by Eddie’s hand on his clothed cock. Buck had definitely run some reds and almost caused a fender bender but it had only taken them ten minutes to get home that day.

It was supposed to be a funny, lighthearted fic but it's by me so of course it's got some angst.

tagging: @wikiangela @wildlife4life ​ @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33​ @bekkachaos @buddierights @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @malewifediaz @your-catfish-friend @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @daffi-990 @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @mangacat201 @theotherbuckley @hoodie-buck @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @giddyupbuck @sammysouffle @smilingbuckley @jamespearce9-1-1 @carrierofthepaperclips @callmenewbie

#my adhd has been kicking my butt the last few days and not in the fun manic way but the brain fog depressed kind way #I'm surprised I had the spoons to write yesterday at all but inspiration struck #(the day before I literally wrote 51 words- a record low for this nanowrimo) #this is all to say I will get to all of your seven sentences Sundays soon I can't wait!! #9-1-1 #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie fic #thewolvesof1998 writes #wip #tease tidbit Tuesday #wolf's secret fic

[spinchip]

Making Electricity// You Can Feel it in Your Mind

pairings: Gen/no pairings

Wordcount: 2.5k

Authors note: Title from electric feel MGMT lol. I am sick so you know what that means *Inflicts the horrors on my blorbo*

Warnings: Zane is electrocuted. this is what the whole fic is about

Summary: Jay accidentally shocks Zane during a fight.

~

His world is eclipsed by a pain so deep and all consuming that it leaves his body singing after it is done with him.

His vision is a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that move and undulate in a constant flow. It’s a suggestion of the world around him, scrambled and shaken twice before it makes it to the part of his program responsible for interpreting reality. His vision is swarmed by a color- he knows his friends all have a signature color, but there’s a disconnect in his mind and he can’t understand what color he’s looking at. He is aware of the input but the information stalls and fails to process, leaving him clueless to the body at his side. His hearing is muffled and distant, the person is speaking but its formless syllables echo in his head as he tries to decipher it all. It’s overwhelming and he desperately wants to ask them to stop talking- but much like everything else, Zanes connection with his jaw has failed and he can’t vocalize a word.

He’s on his hands and knees- he doesn’t remember stumbling or falling. The amount of concentration it takes to keep his body off the floor is monumental- all his joints feel loose and liquid, like a light breeze could knock him over and scatter the pieces. He doesn’t know which way up or down is, everything swaying and twisting around him- his gyroscope is off kilter. It has to be. His clothes feel painfully tight- the person beside him touches his shoulder and Zane hisses in pain, and when he flinches away it knocks his hands from underneath him and sends him sprawling to the floor. Every one of his artificial nerves is on fire, like their sensitivity has been turned up past 11. Like someone had taken steel wool and scrubbed down each sensor until the wiring was exposed and sparking. He can’t feel his legs- the strangeness of that exacerbated by the fact he could still move them. The blobs of shifting light that he called his vision changed when he thought about moving his legs. He was watching them move. There was no input from the waist down, no data or pressure or spatial awareness to pin down how they were moving. Just that they were.

The air is sharp and chemical, ozone saturating every breath Zane takes.

He’s shaking. He’s breathing. There’s an awareness of the room creeping over the fog of his mind and he has to stop the ice from spreading- energy spits from his core and his chest feels hot and wet, his arms ache down to his fingers.

Something that sounds like it might be his name is called.

He’s on a table- a bed- it’s flat. He’s laying down. He’s so exhausted he can’t bring himself to think for several long moments, not processing any data his body is supplying him with. He drags a trembling hand up from his side and tries to focus on how many fingers he’s holding up. The fractals in his vision have merged and sharped to one point, but now everything is so fuzzy he can’t make out any details. His hand looks- dark. The casing is gone? The back of his hand, down his forearm, all bare- maybe more, but Zane doesn’t have the strength to turn his head. He slumps his hand next to his face instead of taking the effort to place it back at his side. A sound. Attempting to be soothing and soft, but his ears hurt anyway. Even that light, gentle sound input is overloading his processor and causing a sharp pain between his eyes. He feels nauseous.

What happened to the fight? Where was he? He doesn’t remember getting here. There were no memories connecting each moment. Did he black out?

His jaw is still locked. He beeps at the voice instead, a downturned note to show his disapproval of the silence being cut. A light turns on above him and his vision whites out completely, sharp piercing pain that feels like a fire has been lit in his face. He can’t close his eyes. He can’t do anything.

Zane wakes up.

He can see. It’s the first thing he acknowledges when his eyes open- still blurry on the edges, but clear enough he can make out where he is. It’s the garage, the one on the lower levels under the Monastery- in a back room that was tucked away from the rest of the place. There were desks in here, a few work tables for smaller scale projects and a couch that Zane was curled up on. There’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His skin still feels raw, but the blanket is soft and welcome and he tugs it closer. The lights are on and dimmed, just enough so that he can see around the room easily. There’s a glass of water next to him that's only half full, and an apple with a bite taken out of it that Zane puzzles over for too long.

His brain isn’t catching up with him. Thinking is like trudging through quicksand, and he keeps losing the thread he’s following and staring blankly into space before remembering he’s trying to figure out what that water is doing here. It means something, right?

A door clicks, and Zane looks up. Someone is in the room. Dark hair. He closes his eyes and thinks, dragging up all his memories until he finds her inside them.

“Nya.” He concludes. His voice is jittery on the edges, but he can speak now.

Nya nearly jumps out of her skin at his voice. She barely avoids spilling her coffee down her shirt, looking up from her phone that she’d been absorbed in. She sighs in audible relief, “Hey, Zane. How are you feeling?”

He stares at her for a long moment, watching as she approaches him and sits in the chair set up next to the couch. She waits patiently for him to formulate a responde, “...it is hard… to think.” He manages. “...Why…?”

She smiles weakly, “You were struck by lightning, Zane.” She launches into a well-rehearsed and poised description of exactly what type of internal damage he had taken and how the blow had affected his body and delicate electronics. Each word is delivered carefully and confidently.

“This… is not the… the first… time…” He closes his eyes at the effort, grunting unhappily.

“No, this is not the first time I've told you all this.” Sipping her coffee, she shoots him a tight smile, “Hopefully it’ll be the last, though. Can you sit up? If you’re feeling up to it, we can do a few tests and see where you’re at recovery wise.”

He pulls the blanket out from under him, struggling to unwrap himself before he hauls himself up. His right hand is completely exposed, no protective casing at all. The wires are all shiny and brand new. Zane doesn’t dwell on figuring that out. He’s not in his ninja suit anymore- he’s in his pajamas. Did someone else dress him..? Uncomfortable, but understandable and necessary.

As Nya tests his reflexes and asks him to unbutton his shirt to examine his power core, Zane tries his best to organize his thoughts. His upper chest plate is brand new- the pieces around it have strange spider webbing marks, yet to be replaced.

“Lightning…” He makes a sound in the back of his throat that’s supposed to be the word how? But it catches on his tongue and doesn’t come out right.

Nya understands anyway, but she hesitates. Finally, “It was Jay. It was an accident- do you remember the fight?”

The fight. He does remember- but he also doesn’t remember. Strange. The thoughts and memories surrounding the moments before his world turned sideways are disjointed and nebulous, hard to pin down and recall. He doesn’t remember why they were fighting. He had been in the middle of a fight with another man- no, he had just defeated him? He was standing alone, taking a moment to… to… analyze the field… no, he stopped because his head hurt. Didn’t he? The guy he’d defeated had gotten a lucky shot. His jaw had ached, possibly dislocated…? Then the world was a bright white-hot pillar of fire and nothing made sense anymore.

“Is Jay… okay?” The feeling of Nya's hands in his chest makes him shudder, which she nods approvingly at. His sensory input was reacting correctly.

“Er… Physically, he’s fine.” She reassures him, “But mentally… Well, he feels really guilty. He thought… we all thought it was possible he killed you. You would wake up but you wouldn’t retain any memories or information we’d give you. You just kept resetting.”

“How long…?”

“How long have you been out of commission?” She guesses. He nods and she sighs, staring at his core, “Three and a half weeks.”

Zane stares at her, dumbfounded.

“This was not a light blow, Zane. Your internal self repair programming system has really been struggling to deal with all the damage. It was touch and go for longer than I’d like to admit.” Her voice is gentle, “We’ve all been taking turns watching over you in case you wake up. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.”

“I… do not… feel good.” Zane says plainly, weakly pushing her away from him and ending the examination. She doesn’t fight it, leaning away and giving him space.

She motions to the water and apple, “Those are yours from before. You should eat and drink- I know you don’t need to, but your core took some damage and you're on an energy deficit right now. You need physical fuel.”

He falls asleep before he finishes the apple.

He comes back to consciousness again in the same room, curled up in the same way, tucked in with the same blanket. This time, sitting next to him is Pixal.

“Pixal.” he says plainly. He says it like he’s proving that he remembers her.

She’s on her Borg Data Pad when he speaks, and she politely closes the case and sets it on the desk behind her, “Good morning, Zane. How are you feeling?”

The words make more sense, “I remember.” He tries to tell her firmly, with conviction, but his voice croaks out awkwardly despite his best efforts. “I remember… talking to… to Nya last… night.”

She blinks. Her whole demeanor changes- her shoulder slump in a bone-deep relief, and her eyes close, and she even takes a deep breath in. when she releases it, it trembles. When she opens her eyes again they’re shiny and wet, “You scared me.” She tells him before throwing her arms around him in a hug.

“Sorry.” He apologizes, slumping boneless into her arms.

"We're not out of the woods yet but this- this is a huge step in the right direction." She doesn't squeeze him too tightly and he's grateful.

After another examination, Pixal asks Zane if he's feeling well enough to make a trip up the elevator to see the others. To be honest, Zane wants nothing more than to do that. It’s early morning according to Pixal. He could have breakfast with them. He doesn’t respond right away, thinking. Truly feeling out everything.

His body still aches, his vision is still blurry, and it’s hard to think. He has to sort through the fog to remember anything- but he can walk, and talk, and remember.

“...Yes, I.. I want to.”

She helps him hobble his way over to the elevator and braces him while they head into the monastery. They take a break at the couch so he can gather some energy before making the final stretch to the kitchen. She sits him at the breakfast nook table and starts on pancakes at his request.

He leans back in the chair and involuntarily his eyes close until he’s lightly dozing in his chair, the rising sun warming his metal skin.

“Zane?” Cole asks, jaw dropped at the door.

Zane blinks open his eyes and smiles, “I am… okay… ish.” He says gently, and politely ignores Cole's tears as he brings him in for a quick hug.

Kai comes in next and actually jumps up and down in joy, clapping his hands. Nya is after him, and her sour-puss morning attitude does a heel turn and now she’s absolutely glowing.

When Lloyd comes in, he cries the ugliest out of them all. Zane is weirdly thankful he can’t think too clearly, or else he wouldn’t be able to simply not think about the snot patch Lloyd left on the shoulder of his pajamas. As Lloyd wipes the last of his tears he says, “I'm going to wake up Jay. He’s been sleeping in and I think he’d like to see you the most.”

Accidentally, Zane drifts off again. It feels so nice in the morning sun, and he’s exhausted again. He can’t help it.

A hand touches his gently and Zanes' eyes flutter open.

Jay is sitting next to him, looking like a kicked puppy but sixty times more pathetic and sad. He’s staring at the point of contact between their hands and Zane has to focus really hard to understand why. More of those spider webbing patterns wind down his left hand. The casing on his right had been replaced, but his left was still… still scarred from the blow. This makes Zane feel lightheaded. The injury suddenly feels so real.

“I am so… so sorry.” Jay looks like he’s about to cry. Oh- oh Jay is crying.

Zane doesn’t want Jay to cry, “It is.. Okay.” he reassures him, raising a shaky hand to place on top of Jays, “I will… be… alright. It was… an… an accident, I… I forgive you.” He says, and he means it.

“I was stupid and reckless!” Jay insists, looking at Zane with a pleading expression. Like he wants Zane to be angry- like he thinks he deserves it.

Zane pats his hand, “Eat with me.” He says as Pixal brings them each a plate.

He has to let Cole cut his pancakes up for him- his motor skills are severely lacking. It will take time for the fried pieces of his programming to repair. The next few weeks are hard and frustrating- but his friends are there to help him eat, help him walk through the monastery, even remind him basic facts that his processing fog loses.

There are things he’s lost forever. Memories that don’t exist anymore.

“We could watch the original Starfarer movie? But we’ve all already seen it.” Kai hums as he pokes through the stacks of DVDs they were discussing for movie night.

Zane wracks his brain, “I… have not…” He rephrases, “I do not… remember seeing that one.”

“Aw, lucky! What I wouldn’t give to watch it for the first time again!” Jay laments, not stopping to think before he speaks. He looks absolutely stricken when he realizes what just left his mouth.

The words shock Zane so much by their absurdity that he barks out a startled giggle before following it up with actual laugh, tittering at the sheer wrongness of that whole sentence. Jay is smiling again, and the room feels lighter.

They were there to help him laugh, too.

#spinchip fic #zane julien #jay walker #ninjago #nya ninjago #pixal borg #injuries #electrocution #brain fog #pain #hurt comfort #angst

[bellaxgiornata]

Trying to figure out what all I'm posting this week because some of the many WIPs I've been hoarding are now fully written. I think I'll share 3 updates this week as my birthday week treat to y'all and save some fics for next week. Currently what I'm planning:

The first part of Break the Tension (Matt Murdock)

Part 3 "Tempted" for Forbidden Love (Henry from Eat Locals--assuming it's finished in time)

Part 5 of Seeking Forgiveness (Matt Murdock--it's the one I know you're all dying for)

I know I promised Distracted this week, but then I'd probably have to move the update for SF to next week and y'all might riot. Because I want to finish FL in October for spooky season and I'm very, very excited to share BTT. I'll share Distracted next week and maybe I can finish that Frank smut for then too because it's been a bit since he's gotten love.

#bellas story updates #brain fog lifted and now i have too many fics #and not enough time to share at once

[perfect-snaccccccc]

fuck it this year we are committing to making creatively indigestible shit. oh what’s that? The fics not posted in chronological order? tough shit figure it out. I didn’t tell you which character I was cosplaying when I posted it? use your imagination. You can’t tell what I’ve painted? neither can I - like did I even use paint or did I just face fuck my £2 canvas from tiger while I hate some raspberries? who knows? who cares. I shall not be a cog in the consumerist machine I shall not make sense I shall not use punctuation to clarify this statement just read it again and if I spelt something wrong no I didn’t.

creatively

indigestible

I am the fibre to my own creative constipation

thank you for coming to my tedtalk

#zero fucks left to give #shall only be indulging in the joy and the laughter #I will not let my final year of uni push me off the deep end #im going to recover my brain from the dense fog of frustration #I shall not produce #fuck capitalism #fuck consumerism #fuck everyone #fic writing #marauders fandom #the marauders era #marauders #jegulus #regulus black #marauders era #james potter #oisin being confused #sirius black #sunseeker #james freakin potter #wolfstar #idk whatever tags u like #drop suggestions #or complain about their relevance to the post #or just let me be a happy lil guy

[netherfeildren]

devoted husband joel miller save me devoted husband joel miller

#having joel birdie thoughts #he booted all the kids off to dina and ellie’s and tommy and maria’s and turned birdie into a pretzel for v day #isn’t he just the nicest best husband ever? #FoG fic

[boundbysand]

‘Being red heightened Scar's senses in a way he never would've thought possible. If he focuses hard enough, he can almost feel the beating of Grian's heart, he can almost see the vein of his pulse protruding from his neck. It was beautiful and tempting and horrifying. Scar finally manages to pull his eyes away from Grian when he gets the sudden urge to rip it out with his teeth.’

another wip paragraph

#i have not been able to write a lot recently but i am still very consumed by this drabble #i say drabble when it is. almost at 1k and just starting. whoops #anyways brain fog is consuming all of my writing energy but i will get back to this One Day #scarian #castor.exe #my fics

[peyton-warren]

Blinded by the Fog Chapter 9

Characters: Reader, Captain Syverson Pairings: Reader x Syverson, Jake Jensen x Reader Word count: 3686 Type: angst and fluff Warning: 18+. Minors DNI. You will need tissues according to my beta. Guilt, self-depreciation, self-doubt, loss of spouse and found family, swearing, adorably adorablness and sickeningly sweet Sy. Summary: Reader and Sy have their first official date.

Author's Note: So many people to thank for this one. Thank you to @ellethespaceunicorn for the beta and for helping me through some rough spots in this. Thank you to @adulting-sucks for her continued support and betaing. Thank you to @sarahdonald87 and @geralts-yenn for listening to me whine about this chapter their support.

Ask Box: Open

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Chapter 8 The following night you put your car into park next to Sy’s truck in his driveway a few minutes before you were scheduled to arrive for your first official date.  You nervously looked at yourself in the mirror, looking for imperfections for the thousandth time even though Aaran Syverson had already seen you at one of the lowest moments in your entire life just a few short weeks ago and still wanted to see you tonight.  

Flipping your visor back in place, you reached for the handle of the door, reminding yourself and the nervous butterflies that this was your idea.  Last night after you had assured Madre that you had made it home safe and sound, Sy and you talked more about apprehensions you both had and what you both wanted moving forward.  And it was quickly but delicately decided you would try actually dating.  That alone made you feel like a teen again, filled with excitement about seeing Sy in a more intimate way and also supplied you with dread at attempting to date in a town that seemed to be overstocked with people who knew about your recent loss.  You knew it was absurd to assume everyone who might see the two of you out together would think you were the world’s worst widow, but your brain would not let that possibility go.  Sy’s compromise was to have your first official date at his house the following night, he would cook for you. This plan seemed simple enough. The perfect combination of everyone’s wishes. But you couldn’t help the nerves now that it was here as you approached his front door, fidgeting with the skirt of your new dress for the millionth time.  

The new dress..... The one you had run off over an hour away to purchase this morning, deeming everything in your closet to be too tied to your husband, unable to shake the feeling you were cheating on Jake by agreeing to see Sy.  If you had new clothes, clothes your husband had never seen, never touched, it would make this semi-okay in your brain.  And speaking of never touched, you also took it upon yourself to buy yourself new lingerie.  You blushed hotly at the thought of the pastel purple set you were currently wearing under your dress.  You weren’t entirely sure you were ready to sleep with Aaran yet, but if it came up - excuse the pun- you were certain new undergarments should eliminate a portion of your hesitation.  

As you reached the door, you raised your hand to knock, only to have it opened before your knuckles could touch the painted surface.  You jumped, squeaked, and nearly dropped one of your gifts in your hands as you hid the second one behind your back with a rustle.  “Oh hi!” you tried to sound casual and normal as you looked up at your host leaned against his door.  And as your eyes flowed over him from toe to head, all rational thought disappeared from your brain, and you are fairly certain you need a bib.  

Dressed in jeans and dark blue collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and barefoot, Aaran exuded comfort and confidence all in one, something you wished you could say you felt at the same time. Your eyes landed on his sparkling blue ones as he finished his own perusal of you, making you flush as his eyes crinkle in the corner as his smile widened.   

“You look lovely,” he assured you, gesturing for you to step over the threshold by opening the door wider and stepping back with a nod.

Flustered, your eyes flitted around to find a safe place to land that was not on Sy as you entered his home. “Oh, I brought you these,” you stuttered, holding the hand not behind your back to offer him the six-pack of his favorite beer.  As his fingers brushed yours in the handle, you gasped, and looked up at him, his eyes trained on your face, the look both adoring and curious. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice comforting and alluring, and seeming to flow over you in a way that it had not just a few days ago, seeming to almost coat your soul.  

Self-consciously, your hand dropped from the handle, choosing to grip the side of your skirt.  “You’re welcome.  Oh and you look nice too,” you admitted, your voice just this side of stuttering.  You suddenly felt very silly about your second gift for Sy, realizing what you thought might be a fun and playful gesture might not come across that way.  You felt self conscious and awkward as he waited expectantly for your final reveal.  

On your way to his house when you stopped to grab the beer, you stood by the display filled with bouquets of flowers, partly thinking it would be a cute idea, that he would likely do the same if he showed up at your house to pick you up for a real first date instead of this hiding away game you were forcing the two of you to play because of your own insecurities about being recently widowed.  You had stood before the display trying to pick out the perfect bunch.  You wondered if Sy even had a favorite flower.  And if he did what would it be.  Are there any flowers Texas was known for?   And you realized quickly you didn’t know much about Texas or the man you were joining for dinner.  

“I have to get back to cooking,” Sy said softly, breaking you from your thoughts.  “Make yourself comfortable.  Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.  “A beer?” He raised the bottles in his hand with a soft smile, before wandering toward the kitchen at a slow pace, half watching you.  

“Water is great and I know where it is,” you insisted.  

“Nonsense,” he insisted, popping the beers in the fridge and pausing at the stove to stir something.  “Let me get it for you, grab a seat.” 

You entered his kitchen to be greeted by familiar lovely smells. “Oh my god, is that-“ you paused, smelling again, craning your neck to look at the stove from the doorway.  

Sy’s face broke into a broader smile from the sink  “It is.  I remembered how much you liked it when I made it for you a few weeks ago,” he stated, settling a glass of water near the stools at the breakfast bar.  

Your smile matched his as you watched him turn back to the stove.  “It smells as amazing as I remember. Can I do anything to help?”  

Sy glanced over his shoulder at you, a calming looking on his face.  “You can sit there and tell me about your day,” he insisted.  

You glanced at the stools and then recognized you still held your other hand behind your back.  “Hey before I do that, do you have a vase?” The eyebrow of meow appeared again and coasted high on his forehead.  “A vase?” he asked questionably, still looking at you from over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you responded, blushing.

He dropped the spoon to the stove top and nodded, licking his thumb and forefinger.  You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on his tongue and lips as he made a soft, subtle smacking noise.  “I do,” he admitted, heading towards you, noting the look on your face with a small smirk.  You stood frozen in place as he got within an arm's reach, all the while his eyes were trained on yours.  At the last moment before he would have bumped into you, he sidestepped, brushing his arm against the one you had tucked behind your back, a half-attempt to look at what you had hidden, as if he didn’t have a clue after your one question.  “But there’s a problem,” he softly admitted, as you turned, keeping your front facing him while bending your body back to keep his last gift out of his view.  He walked into a small room off of the kitchen that you had not ventured into during your last visit, and you followed through the open folded french doors.  On the other side was a small but well appointed dining room, and in the middle of it sat a beautifully set table, including a vase in the center filled with simple daisies with a few peace roses speckled throughout them, complementary greens in between and flowing from a glass vase.  

You let out a small gasp, with a soft smile.  “Those are lovely,” you admitted, mentally comparing them to the grocery store tulips behind your back.  

“We can find a glass for the ones you are hiding.” Sy teased, making you awkwardly offer them to him.  “They are lovely too,” he told you, taking them from you, before kissing your cheek.  “You are so sweet to bring them.” 

With your skin tingling from his affections, you shrugged.  “They are just-” 

With a gentle look over his shoulder, Sy cut you off.  “The first flowers anyone ever gave me,” he amended.  “And I love them, thank you.”

Following him back into the kitchen, you watched as he grabbed a tall pint glass from the cupboard before glancing at the stove.  “Could you do the honors?” he asked, gesturing to the flowers he had laid on the counter by the sink.  “I need to finish dinner.”

“Oh of course of course!”   You slipped your shrug off, draping it over a chair as you moved quickly to the sink as he headed to the stove.  “I need a sharp knife,” you stated after looking at the bottom of the stems realizing they were dry and likely not getting any water.  

Sy didn’t move from his spot but gave you directions to find a knife to your liking.  The kitchen filled with comfortable silence along with the soft music coming from somewhere, you finally realized Sy had music playing throughout the house since you stepped foot into the house.  You usually were the same though lately you had forgone music in your everyday life because every song seemed to remind you of Jake or another Loser.  Soon you found yourself moving to Stone Free, humming along with the Hendrix song as you trimmed the ends of the flowers, placing them in the glass filled with water one by one.  If you weren’t mistaken, you might have caught Sy watching you from the stove as he filled bowls and plates with your meal.  

As you put the last bloom into the glass, the song changed and your face lit up.  “I haven’t heard this song in ages,” you lamented as Mick Jagger began singing about being free to do what he wants, any old time.   Setting the makeshift vase and its contents on the counter closer to the stove, you sang softly with Jagger as you turned to look at Sy only to find him right next to you. With a growing grin on his face, he reached for you, and pulled you into his arms, one winding around your back.  Biting your lip you looked up at him while you slid your hand into his.  With very little effort, Sy carefully danced you between the counter and the center island of his kitchen.  Eyes always on yours, he led you into the open space of the foyer, making your smile widen as you followed his lead through the house.  

'Cause I'm free

To do what I want

Any old time

Sy spun you, extending his arm for you to step out away from him before drawing you back in, pulling your body flush to his.  With a smirk, he leaned you over, dipping you as the song ended, making your face burst with a smile and a blush.  He held you there for a second,  your chests slightly pressed together, your breathing heavier than normal, staring in each other's eyes.  After a moment’s pause, Sy opened his mouth. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he admitted softly.  

Without a second thought, you simply nodded. “Then I think you should,” you barely whispered, your heart all but bursting from your chest as Sy leaned in to kiss you.  You eagerly met his lips as he pulled you into a standing positions, his hands now sitting on your spine, holding you close to him as one of your hands threaded itself through the hairs on the back of his neck, a couple of the fingers on the other hand gently gripping at the front of his shirt, sliding around one of the buttons.  Standing on your tiptoes, your lips melded with his.  At first the kiss was gentle and sweet but as Sy’s lips parted, and his tongue stroked across your lower lip, the temperature shifted.  All thought disappeared from your brain, the world disappeared, all concerns about the impropriety of this flew out the window as your tongues stroked over each other and your breathing increased.  Sy’s hand slid up your back to tangle in the hair at the base of your neck, your fingers almost matching in pressure as your kiss continued to escalate, getting lost in each other until you heard an annoying buzzer sound from the kitchen.  

Sy pressed his forehead to yours after pulling his mouth away, but made no move to detangle himself from you.  “Dinner’s gonna get cold,” he admitted.  

Your eyes stayed closed as you shrugged, not wanting to move.  “What’s ‘dinner’?”

He guffawed before kissing your nose.  “God you are adorable.”  Your grin widened as you blinked your eyes open, looking at him as he slowly released you.  Not letting go of your hand, he led you back into the kitchen.  “Can I help get this to the table?” you asked. 

Within a few minutes, the two of you were seated at the table.  This was far from the first meal you had shared, but looking around the table you couldn't help but feel a bit flushed and giddy at the measures Sy had taken for this first date.  The butterflies were still fluttering in your stomach but they had settled some as you began to eat, chatting about your day, about work, about your lives.  All these things were not new topics for the two of you to share, but it felt different, more open, more sincere.  

After dinner, Sy filled your wine glass with water and a pretty slice of lemon before leading you out into his backyard.  There was a cute little setting around a fire pit, a smattering of chairs, and benches, and the pit looked like it was ready to be sparked to life with just a single match.  Overhead were Edison bulbs strung through the trees, giving the faintest of lights.   

You followed him down the slate path, bare feet feeling the residual warmth the stones still held from the disappeared sun. As you settled into the settee, Sy made quick work with the fire, as you had predicted and joined you.   Without a second thought you curled into him, pressing yourself to his side, your head landing on his chest, your hand on his ribs.  At first he extended his arms outward, almost surprised by your actions, but he quickly recovered, draping one arm over your back and shoulder, curling his hand over your upper arm.  His other arm came to rest on his thigh, while he pressed his cheek to the top of your head.   “This ok?” You asked after a moment.  

Sy chuckled. “More than ok, hun.  More than.”  He squeezed you tighter against him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”   

You gently shrugged, eyes focused on the dancing flames in front of you.  “I don’t know.  Because you’ve been sending me different messages.” You felt your cheeks heat up.  “One second you are looking at me like I’m the only woman on the planet, and the next you are pouring me a glass of water so I’m sober enough to go home.”   

“First of all, tonight you are the only woman on the planet as far as I’m concerned,” he admitted into your hair.  “Secondly,” he paused as he wrapped his other arm around you, holding you firmer to him. “You are going home tonight.”  His arms tightened as you stiffened against him, your hand landing on his chest to push  away from him, as if he just insulted you by making decisions for you.  “This is our first date,” he reminded you.  “It wouldn’t be proper or right for anything else to happen except a lovely kiss goodnight at my door.”

Your brain warred for a few moments. Both touched and annoyed at his thoughts. “But what if I wanted more?” you ask even though you honestly didn’t know if you wanted more than what he was extending to you tonight.  You’d be a liar if you hadn’t thought about what sex with Sy would be like. But you also knew you were terrified at taking that next step with him.  In your mind, that direction was a huge step towards getting over Jake.  And you weren’t sure you wanted to get over him yet.  You weren’t ready to assign him to your past, put him on a shelf. He was, is, forever will be part of you.  

You felt Sy kiss the top of your head, followed by a scruffy peck on your forehead.  His hand cupped you under the chin, turning you to look up at him.  He skimmed his hand over your cheek, catching tears on his thumb, tears you didn’t even know you had cried.  “Because this,” he held up his damp digit.  “Tells me you are just as scared as I am by the next step.”

Your eyes fly from his hand to meet his blue eyes in the shadows cast by the fire light, confused and a little stung by his words.  “You are scared of sleeping with me?” 

Sy sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts.  He tightened his hold on you, his hand landing on your cheek again.  “Yes and no,” he admitted, his eyes slowly opening.  You could see so much swirling in there, wishing you could read them.  “I am partly scared I will wind up just being the man who helps you get over the heartbreak of losing Jake.  That I’m the one who’s gonna put you back together only for you to find someone else when you are whole again.” His words stung hard, piercing through your heart.   

“I am not asking you to put me back together,” you assert, pulling back from him.  You fully extract yourself from him.  “I can do that on my own.  I thought this was something more than just that.” Abruptly you stood, making to move around him, intent on grabbing your things and going.  You didn’t need his pity date.  

“Sugar no,” he expressed, grabbing you around the waist and pulling you back.  He turned on the seat to face you, his legs on either side of you as you stood, arms crossed, staring at the house, not at him.  “This is more than that.  So much more than that,” he assured you, dropping his arm from your waist.  His hand reaches for your arm, gently tugging it from your chest, sliding his hand up your forearm to twine your fingers with his.  After a few silent moments, he sighed.  “I’m just scared,” he admitted.  “Very scared. Of losing you mostly.  You are the best thing to happen to me. Your pain and your struggles only highlight how incredible you are.  I’m scared you are going to get through the pain of losing Jake, and realize I was just something to hold onto so you didn’t lose yourself while you were healing.” You turned to look at him as his voice cracked. “That I was a mistake.”

Tears in his eyes were your undoing, the hurt you felt disappeared. Cupping his cheek, you stepped forward.  “Never a mistake, Sy,” you assured him.  “Never.”  He wrapped his arms around your waist and hips and drew you close to him. He pressed his face to your belly as your hand landed on his head.  “You have been my light, my guiding light as I work through all this. No matter how this works out between us, I will never think of you as a mistake.”  

The two of you stayed like that for an untold amount of time, your hand flowing over his shaved head. His face stuffed into your belly, your thighs pressed to his chest as you stared into the stars beyond the tree limbs surrounding you.  Sy felt right in a way that even Jake never did.  

With guilt you looked up into the sky, hoping Jake could forgive you for that.  You loved him, still loved him so so much. But what you had found with Sy was different, more supportive, more mature, more fulfilling.  You felt more tears fall from your eyes as you stared at the stars, remembering the first time you saw the milky way was with Jake, remembering that your first time for a lot of things was with Jake, remembering there was going to be no more first times with Jake.  

Unexpectedly and surprisingly, Sy drew you into his lap, settling back on the sofa.  Your knees landed on the cushion on either side of his hips as you allowed yourself to be manhandled into his embrace.  You both buried your faces into each other's neck. It was only then that you realized you were crying, nay sobbing.  You clung to Sy as rough as he clung to you, the two of you riding this emotional roller coaster together but separate.  But most importantly together.  Together you could weather whatever was thrown at you.  With him at your side, you could face your fears of the unknown, of the changes that you were going to meet.  You knew you could do it alone but you also knew you didn’t have to as long as he was around.  

Authors Note 2: The first time reader saw the milky way with Jake can be seen here.

Tags:

General Tag List: @littleone65 @mysweetlittledesire @jvanilly @identity2212 @avengersfan25 @foxyjwls007 BBTF Tag List: @mis-lil-red @sconnie-doesnt-know @ronearoundlightly @toooldforobsessions Syverson Tag List: @mrsevans90 HC Tag List: @m07belzen @used-to-be-bourbonwithice @hawklin @geralts-yenn @summersong69

As always if you wanted to be added or removed from a tag let me know.

#Blinded by the fog series #jake jensen x female reader #jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen angst #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson fic #captain syverson x reader #henry cavill character x reader #chris evans character x reader #henry cavill #syverson fanfic #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfiction #syverson fanfiction #captain syverson x ofc #syverson #syverson x reader #syverson smut #cpt syverson #henry cavill characters #henry cavill fanfiction

[bloodbot-brian]

Mechs Disability Headcanons

[plain text: mechs disability head canons]

[a lot of these are taken from conversations with my friend @carmillatism, so please go check mech out!]

-> Drumbot Brian:

[plain text: arrow drumbot brian]

disabilities and disorders: autism, adhd, ocd, pots, cfs, fibro, hEDS, short sightedness, tinnitus, gad, ocpd, ppd, stpd, bpd, dpd, dpdr

aids: service animal (teddy), cane, rollator, crutches, compression socks, stim toys/chewellery, anti-depressants, port

extra: fluent in BSL, faints very frequently, is very easy going on his body (probably the most out of all the mechs), takes care of others when they’re going through flare ups or meltdowns or other, both because he knows what to do more than others and because he likes taking care of people, does need help from others sometimes and has some anxiety surrounding that

-> Jonny d'Ville:

[plain text: arrow jonny d’ville]

disabilities and disorders: autism, adhd, ptsd, otosclerosis, scoliosis, arrhythmia, scad, costochondritis, fibro, nut allergies, npd, bpd, amputee, dermatillomania, pots, hpd, aspd, stpd, ppd, dpd

aids: service animal (beelzebub), cane, crutches, wheelchair, compression socks, stim toys/chewellery, epipen, hearing aid, g tube, AAC device, prosthetic left leg (from knee)

extra: stims with his guns safety a lot, is a carnivore and gets very sick/has flare ups when eating something that is not meat (can eat raw meat) but needs other nutrients through his g tube, fluent in BSL

-> Ashes o'Reilly:

[plain text: arrow ashes o’reilly]

disabilities and disorders: autism, adhd, asthma, costochondritis, cfs, fibro, dpdr, bpd, npd, hpd

aids: service animal (cerberus), crutches, wheelchair, nasal cannula, inhaler

extra: has a lot of asthma attacks due to smoking but doesn't stop, service animal is cerberus from udad, fluent in BSL

-> Gunpowder Tim:

[plain text: arrow gunpowder tim]

disabilities and disorders: autism, adhd, psychosis, monochromacy colourblindness, retinitis pigmentosa, cfs, fibro, bpd, hpd, npd, ppd

aids: guide/service animal (gunner), white cane, stim toys, anti-psychotics, communication/pec cards

extra: usually has a hard time being the gunner but loves just shooting at things, even if he cant completely see what hes aiming for, the aurora has braille everywhere for her to read when her eyes are particularly bad, fluent in BSL for good days when other mechs need to communicate with BSL

-> Raphaella la Cognizi:

[plain text: arrow raphaella la cognizi]

disabilities and disorders: autism, ocd, lupus, cfs, crohns, fibro, hEDS, bpd, npd, hpd, ocd, stpd

aids: service animal (carbon monoxide), g tube, cane, wheelchair, picc line, port, stim toys

extra: she gets very upset at not being able to do science on days where she can't do anything but will list her symptoms and experience to turn it into a small experiment, stims by pouring liquid between vials, spin is science (shes so carlos for that), fluent in BSL

-> Marius von Raum:

[plain text: arrow Marius von raum]

disabilities and disorders: autism, adhd, cfs, hEDS, muscular dystrophy, otosclerosis, pots, bpd, stpd

aids: service animal (gizmo), electric wheelchair, crutches, port, stim toys, hearing aid, compression socks, AAC device

extra: fluent in BSL, is the most likely to cause flare ups by overworking his body (hes just silly okay)

-> Ivy Alexandria:

[plain text: arrow Ivy Alexandria]

disabilities and disorders: autism, ocd, neuropathic pots, otosclerosis, cfs, fibro, epilepsy, tourettes, ocpd, ppd, bpd, spd

aids: service animal (daisy), cane, rollator, crutches, hearing aids, stim toys/chewellery, communication/pec cards, AAC device

extra: fluent in BSL, spin is books and languages, is nonverbal more often than not

-> Nastya Rasptina:

[plain text: arrow Nastya Rasputina]

disabilities and disorders: autism, hypovolemic pots, vEDS, hEDS, chronic venous insufficiency, raynauds syndrome, vasculitis, bpd, avpd, ppd, spd

aids: electric wheelchair, rollator, cane, ng tube, port, compression socks

extra: just stays up in the vents and talks with aurora on really bad days, body cant take solids most of the time, fluent in BSL, RSL and DGS

-> The Toy Soldier:

[plain text: arrow the toy soldier]

extra: is not real, so does not have any disabilities, but does use a cane to help stay upright, also is fluent in BSL, also uses communication/pec cards

#bear growls #this is for my fic so i can remember things since i have really bad brain fog! #i am going to show all of the mechs disabilities in all my mechs fics #and the one i am working on now #though mainly brians because its brian study #the mechs #the mechanisms #disabled #disability #disability pride month #long post #disabled headcanon

[flowercrowngods]

You know I'm always going to ask for more Who Did This To You

thank you, friend 🥰

who did this to you (pt.4) // tales of blue part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | read on ao3

Eddie has never felt as displaced in his own home as he does right now, watching Robin’s back as she’s standing on the front steps, shoulders all the way up to her ears, just looking out at the trailer park that seems so eerie tonight. Liminal, somehow. It would make a great painting. Caspar David Friedrich’s Man above the Sea of Fog, but it’s Girl above the Trailer Park, painted in ugly, fluorescent light. Waiting for her best friend to come to someone else’s home. 

He wants to say something, but somehow telling her, Hey, your fear looks vaguely artistic really doesn’t seem appropriate right now. 

Something about it will forever be burned into his memory, though; from the way her fists are clenched around the sleeves of his black hoodie that swallows her even more now than it did on the floor, to the way the neighbour’s front porch light is flickering, leaving the mess of her hair looking like a wavering halo of fear and tension. 

He swallows his comments, remaining silently frozen to the spot. Not sure if he should move. Not sure if he’s allowed to, or if everything and everyone should be suspended in time until Harrington is back. Until he is okay. Until Robin Buckley is her jittery, restless self again. 

#who did this to you #who did this to you part 4 #steddie #steddie fic #make me write ask game #anyway the image of robin as the wanderer over the sea of fog but it's the trailer park at night and she's in a too large hoodie?? #is now burned into my mind. and do you know what the hue of that painting is?? can you guess?? or do you simply know that it's #the shade of blue that steve claims depresses robin?? do you know?? does it hurt you like it hurts me?