#<- and i believe this is the one and only time that tag will be used on my blog

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"You're fucking cheating dude," Sterling sweeps the plastic chips from the table.

Colin and Trent cackle and Ryan cradles his head, a few too many cans stacked around him. The other girls giggle as they set on the foldout sofa. You watch from your perch near the window, uneasy from your run-in. You're almost sober. 

"You're a sore loser," Trent hurls back and belches. "And drinking all my beer." 

"The fuck ever. You said help myself." 

"Not much help can save you," Colin chirps. 

"Would you all stop whining? God, little boys," Angelique cackles. 

"Little boys?" Trent scoffs. "Not what you said last time--" 

"Average at best," she retorts. 

"Compared to some," Colin smirks, catching your eye. You glower and look at the wall. He's such a slime, yet you have bigger things to worry about. 

You turn and peer out over the deck. You squint into the dim blue and the stirring waves beyond the coastline. Did Bucky really mean it? Is he really watching you? 

Well, he said it himself. He told you, he warned you, how many times, and you were so set on what you wanted. So much so that you just didn't care about what he wanted. You can't really blame him after all. 

You put your palms to your neck and shudder. He said he went to prison. What did he do? You should have worried about that sooner... you should have thought a lot more about all of this. 

"Missing the geezer?" Harley snarks as she struts up, another bottle of neon swill in hand. 

"No, I'm just... tired. The sun..." you shrug, unable to finish the lie. Half a lie; you are exhausted. 

"You didn't tell us everything," Hazel approaches. "How big was it?" 

"Jesus," you gasp. 

"Oh, your prude days are over," Tracy snorts. "So," she puts her hands up before her, "tell me when." She starts to move them apart and you scoff.  

You roll your eyes as heat creeps up your neck. You want to stop thinking about him. Desperately so. You want to believe that if you do, he'll just go away. Bucky was great but scary. You played with fire and now you don't want to get burned any more than you already have. 

"You guys are children," you push away from the window frame and march buy them. "I need some air." 

"Were his pubes grey? Like one of those scouring sponges?" Colin taunts. 

You ignore him with a shake of your head and stomp behind his chair. You feel the air stir as he reaches for you. You dodge him and storm out into the balmy evening. The door snaps shut behind you and you huff. 

You cross your arms and pace up and down the porch. The boards creak and have you spinning with paranoia. You stop and stare out into the trees. It's too dangerous for anyone to be out there. Even him. 

You sit on the top step and lean your elbows on your knees. You cradle your head. You think about all the red flags you raced past. That shady bar and his bruised knuckles. Did he hurt someone that day? 

Then there's that other chill. Not fear, but deeper. The way he made you feel. His patience, his calm intent as he devoured you bit by bit. It was amazing but you're young and it just doesn't make sense. What do you really know about Bucky? You don't even know why he went to prison. People don't go for stealing five cent candy... 

The door swings open and the hinges squeak. You don't look up. It's probably Angelique coming to tell you you're being a buzz killer. Not really. You separated yourself from the situation. Better then sticking around and moping. She only knows how to make her problems everyone else's. You could blame her for all of this. She dared you to do it. Still, you did it. 

Footsteps tramp heavily up next to you and hop down on the second step. Colin drops beside you on the step and slings his arm over your shoulder. You shrug him off as he snickers. 

"You know, the old man's not around..." 

"Stop," you mutter and cross your arms. 

"Come on. It's vacation. Have a little fun," he plants his hand behind you, leaning against you. "I've been hard all day." 

"You've been a creep forever," you sneer. "I want you to go away." 

"Why? I mean. You wear that suit all day, ready to pop out, and you expect me not to notice?" He slides closer, nearly crushing you against the railing. 

"I didn't wear it for you," you push your elbow into his side. "Take a hint, buddy." 

"I took all the hints," he caress the top of your ass. 

You growl and lift your hand. You reel back but before you can swing, he flies forward and lands at the bottom of the steps. You squeal and look up as a deep black shadow puffs above you. Bucky steps to the edge of the top stair as Colin wheezes on the ground. 

"What-- How--" You stand and he catches your upper arm. 

"You're leaving. Now." He snarls. 

"Bucky, I was dealing with him--" 

Colin coughs as he writhes in the dirt. 

"Sure you were. Barely," he growls. "I seen men like him in the pen. Animals. He wasn't gonna stop." 

"Let go--" 

To your surprise, he does, but only to barrel down the stairs. He grabs Colin as he tries to sit up, gripping his wrist as he pushes his middle finger back. The pop of his joint roils in your stomach. Colin hollers. 

"Bucky!" You hurtle down and latch onto him. 

"Fucker! Touching my woman," he grabs another finger. "Wanna see what happens to rats like you--" 

"Bucky! Stop. Please. Don't hurt him--" 

"What the fuck is this?" Angelique's whiny screech comes from behind a flash. You turn as she lights up the seen with her phone. "Oh my god! Are you serious?" She slams each foot down as she crosses the porch. "You invited this loser? Withou even asking?" 

"No, I--" You cling to Bucky as you tug on him. "I didn't--" 

"Don't fucking worry," he throws Colin's arm away and boots him in the side. "I don't wanna fucking be here." He turns to face the others as they follow the chaos outside. "I came here to take her away from you filth." 

"Filth?" Harley gasps. "Excuse you. You might be hot as fuck but you can't talk to us like that." 

Bucky walks up the steps calmly. "You gonna stop me?" 

Harley backs up and grabs onto Hazel. Both of them hide behind Sterling who just stares, a drunken droop in his eyelids. The others gape, sharing looks as aimless as your own. What do you do? 

You're jostled from behind and stumble. Colin staggers up the steps only for Bucky to spin and send him plummeting again. The crack of his fist carries up into the sky. He shakes out his fingers then points at you. 

"Go get your stuff. Now." 

The thunder of his voice, the violence he's wrought, it has your throat in a snare. You can't breathe, you can't think. Why is he doing this?

"What the fuck--" Kissie exclaims. 

"Bucky, please--" you put your hands up. "Don't hurt anyone else, okay? I'm going to.... I'm going to get my things. Alright? Just no more hitting." 

He glares at you then tilts his head. "Five minutes." 

You gulp and sidle past him. As you get to the top of the steps and Angelique postures, "yeah, get the fuck out of here, slut." 

You flinch. It was always a joke before. Whore, slut, bitch; not anymore. The venom in her voice makes your insides sour. 

"Ang?" 

"You ruined this whole fucking night," she shoves you. 

She squeals as suddenly her arm is wrenched back. Bucky spins her, pulling her wrist between her shoulder blades. Trent and Sterling step up but Bucky doesn't relent. 

"Trying it, you skinny fuckers," he barks. 

They stop. Trent clears his throat, "look, dude, let her go and get out of here." 

"I will," Bucky looks at you. "Go on, doll. Before anyone else does something stupid." 

You look at him. His face is cast in darkness but you feel the anger roiling off him. You turn and flit inside. The door is caught behind you. 

"Are you fucking serious? You brought that criminal here?!" Harley's on your heels. "He's hurting Angie." 

"I'm going, okay? I'll get rid of him." 

"Doesn't change that you led him here--" 

"Would you shut up?" You grab our phone and spin to face her. "And grow the fuck up. Stop whining. All of you are so immature and maybe I'm better off without you. Even if it's with him." 

Ryan falls out of his chair and belches. "Shhhhhh, sleep." You stare at him as he all but reaffirms your statement. You frown at Harley and throw your hands up. 

"Wow, you're a bitch," she sneers. 

"Sure. Yeah, whatever you say," you drop your shoulders and brush by her. 

You go down the hall and grab your bag out of the room. You turn back and ignore Harley and Hazel as they stand just inside the door.

You step out, your stomach plunging, the sudden drop of your heart nearly folding your legs. Kissie is down with Colin as he whimpers and holds his hand. Bucky release Angelique and she whines. She stops a few inches from you. 

"Get the fuck out of here!" She snivels and bats her lashes against a wall of tears. 

You don't say a word. You're too embarrassed, too afraid. You don't have much of a choice. Your so-called friends wouldn't let you stay even if you could stand up to Bucky. What friends? Shouldn't they protect you like they did Angelique? 

Bucky grabs onto your wrist as you near and drags you down the steps. You stumble but keep your feet moving. You don't look back. You can hear Angelique hurling insults under her breath as everyone else comforts her. Your eyes sting. They really don't care about you. 

"Come on, doll," Bucky lead you into the dark, not hesitating as the gloom surrounds you. "They ain't no good for you." 

You let him. You give in to your own bad decisions. How stupid! 

It’s jarring how only last week, you were so excited, thrilled about this man. You were intoxicated by him and now you are terrified. That liberation has turned into entrapment. 

He stops you as you trip over an unseen root. He pauses then a light blooms ahead of you. He uses his phone to light the way. His bike is just ahead, like a beast against the evening hue. 

He takes your bag and shoves it into the saddle bag. Your phone drops as he does and he quickly swipes it from the ground. He puts it in his pocket. He grabs a helmet and puts it on your head. You wince as he secures the strap. 

“Bucky,” you croak. “Bucky, please...” 

“It’s late.” 

“Yes, and dark. It’s not safe--” 

“Don’t tell me what’s safe,” he snaps. “Not after today.” 

He puts his own helmet on then grabs the jacket draped over the seat. He puts his leather coat on you. The summer night has a sliver of a chill on it. He zips it to your chin then taps the rear seat. The one he installed only days after you met. 

He straddles the bike and extends his arm out. He helps you on behind him and you squeeze his shoulders to steady yourself. He exhales and leans back into you. 

“You know, doll, I missed you. I didn’t come to punish you,” he sits up and straightens the bike. “I came to save you.”  

He twists the ignition and the bike roars to life. It rumbles beneath you and you wrap your arms around his middle. You rest your head against his back as he twists the throttle. As the bike tears forward and he steers along the narrow path, your tears spring forth. A tunnel of wind encases you, adding to that sense of suffocation. 

He told you who he is. He told you what he is. Why didn’t you listen to him? 

[sh4nksslvt]

Got married by accident… Thanks, Vegapunk?

You and Luffy accidentally get married by a hyper-intelligent vending machine on Egghead Island. The crew takes it way too seriously, but Luffy is surprisingly into it.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, acc!dental marriage, ooc a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 706 : 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Egghead Island sparkled like something out of a futuristic dream. Or a nightmare. Depending on who you asked.

Laser drones zipped overhead, holographic sharks swam through the air, and the vending machines charged a 40% service fee to flirt with you.

You were already over it.

“What the hell is this?” you asked, staring at the sleek, metal screen of a suspicious-looking marriage kiosk that had popped out of a wall.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NUPTIAL INTEREST!" it blared.

You winced. “Nope. Not interested.”

Behind you, Luffy was already poking the glowing buttons like a toddler with a remote. “Oooh! What’s this do?”

“Don’t press that.”

He pressed it.

A beam of golden light scanned the both of you. "MATCH ACCEPTED," it beeped. “YOU ARE NOW LEGALLY MARRIED UNDER VEGAPUNK CODE 6.66 SUB-SECTION WE BALL.”

You blinked. “…What.”

Luffy blinked. “Cool.”

He grabbed your hand with that signature, easy grin. “We’re married now! Sweet!”

“LUFFY—”

Twenty seconds later, the rest of the crew found out.

Chopper: “You guys WHAT!?”

Sanji: (sobbing) “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME, Y/N-CWAAAAN!?”

Robin: (smiling behind a book) “How lovely. I hope it was a beautiful ceremony.”

Zoro: “Of course you two would get hitched by a vending machine.”

Franky: “THIS IS SUPER!! WE GOTTA THROW A RECEPTION!!”

Jinbei: (serene) “I’ll call this divine destiny.”

Usopp: “Waitwaitwait—do we all have to get married now?? Is it contagious?!”

Nami, arms crossed, was the only one who looked vaguely sensible. “We’re not on a honeymoon, you idiots. We’re on a mission. Can’t believe you got fake-married on an island run by six genius maniacs.”

“It’s not fake,” Luffy said proudly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

“It’s legally binding,” the vending machine added.

“LUFFY,” you groaned, facepalming. “We are not actually married—”

“But you held my hand,” he said with a pout.

“I was trying to stop you from pressing the stupid buttons!”

“But you didn’t let go shishishi” he added.

You were going to kill him. Or maybe yourself. Or maybe the vending machine.

Over the next few days, the crew refused to let it go.

Nami “accidentally” started assigning you and Luffy shared quarters.

Franky built a honeymoon hover-chair for two that followed you around and played romantic music at inopportune moments.

Brook wrote a song called “Wedded Bliss on a Warped Island” and played it constantly.

Zoro made gagging noises every time you entered a room.

Even Vegapunk Stella got involved.

“Fascinating bond signature,” he mused, looking at the machine’s readings. “Unusual compatibility levels. Perhaps a cosmic entanglement. Or just dumb luck.”

You were ready to drown in holographic seagull juice.

Luffy didn’t help.

He insisted on calling you "my spouse."

He’d hold your hand while walking down the lab halls like it was the most casual thing ever.

He used you as a pillow during naps—okay, not new behavior—but now he’d nuzzle your shoulder and murmur, “This is what married people do.”

You tried to zap him with a soft stun from your energy-based power.

He laughed and asked for more.

He started sharing his food.

You shared back.

He offered you half his meat skewer.

You offered him half your fruit cube.

You even started sitting next to him at dinner on purpose.

...You were doomed.

One night, while stuck in a laser barrier room together (thanks to Luffy pressing another suspicious button), things got quiet.

“Hey, Y/N,” Luffy said, lying next to you on the cold sci-fi floor.

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna be married for real someday?”

You paused.

“With… you?”

“Yeah.”

You turned to face him. “You don’t even know what marriage is.”

He smiled, soft and crooked. “I know it means I get to be with you all the time.”

You blinked. Your powers, which usually sparked when you were annoyed or overwhelmed, glimmered gently around your fingertips like starlight instead.

You didn’t respond. Just nudged his leg with yours.

He took that as a yes.

The next day, the machine short-circuited itself trying to process “divorce.”

You pretended to be annoyed.

But when Luffy yelled, “Don’t worry, I didn’t want a divorce anyway!!” and tackled you into a hug, your powers sparked again—glowing soft blues and pinks this time.

And you let him hold you.

[ggukivrse]

falling for you | myg

summary. you and yoongi have been best friends since childhood, and you pride yourselves in knowing everything about each other. well… everything except the quiet, growing warmth neither of you dare to name

pairing: min yoongi x reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, idiots to lovers (they’re both so oblivious omfg), fluff, angst

word count: 5.5k

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, kissing, lmk if i missed anything!

note: it’s my birthday :> i mentioned this in my wip update, but i’m posting this cuz i feel bad that i’m not able to get the jk fic out in time and wanted to give you guys at least something. i wrote this ages ago and only briefly edited it, so it’s probably not amazing loll. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are really appreciated!! enjoy reading my angels <3

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

The sun is way too hot for a Saturday. It’s one of those summer days where everything feels too bright and too loud — ice cream truck music echoing down the street, kids screaming over who’s “it” in tag, and the cicadas loud in the trees.

You sit on the curb in front of your house, legs stretched out so far that your toes are practically cooking on the asphalt. Your thighs are sticking to the concrete, and the back of your shirt is damp with sweat. You’re a little bit miserable, but not really. Because Yoongi’s next to you.

He’s got his usual half-annoyed, half-bored face on, like he can’t believe he let you talk him into running around the neighbourhood all morning.

His knees are scraped — both of them. One of them is still bleeding a little, but he doesn’t seem to care. You care more than he does. You tried to wipe it earlier with your sleeve, and he just grunted like an old man and told you to stop fussing.

Now, he’s eating a blue raspberry popsicle like it betrayed him. Slow bites. Little scowl.

You glance over at him and then back at your own red one. You’ve already got sticky syrup running down your wrist because you keep forgetting to lick the sides.

Yoongi nudges you with his shoulder. “You’re making a mess.”

“So?” You lick your wrist dramatically. “I’m still eating it.”

“That’s gross.”

“You’re gross.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes another angry chomp out of his popsicle and kicks a pebble with the tip of his shoe.

There’s a comfortable silence for a bit. Not quiet — nothing’s ever quiet in your neighbourhood — but the kind of silence that feels like its own little bubble. Like you and Yoongi have your own world, just the two of you, sitting on the curb with sticky fingers and banged-up legs.

You glance over at him again. He’s squinting into the sun, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, a little piece of popsicle juice on his chin.

You say it without thinking.

“I’m gonna marry you when I grow up.”

Yoongi freezes.

You blink. You weren’t really planning to say that out loud. It just slipped out of your mouth. But now it’s out there, just floating between you like a bubble that’s either going to pop or land.

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You’re not. You shrug like it’s no big deal. “I mean, you’re my best friend. You’re funny. Sometimes. And you always give me your pickle slices when we eat burgers. That’s boyfriend stuff.”

He snorts. It’s a weird, sudden little laugh, like he can’t stop it in time. “You’re so weird.”

“You’re weird too.”

“Yeah, but you’re weirder,” he says, but he’s smiling now, and there’s a faint pink blooming on his ears that you don’t notice at the time. You just smile back like you’ve won something.

“So you’re saying yes?” you press.

“I didn’t say that,” he grumbles, and looks away quickly. “You’re gonna forget, anyway. You’ll probably marry some tall idiot who plays guitar or something.”

You kick at his foot. “Nope. It’s you.”

He sighs like he’s got the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders. Then he turns to you and says, “Fine. But only if you stop stealing the last popsicle.”

You hold up your half-melted red one. “Deal.”

And he bumps your shoulder again — lighter this time — and finishes the rest of his popsicle in one bite like a monster.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the moment that will live in the back of his head forever, long after the popsicles are gone.

You just know the sun’s still too hot, the ground is still too hard, and Yoongi’s still here. Right next to you. Where he always is.

You’re laughing again.

It’s loud — too loud for the classroom, and definitely too loud for whatever dumb joke just came out of Hoseok’s mouth. It's probably not even that funny, but you’re leaning over your desk, face buried in your folded arms, shaking with laughter like it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever heard.

You’re wearing that white top again — the one with the fraying sleeves that you play with when you’re thinking. Your hair’s a little messy from gym. There’s a tiny smudge of ink on your cheekbone.

And Yoongi is staring at you.

He doesn’t mean to. His eyes just find you like they always do. Like it’s a reflex.

You throw your head back and laugh harder, and something happens in his chest. Not a big, dramatic boom or anything. It’s smaller than that. Quieter. A weird little flutter, like his ribs just skipped.

He blinks. Looks down at his notebook. It’s blank.

Focus. Come on.

The teacher’s still talking about sentence structure, and Hoseok’s still trying to make you laugh again, and you’re still glowing in that obnoxious, infuriating way that makes it impossible to think.

Yoongi grips his pencil tighter.

You’re just his best friend.

You’ve always been his best friend.

Since the popsicle days and scraped knees and pinky promises made without thinking. Since birthday parties with too much sugar and movie marathons where you fell asleep on his shoulder and drooled on his hoodie.

You’re his person. That’s it.

Right?

He sneaks another glance at you.

You’re trying to stifle your giggles now, hand covering your mouth, shoulders trembling. And Hoseok looks at you like he’s proud of himself, like he wants to make you laugh again. Yoongi wants to tell him to shut up. Wants to drag you out of this classroom, down the hall, outside, anywhere.

Away from everyone else.

Just so he can have you to himself for a little while. Just so he doesn’t have to share.

He swallows.

What the hell.

This isn’t... this isn’t how it's supposed to feel. He’s supposed to roll his eyes when you get like this, not sit here with his heart doing gymnastics over your smile. He’s supposed to find you annoying when you poke him in the ribs during class or call him "Grumpy Yoongi." But instead, he finds himself hoping you’ll do it again.

He looks down at his notebook again. Still blank.

Great.

He tries to tell himself it’s just a phase. A random glitch in the system. You’re still just you. Still loud and stubborn and kind of a disaster. Still his best friend. That hasn’t changed.

He glances at you again — now you’re doodling little stars on the corner of your worksheet, tongue poking out in concentration — and something in him quietly, undeniably shifts.

He turns back to his paper, presses the pencil down too hard, and curses under his breath.

Because he knows.

Even if he doesn’t want to know yet.

Middle school parties are always weird.

Too many kids crammed into someone’s basement, bad pop music echoing off the walls, the lights dimmed just enough to feel scandalous. Someone's older sibling is “supervising” from upstairs but mostly just stealing snacks and pretending they don’t hear anything.

You’re sitting on the floor with a half-melted cupcake in your lap and Yoongi next to you, shoulder grazing yours every few minutes.

There are about ten of you in the circle. Everyone’s either trying to act too cool or trying too hard. You’re somewhere in between — buzzed on sugar and nerves, pretending you don’t feel weird sitting this close to your best friend.

Truth or Dare starts like it always does: harmless. Embarrassing questions. Dares to do a cartwheel or chug a Capri Sun in under ten seconds. You're mostly laughing, swatting at people’s arms when they try to rope you in.

Until Ari — a classmate of yours — grins at you like she’s plotting something.

“Your turn,” she says, eyes flicking to Yoongi. “Truth or dare?”

You toy with the edge of your sleeve. “Dare.”

Her grin widens.

“I dare you to kiss Yoongi.”

There’s a chorus of gasps and dramatic “ooooh”s. The kid next to him starts laughing. Someone else claps like this is the best thing they’ve seen all night.

Your face burns instantly.

You glance at Yoongi. He’s frozen. Stiff. His hands still on his knees, his mouth slightly open like he was mid-breath when the dare landed.

You laugh it off. “Wow. Okay. Real original.”

“Come on,” Ari says, nudging you. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, it’s just a dare,” someone adds. “It’s not like you guys haven’t known each other since diapers.”

That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes your stomach twist harder.

You look at Yoongi again. He meets your eyes this time.

And something… flickers.

His expression isn’t teasing. He’s not rolling his eyes or laughing with everyone else. He looks nervous. Careful.

He clears his throat. “Only if you’re okay with it.”

You try to sound casual. “It’s fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

But you can’t stop your heart from racing.

You both shift toward each other, awkwardly, slowly, like two magnets confused about which way they're supposed to go. He’s so close now you can see the way his lashes touch his cheeks, the tiny mole just above his lip, the uncertain way he tilts his head.

Someone counts down, loud and obnoxious. “Three! Two! One!”

You kiss him.

It’s not long. It’s not deep. It’s just a press of lips — barely there, barely breathing.

But it’s soft.

Way softer than you expect.

Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t push forward. Doesn’t pull back. He’s just… there. Warm. Still. His lips are chapped but gentle, and his breath stutters against yours for a half-second before you both pull away like the floor’s about to collapse.

The room explodes. Cheering. Laughing. Someone yells, “They’re in love!”

You grab the cupcake from your lap and toss it at them.

Yoongi stares at the floor. He scratches the back of his neck and mutters something you don’t catch. His ears are red.

You force out a laugh. “You guys are ridiculous.”

But your voice cracks on the end.

He doesn’t meet your eyes for the rest of the game. You pretend not to notice, but you do. You notice everything — how quiet he gets, how he taps his fingers against his knee, how he shifts away from you just a little when someone else sits down on his other side.

And you tell yourself it was nothing.

Just a stupid dare.

Just a game.

----

You’re lying on your stomach on Yoongi’s bed, chin propped on your hands, staring at your phone like it’s a live grenade. The text is typed out already. It’s stupidly short. Two sentences. Fourteen words. You’ve reread it twenty-seven times.

Yoongi’s next to you, sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall. He’s flipping through the songs on your playlist like it’s the most boring job on earth. His thumb pauses on a song you like and skips it.

You glare at him. “Hey. I like that one.”

“Yeah, and I’ve heard it a million times. Get a new personality.”

You kick at his leg. He dodges without looking.

The light in his room is warm, and the windows are cracked open just enough to let in that late-afternoon breeze. You’re both still in your school uniforms, slightly wrinkled from the day. His tie’s loose. Your shoes are off. It feels normal. Comfortable.

But it doesn’t feel easy anymore.

Your phone screen dims. You tap it back on and sigh, loud and dramatic.

“I think I’m gonna send it.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “Send what?”

You roll onto your side so you can face him, and your heart kicks like it’s trying to climb out of your chest. “The text. To— uh— Taehyung.”

Now he looks at you. Blankly. Like you just said something in a different language. “Taehyung?”

“Yeah. From science.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts. Slight. Quick. Like a flicker of static.

“You like Taehyung?” he says flatly.

You nod, even though your stomach doesn’t. “I think so. He’s funny. And he smells nice.”

Yoongi snorts. “You’re so shallow.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” you shoot back, but it’s softer than it should be. You’re trying to keep it light. Playful. Like this doesn’t feel wrong already.

There’s a pause.

Then he shrugs and holds out his hand. “Let me see the text.”

You hand it over without meeting his eyes.

He reads it silently. It’s short, awkward, obviously written by someone pretending not to care too much.

hey, i was wondering if you maybe wanna hang out sometime? no pressure lol

He raises an eyebrow. “You used lol. That’s tragic.”

“I panicked!”

“You sound like a robot. A sad, nervous robot.”

You grab a pillow and smack him with it. “Then fix it, genius!”

He laughs — really laughs — and wrestles the pillow away from you like it’s a life-or-death situation. His fingers brush yours in the process.

You still.

It’s barely a touch. Just a moment. But your body reacts like it always does now; your stomach flips; your face burns. And then the guilt rushes in.

You asked him to help you text another guy.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. He’s busy editing your message, adding a line about how you liked Taehyung’s project on sustainable energy (you did not). Then he adds a smiley face. The old-school kind, with a colon and a parenthesis.

“There. Now you sound like a dork, but at least a sincere one.”

You take the phone back and read it.

hey, i liked your science project btw. wanna hang out sometime? :)

Your thumb hovers over the send button.

You glance at Yoongi.

He’s staring at the ceiling now, one leg bouncing absentmindedly. He looks bored. Normal. Like this doesn’t matter.

You hit send.

It feels like swallowing a rock.

----

You don’t see him at first.

You’re on the couch, curled into Taehyung like you belong there — knees tucked between his, hand lazily draped over his arm, head thrown back in that kind of laugh you don’t fake. The kind that starts in your chest and takes over your whole body.

Taehyung’s saying something low in your ear, his voice too soft for anyone else to catch. You lean in, partially to hear him better, partially to get closer to him.

Yoongi walks into it like a punch.

He hadn’t planned anything dramatic. He’s holding a plastic bag with snacks — some random things he knows you like — intending to drop by like always. Just show up, sit too close, talk about nothing until the day disappears.

But you’re already laughing. And it’s not at something he said.

He stops halfway into the room.

You still haven’t noticed him.

Taehyung sees first. He looks up and gives a casual, almost smug nod. “Yo, what’s up?”

You turn your head fast, like you’re caught doing something wrong. But your smile doesn't fade. “Hey! You didn’t text me you were coming.”

“I did,” Yoongi says. “Like ten minutes ago.”

You blink. “Oh. Sorry.”

You shift slightly, pulling your legs back, not completely — but just enough that you can pat the spot beside you like nothing’s weird. “Come sit.”

He does. He sits. Of course he does.

He drops the bag on the table and slides into the open space next to you, but it feels exactly like what it is — too late.

The three of you make some awkward, half-hearted small talk. Taehyung says something dumb about your chemistry class and you laugh again — less wild this time, but still bright.

Yoongi forces a smile. It stretches across his face too tight. “Didn’t know this was a thing now.”

“What?” you ask, but your voice has that careful edge to it. You know what he means.

He shrugs, cool and neutral. “You and Taehyung.”

Taehyung answers for you. “It’s not, like, official-official. Yet.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, not looking at Yoongi when you say, “We’re just seeing where it goes.”

Right.

Cool.

Yoongi leans back against the couch and nods like that makes perfect sense. Like it doesn’t feel like someone just hit the mute button on the world around him.

You look happy. And not in a fake, putting-on-a-show kind of way. You’re relaxed. Glowing, even. And Taehyung? He’s just there. Confident. Comfortable. Sitting way too close.

Yoongi swallows it all.

The way your fingers had been resting on Taehyung’s arm like it was nothing. The way you pulled your legs back but didn’t move farther away. The way his name sounds too easy coming out of your mouth.

He laughs dryly at something Taehyung says — he doesn’t even hear what it is.

And he stays. Of course he stays.

Because he’s your best friend.

That’s what he is. That’s what he’s always been.

And if it hurts, if it feels like the room is spinning just slightly off-axis — well.

You don’t need to know that part.

----

You don’t cry right away.

At first, you just laugh. Too loud. Too sharp. The kind of laugh that feels like it has nowhere else to go.

You sit on the edge of your bed, phone still in your hand, screen black now. The last text from Taehyung stares back at you in your head, branded there like it wants to stay.

“I just don’t think this is working anymore.”

No call. No warning. Just a half-hearted paragraph and a stupid, passive “sorry.”

You set your phone down on your nightstand. It slides a little and stops.

You stare at the wall across from you. It’s the one with the old polaroids and dumb notes and a drawing Yoongi made of you in sixth grade that looks like a potato with hair. You don’t blink. You barely breathe.

The first tear slides out before you even notice it. Just leaks out. Quiet. Like your body knew before your brain caught up.

And then you’re crying.

Not pretty, dramatic crying — the ugly, silent kind where your chest hurts more than your heart and you can’t quite breathe right. Your hands shake. You press your face into the pillow to muffle the sound, and it doesn’t help. You feel like you’re sinking through the bed.

It wasn’t even a long relationship. A few months. A few kisses. Some hand-holding and shared playlists and awkward texts. But Taehyung made you feel seen. Liked. Wanted.

And now you feel... disposable.

There’s a knock on your door. Light.

Hesitant.

You don’t answer.

It creaks open anyway. You know the sound of his footsteps before he even speaks.

Yoongi.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands in the doorway, taking you in — all curled up and messy and miserable. Then he crosses the room, slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you.

“Your mom said you weren’t feeling good,” he says softly.

You turn your head, just enough to look at him. Your eyes are puffy. You’re not even trying to hide it.

His brows draw together instantly. “What happened?”

You open your mouth, and it takes two tries before anything comes out.

“Taehyung dumped me,” you mumble.

It sounds small. Childish. Not even worth the weight in your throat. But the look on Yoongi’s face shifts — his whole posture softens, and before you can stop him, he’s sitting beside you.

He doesn’t ask for permission, just reaches out and pulls you into his arms.

You fall into him without hesitation.

It’s warm there — his hoodie smells like detergent and the faintest trace of cinnamon gum. His chin rests on top of your head. His hands stay still on your back, not moving, not rushing you.

And you just let yourself cry.

Not because of Taehyung, not entirely. Not even because of the rejection. It’s all of it. The hurt, the disappointment, the slow-burning truth that you were hoping for something more than what he gave.

Yoongi holds you like he’s done this before in a dream. Like he knows exactly how to steady you without needing words. Like he feels what you feel.

But he’s quiet. Too quiet.

There’s something in the way his fingers curl into your top, in the way he presses his mouth into your hair and doesn’t move for a long time, like he’s clinging to something he’s not allowed to want.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Eventually, your breathing slows. You wipe your nose on your sleeve and shift in his arms, suddenly aware of how close he is. How good he smells. How warm he feels. And how badly you wish this was something else.

“Thanks,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

He just nods. “Yeah. Always.”

And you don’t talk about it again.

Not the breakup.

Not the way you cried into his chest.

Not the way his shirt smelled like you for two days after.

----

You’re still his favourite person.

That hasn’t changed.

What has changed is everything else.

He still walks you home when it’s late. Still sends you memes at 2 AM. Still saves the red gummy bears for you and pretends it’s not a thing. But it’s not like it used to be — not the same easy closeness, not the same comfort.

You date people now.

Sometimes you talk about them like they’re no big deal. Other times, your eyes light up in a way that makes something twist deep in his stomach.

He listens. He nods. He laughs when he’s supposed to. But underneath all of it, something grows. Slow and impossible and heavy.

Love is a quiet thing, he’s learned. Sometimes it lives in the silences. Sometimes in the way you pass him a drink before he even asks. Sometimes in the fact that you always take the seat next to him, even when there’s room on the other side.

It’s been building in him for years.

And tonight, it almost spills.

You’re both on his bed, legs stretched out, backs against the wall. It’s late — later than you said you’d stay — but neither of you mention it. A movie plays on his laptop, mostly ignored. Some old favorite you’ve both seen a dozen times.

You’re in a hoodie that doesn’t belong to you — his, probably — and your hair’s a mess and your socks don’t match and you look like home.

He can’t remember what the movie’s about. He hasn’t looked at the screen in a while.

You say something, soft and tired, and laugh at your own joke. Your head drops lightly against his shoulder, and he freezes.

You don’t move.

And he doesn’t either.

You just stay like that — your cheek resting against him, your breath slowing, your body slowly going still. You’re warm. He can feel the shape of you through his top, the weight of your trust in the way you lean into him like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

Not to him.

He looks down at you. Your lashes flutter slightly. Your lips are parted. You smell like your shampoo and something sweeter underneath. And he wants to say it.

He almost does.

The words rise in his throat like a wave, a whisper, a fragile truth he’s carried for too long

But he doesn’t say it.

Because you’re tired. Because the timing’s wrong. Because he’s afraid you’ll look at him with surprise , or worse — pity.

So he sits there, still and aching, while the credits roll and your breathing deepens.

You fall asleep on his shoulder.

And Yoongi memorises everything — how your head fits perfectly into the curve of his neck. How your fingers twitch in your sleep. How you murmur something he can’t quite catch and then go quiet again.

He thinks, If this is all I ever get… maybe it’s enough.

But he knows it’s not.

Not really.

You’re drunk.

Not sloppy or reckless, just that warm, loose kind of drunk where the room spins slightly and everything feels a little softer. Someone's phone is plugged into the speakers, playing something moody and bass-heavy. The lights are low. People you barely know are dancing in the kitchen.

You’re on the couch, legs curled up, red solo cup half-empty in your hand. And Yoongi is beside you, same as always.

Except nothing feels the same anymore.

He’s wearing black jeans and a simple, grey t-shirt, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. His knee brushes yours every time he shifts. You’ve stopped pretending not to notice.

He says something dry — some sarcastic comment about the guy doing shots off a frisbee — and you laugh too loud. You’re tipsy. You’re floating. But your heart’s not light. It’s buzzing. Loud and tense and full of every little thing you’ve been holding back.

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The way his mouth curves slightly when he talks. The way he never quite meets your eyes when you’re this close. The way he smells like laundry and something distinctly him — faint mint, skin-warm cotton, late-night comfort.

And it hits you all at once.

You want to kiss him.

Not because someone dared you. Not because you're drunk and stupid. Not even because you can’t stop thinking about that first time years ago. But because you mean it. Because you’ve been meaning it for a long time.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it.

Soft. Slow. Hesitant.

Your hand brushes his cheek. His eyes widen — just barely — and then your mouth is on his.

And he doesn’t move.

Not at first.

For a second, he kisses you back. Long enough to make your whole body hum.

But then he pulls away.

Not roughly or dramatically. Just enough. Enough to break your heart a little.

“Hey,” he says, voice too gentle. “You’re drunk.”

You blink, confused. Hurt blooming fast behind your ribs.

“So?”

His jaw tenses. He looks away. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and wish you hadn’t.”

Your chest goes tight. “You think I didn’t mean it?”

He doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything.

You pull back slowly. You don’t say another word.

The rest of the night blurs. Someone turns the music up. You make some excuse about needing air. He drives you home without being asked, hands tense on the wheel the whole time. The silence is too loud between you.

You lean your head against the passenger window, pretending to be asleep before he can try to explain.

You don’t want to hear it.

Because you meant it.

And you thought, for a second, maybe he did too.

It’s been weird for weeks.

Not explosive. Just off.

A slow shift. A stretching silence.

You're still around. Still close enough to touch, to laugh at his jokes, to send dumb videos to in the middle of the night. But there’s something behind your smile now. Something guarded. Distant. And he knows it’s his fault.

You kissed him.

And he pulled away.

Not because he didn’t want it — fuck, he wanted it — but because you were drunk, and he was scared, and it felt too real too fast. So he froze. You backed off. And neither of you brought it up again.

But you’ve both been pulling back ever since.

He doesn’t know how to fix it.

You’re in his room now, sitting on the edge of his bed, tapping your foot, eyes on your phone but not really reading. Yoongi’s at his desk pretending to study. The silence has weight. It presses on the back of his neck.

You exhale through your nose. Not loud, but sharp. Tired.

“Do you even want me around anymore?”

The question hits him like a slap.

He turns slowly in his chair. “What?”

You glance at him. “You act like you don’t care anymore. Like I’m just— I don’t know— there.”

He sits back. His jaw tightens. “I’ve just had a lot going on.”

“Yeah?” you say. “Cool. Same.”

Something in your voice snaps.

He straightens up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stand now, phone forgotten on the bed. Your arms are crossed. “It means I’m tired of pretending everything’s fine when it’s obviously not.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk to me like you used to. You barely look at me.”

“I look at you all the time,” he mutters.

You laugh once, the sound sharp and bitter. “Right. When you’re not busy avoiding me.”

He hates this. He hates how defensive he feels, how all the words he wants to say get trapped behind the ones he thinks are safer.

You step closer. Not too close. Just enough for him to feel it. “If you didn’t want me to kiss you, you could’ve just said so. You didn’t have to make it this awkward.”

His throat tightens. “You were drunk.”

“And you made it clear it was a mistake.”

He flinches.

“I get it now,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “It was a stupid moment. One I shouldn’t have started.”

His heart is pounding.

You look away like you’re ashamed, like you regret all of it. And maybe you do. Maybe he should’ve let you believe he didn’t feel anything, because that would be easier than this — than hearing you call it a mistake like it meant nothing.

He wants to stop you. Wants to grab your hand, say your name, rewind time.

But he just says, “Yeah. Maybe it was.”

Your mouth opens a little, but you don’t say anything. Just blink, like you’re trying not to show how much that hurt.

Then you grab your phone. “I should go.”

He doesn’t stop you.

You close the door behind you a little too gently, like slamming it would give away too much.

And Yoongi just sits there, staring at the space you left behind, hating every second of the silence that follows.

Because the kiss wasn’t a mistake.

But letting you believe it was? Might be the biggest one he’s ever made.

You haven’t talked since the fight.

No texts. No “are you home?” No memes.

No Yoongi.

It’s only been a few days, but it feels like weeks — like something’s gone missing in the background of your life. Like you keep reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

You’ve reread the last texts between you two more times than you’ll admit. The tension. The things you said. The thing you didn’t say.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi [12.36 AM]: Are your parents home?

You stare at the screen, heart suddenly in your throat. You don’t know what propels you to reply, but you do.

You [12.37 AM]: no

Less than ten minutes later, you hear the sound of pounding rain outside.

And then — knocking. Hard, fast, urgent.

You open the front door.

Yoongi is standing there, soaked to the bone. Hair plastered to his forehead, hoodie clinging to him, chest rising and falling like he ran here.

You step aside without saying a word, and he walks in like he’s scared you’ll change your mind if he hesitates.

Water drips onto the floor. He’s breathing heavy. His eyes are locked on yours.

And then he starts talking.

“I didn’t mean what I said. That it was a mistake. I didn’t mean any of it. I was scared. I didn’t want to screw up what we have and I—fuck, I already did, didn’t I?”

You don’t move. You just stare. Let him unravel.

“The kiss wasn’t a mistake,” he says, voice breaking just slightly. “Nothing with you has ever been a mistake.”

You open your mouth to say something, but he doesn’t let you.

“I’ve been trying to stay away because I thought maybe you were better off not knowing. But I can’t do it anymore. Not talking to you is— it's fucking unbearable.”

His eyes meet yours.

And then he closes the space between you in two steps.

He kisses you.

For real this time.

Not soft or scared or careful.

It’s soaked and breathless and honest — his hands cradling your face like he’s been waiting years for this exact moment and couldn’t risk wasting another second.

You melt into it. Everything inside you aches with how much you missed him.

He pulls back, eyes searching yours, his thumb still brushing your cheek.

“I love you.”

You blink once.

Then you grin, so wide it almost hurts.

“Took you long enough, asshole.”

He laughs. Breathless. Relieved.

And then you kiss him again.

Not because of a dare.

Not because you're drunk.

Not because you're trying to get over him.

But because you finally don’t have to pretend anymore.

taglist | click here to join: @thegreatdepressionme @golden-loona @kissyfacekoo @cookysstuff @whoa-jo

[uarmygguk]

. . . . 'Cause people believe that they're gonna get away for the summer . . . .

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼

⎙ He was the still wave among the chaotic ripping tides— one that anchored youduring that unforgettable visit to your grandma's beach house— now on the verge of being sold.

Loaded with the responsibilities and emotions of spending the last week in Jeju, — will the new relationships and memories turn into something more, or will they just turn into bittersweet echoes of that one summer miles away from home.

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼

pairing, surfer!jungkook x f!reader tags/warnings, reader has had strict parents and this is her first time experiencing something alone— fully under her control, he is a surfer and owns a little shop for tourists who wants to explore the beach, a whole summer-beach house-fling kind of setting, fluff, smut, angst— the unavoidable trifecta, the characters do have some base-level lore too, longfic. note, this is the ultimate result of me listening to like a set of 4 songs ON REPEAT like it was a necessity, linking a playlist soon below, this is going to come out only on may but i couldn't wait to share a snippet of this scene i was working on literally at 2 am in the morning because i couldn't sleep. yeah call me productive.

love diaries music rec,

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼

teaser wc: 482

The waves ripple, gently caressing your bare feet, like a timid reminder about what you’re about to get yourself into on a random Saturday morning.

It does not feel all that haphazard though— seeing Jungkook knelt down in front, waxing the surfboard— the coconutty whiff of its scent soothes your senses for at least a moment before going full-on panic mode again.

“I don’t think today’s weather’s the best one for surfing, Matty you agree right?” you caress Matilda’s velvety muzzle as she barked in glee, jumping around the sand.

“She fully disagrees, c’mere” He looks up from the board, patting his upper thigh as you tilt your head in confusion.

“You need some feet gear, I’ll help.” He casually offers as if this happened on a daily— the way it rolled off his tongue so easily as he ran a hand behind his suit to dust it off of extra sand.

Nothing about this situation was routinely.

It was astounding how, in this very beach your grandma once adored so much, you were about to take leaps of faith and courage, experiencing completely new things way out of your comfort zone.

Jungkook crouches down, palms holding your bare feet now about to be clad in literal surfing gear, as he helps you into them with practiced ease.

“All set?” He comes up, a light smile spread across his face, taking a double look at your figure wrapped in the wetsuit rented from his own small beachside shop.

“Yeah, I’m literally about to set records— just me and my little surfboard.” Even the tiniest attempts to lighten the knot in your stomach and breath caught too hard in the middle of your throat, were in vain.

“Sure, set as many as you want, but I’ll deserve partial credit.” He catches a hold of your shoulder, maneuvering towards the board.

“What if I say you get full credit? Can I go back home? Matty might be hungry.” You fret in his arms, but he holds you still.

“Woah what happened to the bravery from minutes ago?” Jungkook’s hands come round your waist and all that you feel are the points of contact between your skin even through the thick material of the suits. He anchors you forth, steadying the surfboard under your feet.

“I’ve given you enough dryland training and you said you swim? You’re fine, __.” 

“But Matty-”

“She’s with Tae, I’m here with you. Let’s go?” Those words did calm you down more than you’d admit.

The humidity gets to your face quickly, gathering up a bright sheen on your skin.

No, you’re not sweating, obviously not.

It definitely has nothing to do with the vast expanse of waters laying free, welcoming you in with a warning. Fear. 

The initial inhibition was gnawing at your insides.

However, you feel his secure stance behind, and that was finally convincing enough for you to take the next step.

“I’m ready, Jungkook.”

[aceecee]

Insatiable - Extra #7

The things you either do together/endure or for them: 

Annoying touches:

It’s not really annoying per say but touching you is her greatest desire. Like in Caleb's bond ‘Rain’s Embrace’ where she grabs his face or Sylus’s recent birthday card where she pats him on the stomach, that’s what I mean. You’ll just be cuddling in bed together and all of a sudden, she’s biting your cheek! Randomly poking you in the same place over and over again. Jumping at you etc.

It’s not her fault, she’s desperate for your attention!

Squashing his insecurities:

There’s something about Caleb that has me wanting to just hug him. I relate so much to his desperation for love. He’s willing to be anything for MC, locking himself away, taking care of her, so much of his life is dedicated to her.

But with you, the script has flipped. Instead now it’s you taking care of him. Not even that, the two of you have been through similar shit. That gives the both of you a comfort no one else can. But those insecurities still rear their ugly head, especially the guilt he feels about the way he used to treat you. He’ll find himself believing how you deserve better than him, someone who isn’t so broken. You’ve made it your 24/7 job to squash these stupid thoughts of his.

Laughing at his jokes:

He’s seen by everyone around him as this stoic and cold person who probably doesn’t joke. We all know better though, his dry humour is hilarious but oftentimes it never gets him the reaction he’s looking for. The first time you laughed at his joke, he puffed up in pride and looked so happy. You never tell him this though, afraid it’ll be one of those things where he’ll stop doing it now that he’s aware.

It goes further than that, it shows how deep you understand him to notice when he’s serious and when he isn’t. 

Biting:

I know what you’re thinking. 

Oh, he’s a dragon of course he enjoys biting us!

No, he enjoys it when you bite him. He lost it the first time you bit him while kissing him. You’d done so since you were mad at him. Since then he keeps purposely riling you up in hopes you’ll do it again. You realised it pretty quick so now you just bite him whenever. You won’t deny that you like marking what’s yours. But it’s evolved to something more casual too, biting onto his arm has become a sort of clutch for you.

Keep him company:

I know many believe him to be boring, they label him as not that exciting as the others. But Xavier’s the only one who’s genuinely lived a long life. Sure, Sylus and Rafayel are centuries old but at least they’ve lived countless lives, all different. Xavier has only had the one. He’s experienced so many things that all he wants is to live simply, it’s why he lives in a simple apartment building when he could live in a mansion. Why he wears hoodies and jumpers is because he’s spent so long wearing princely attire, stuck to his role.

It’s why he likes to just spend time with you. Whether it’s cuddling together while you both sleep, or him watching as you cook. No matter what it is you do, just do it with him around.

Nude modelling:

Sure it might sound sensual but it’s not. The first time you agreed to do it, he spent an entire day just studying your body before he painted a thing. It was a different type of intimacy to you, it’s why you never say no whenever he asks. There’s a hint of anger in him when he sees the various scars on your body and it bleeds into his works of you. The paintings come out with so much passion that everyone of your interests has had at least one commissioned. Of course Rafayel made sure to have your consent before he agreed. 

Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502 @r0ckb1n @queenkymmie @plzdonutpercieveme @perqbeth @mephisto-with-a-knife @tumblingdevils @angelwhizpers

[flowercrowncrip]

Are we really doing the bus arguments again? The vast majority of people who give wheelchair users grief over use of the wheelchair space are not doing so because they have a disability buggy. They’re doing it because they don’t think wheelchair users should have access to public transport if it means they have to spend a moment moving their child’s pram. Believe me, we can tell the difference.

I got on a bus once and asked a couple to please move their buggy to the other side of the bus so I could use the wheelchair space (the only space a wheelchair user can travel in, and with a huge yellow sticker explaining that it’s legally reserved for wheelchair users and anyone else will be asked to move is a wheelchair user needs the space).

I wasn’t even asking them to get off the bus, just to move their child a few feet to the space on the other side of the bus, that was also closer to where they were sitting. Somehow they felt that was unreasonable and yelled at me that I shouldn’t have boarded the bus, and couldn’t I see the space was taken, was I stupid blah blah blah

After that didn’t make me go away, they then tried to pretend like it was never actually their child and said I’d have to ask the “real parents” because they wouldn’t move a baby that “wasn’t theirs”.

Unsurprisingly no one else claims the child (who is very obviously travelling with the yelling couple), so the bus driver has to get involved and say he can’t move the bus with a wheelchair not in the wheelchair space and that if there’s an unaccompanied toddler on the bus then that’s a very serious situation. After the weirdest five minutes ever the couple eventually realise the bus driver is being very serious and no one is moving until this is sorted. So they have to admit that actually it was their child all along and move them to the other side of the bus which takes all of five seconds.

They would literally rather temporarily disown their own child than take five seconds to allow a wheelchair user access to the same public transport they take for granted.

Compare that to another time I got on the bus, went to ask the person in the wheelchair space to move their buggy only to see that the buggy is adapted to carry an oxygen tank (and probably other stuff) and has one of those “my child is disabled, please treat this buggy as a wheelchair” tag on it. I let the parent/ carer know that I didn’t realise it was a disability buggy and hope she has a good day before asking the driver to let me off because there’s already a wheelchair user on board and it’s first come first serve.

Just, please don’t use hypothetical disabled people to invalidate and talk over real disabled people talking about the real issues we face.

[bazzleman]

Hatchetfield Femslash Fortnight Day 13 - Happy Ending (again)

i had one happy ending day but i couldn’t figure out who to give it to so i just did two happy ending days.. sorry

anyways them… they deserve to get their little picket fence life! they deserve to move in together and get a cat!! they can plant a garden and make each other food and ughhhhh they make me sick

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Lament for the living

Written for round 1 of the @steddiebingo and for the April 2025 round of the @stmonstercalendar

Prompts: Scream and Banshee

Relationship: pre-Steddie

Words: 1,168 [also on AO3]

Rated: T

Tags: Death and mourning; Irish Steve; Ghost Eddie; Canon-adjacent

Notes: I have no idea what this is but it has acquired a plot again.

Steve first learned about the family ghost on the day he saw his grandpa for the last time. Mom had stepped out of the hospital room to talk to one of the nurses and dad was somewhere downstairs, taking an important business call. Steve, eleven years old and still clinging to the childish hope that things would be alright, made smalltalk for a while, telling grandpa about school and girls and the next big game he had coming up.

“Maybe you could come,” he said. “It's still a few weeks from now, so maybe you'll be fine by then. Maybe you-”

His voice cracked, and grandpa took his hand.

“I'll be there,” he promised. “Even if you won't be able to see me.”

Steve sobbed. “Don't say that. You can't give up like that, you can still make it.”

“No, kid,” grandpa shook his head, gaze shifting to the open window, and suddenly Steve realized how very tired he looked. “It's time for me to go, I know it. I've been hearing it call to me for days now.”

Steve blinked the tears from his eyes, head whipping to the window, but there was nothing there. “What are you- … what's calling you?”

Grandpa smiled and leaned closer, the way he always did when letting him in on one of his stories. The ones about ghosts and spirits that mom didn't like.

“The banshee. It's said that all families from the old country have one. They're spirits guiding our souls from this world to the next. When you start to hear their cries, it means that your time has come.”

Steve should've been too old to believe in fairy tales, but something about the words sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Grandpa died some time that night, quicker and more quietly than the doctors had been expecting. Steve was the only one who wasn't surprised.

*

Steve first starts hearing it around the time Barb disappears. He doesn’t recognize it for what it is at first, and he doesn’t think he can be faulted for that. Sixteen is way too early to expect the herald of your imminent death, for one thing. For another, it sounds nothing like he thought it would.

He was imagining screams and shrieks and wails, a sound to make your blood freeze in your veins and your heart go numb with terror. Instead, it's singing.

A low, raspy voice carrying out of the woods behind the house. There aren't any words to the song - none that Steve can make out, at least - and still there's a beauty and sadness to it that makes his heart clench. He assumes it must be one of the neighbors, and it's only when he mentions the song to Nancy and she looks at him like he's crazy, that it slowly starts to dawn on him that what he's hearing is his own lament.

And so, when the demogorgon peels itself from the ceiling in the Byers house, he grabs a nail bat and starts swinging, because if he's going to die, he might as well die doing something worthwhile. It's what he keeps doing in the years after. Fighting off monsters in the junkyard, throwing himself between Billy Hargrove and the kids, turning himself into a human shield again and again and again. He starts losing count of how many times he comes close to the brink of death. Every time he does, the singing fades for a short while. Every time, it isn't too long before it picks back up again, louder and closer than before.

When it wakes him on an early spring night in 1986, it's just outside his window, and he knows every single note by heart.

He's also goddamn annoyed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve mutters, throwing off the covers and stomping over to the window with a bravado that probably only a person who has unexpectedly survived multiple apocalypses can muster. “Excuse me? You? Yes, you! Are we sure this is it this time around, because it's kind of getting really old!”

The singing stops. A pair of dark, startled eyes gawks at him.

Steve gawks back. He isn't quite sure what he imagined the banshee to look like, but he knows it wasn't this. The guy looks almost shockingly normal. Roughly his own age, with a mop of dark curls falling over bony shoulders and full, pink lips that are now lightly parted in surprise. If Steve saw him in the street, he probably wouldn't give him a second look - if it wasn't for the tattered white shroud he's wearing, and the fact that he is ever so slightly translucent.

“What?” the boy asks after a minute or two.

Steve shakes himself, remembering he's supposed to be mad.

“I said,” he repeats, “are we actually sure I'm gonna snuff it this time, because so far all your yammering has done is give me migraines.”

“No,” the boy says. “I mean … why are you-? You shouldn't be able to see me.”

Steve scoffs. “Uh-huh. And you shouldn't be doing this for four years straight, I'm pretty damn sure, so maybe you just suck at your job.”

“Excuse me?” the boy bristles. “I've been doing this for eight-hundred-and-seventy-two years and this is the first time this has happened. It's not my fault. It's…I dunno, this fucking place. The stupid hellhole under this town is messing everything up.”

“Yeah, tell me about-” Steve starts to say, then pauses. “Wait a sec, you know about the Upside Down?”

The boy huffs.

“Oh, I know everything about you, big boy,” he says, leaning closer on his branch and kicking his naked feet. It's a perfectly innocent statement in and by itself, but something about the way he twirls his hair and wags his eyebrows makes Steve's stomach give a funny flutter.

“Except for when I'm going to die, apparently,” he snaps, noticing with a warm surge of satisfaction how the boy's translucent face flushes. For a few moments, the only sound is that of the wind rustling the leaves. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots.

“Anyhow,” Steve says. “I'm going back to bed. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't wake me again, unless it's an actual, life-threatening-”

“Wait!” He turns. The boy's grin has gone a little manic, his eyes a little desperate. “Why don’t you stay a little longer? We could talk- … I mean, maybe I could help figure this out? Not to brag, but I know a lot about supernatural shit.”

Steve hesitates. If the guy is telling the truth and has been doing this for eight-hundred-and-who-knows-how-many years, maybe he does know something that can help them.

He's also probably pretty damn lonely if Steve’s the only person in all that time who's actually been able to see him.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine, whatever. What do you know?”

Befriending the family ghost sure as hell wasn’t on Steve’s agenda for this year, but he's long learned to roll with the unexpected.

More Steddie Bingo

More monster loving

[coffeefleecy]

The Serpent's Dominion

Pairing: Caleb X MC

Summary: Insomnia is a cruel captor.

Caleb is a drug you can quit anytime so long as you don't call for him, yet you can't seem to go more than a day without him.

Word Count: 4.7k

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Tags/Warnings: incubus!Caleb, smut, degradation, dacryphilia, slight manipulation, dream sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

If insomnia is your permanent prison, Caleb is the warden just beyond the bars of your enclosure and dangling the cell keys just beyond your reach. His visits have become a nightly occurrence. Ever since surrendering your body to him completely and allowing him to have you in ways you’ve never allowed anyone to before, it’s like you need him to survive. 

The highs of the pleasure he brings you begin to wear off faster and what used to be at least a solid three or four days of decent sleep have dwindled, forcing you to seek him out nightly for the itch only he can scratch.

Your initial mistrust of Caleb has dissipated and now you cling to every word he grants you; believe every praise he sings to you and revel in every touch he allows you. You’re self-aware enough to know that he likely doesn’t mean the things he says, but desperate enough to take what you can get, even deluding yourself into thinking he’s just as feral for you as you are for him when you call him to you and he can’t wait to rip your clothes off.

With every visit, he burns himself into your makeup and it’s like he’s rearranging the very molecules with which you consist of by the way he digs himself into you, molding your body to his and branding you so that you come apart for him and him only. His kisses are harsh, teeth full of poison and tongue the antidote, destroying and soothing you all at once. Close for Caleb is not close enough, and despite the fact that you know he doesn’t care for you the way he pretends, it’s his personal mission to try to prove you otherwise. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So good for me, sweetheart, you’re doing so good,” Caleb murmurs in your ear before leaning back to get the full view of your face.

You’ve had a hard day and when you called Caleb to come within seconds of being home - even before you changed out of your work clothes and he noticed immediately. He wasted no time stripping you, pawing at your clothes like in frustration, desperate to help you alleviate your stress and edge you to the brink of overstimulation.

Caleb’s desire to take as much as he can from you has become insatiable.

“Eyes on me,” Caleb urges you, eyes swimming with glee. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, yeah? I know you can give me one more, can’t you?”

“D-Don’t think I can,” Your voice is hoarse with exhaustion, uneven and trembling in a way that matches the way you’re quaking beneath him.

Caleb pinches your clit between his index finger and thumb and grins when a fractured version of his name wrenches from your lips.

“I know, sweetheart,” He coos with pity. “I know.”

“T-Too much,” You stammer, reaching forward with shaking hands to cover his, which he immediately swats away.

“Nuh-uh,” He drags his fingertips through your lips to collect the arousal leaking from you. “You can handle it, can’t you? Be a good girl and let me give you one more, okay? I know, I know.”

He leans over you to press a sweet kiss to your lips before shoving his soaked fingers into your mouth. You whine around the digits, pleas muffled with how full your mouth is.

“See? Tastes too good to waste, huh? I know, baby, I know you’re exhausted,” He inches down your body until he’s between your legs, licking his lips as he openly stares at your red, swollen cunt. “You’re gonna be so brave for me, though, right? Let me wear you out completely so you can get some sleep?”

“Y-yes,” You slur, despite your body protesting with the overstimulation of the last three orgasms he’s given you. 

“That’s my good girl. Say it.”

“I’m - I’m your good girl,” You manage between heaving breaths.

“Uh-huh,” Caleb encourages, scissoring his fingers back inside of you. “Tell me you’re gonna give me another one. Tell me you’re gonna let me make you come for me another time.”

“C-Caleb, it’s so much -”

“Say it or I’m going to stop touching you. Do you really want that? Do you want me to stop touching you or do you fucking need it?”

Your body betrays your half-hearted protests, hips bucking against his hand to force them deeper into you, drawn to his touch despite the tremors that course through your body.

“I - I need it,” You cry hoarsely, the anxiety of how on edge your body is leaking into your words. 

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Caleb promises as he fucks you with his fingers. “Gonna give you my cock, okay? Do you want it?”

“Yes, please, I want it - want you to give me another one, please -”

Caleb pulls his fingers out of you, a fresh flood of arousal following and soaking the sheets beneath you. You sob at the loss, but don’t have time to lament it too much before he’s bullying his cock inside of you, feeding you an inch at a time. 

“So wet for me, good girl,” Caleb praises as he easily glides into you. “Feel how easy that is for me? Fuckin’ made for my cock.”

You feel as though you have no control of your body, but Caleb so kindly takes over for you. It’s as if he knows every little facet of you that makes you tick, every spot and every sound burned into his mind and memorized for later - an analytical student who’s never satisfied. You don’t have to think when you’re with Caleb and you like that. 

Caleb hooks your thighs underneath his arms and presses them back until your hips protest so you’re completely open for him to fuck you as deeply as he wants to. He drags his cock out of you slowly and when the tip of him catches at your entrance, he immediately slams back in.

“C-Caleb!” You cry, eyes widening from the intense pressure and fullness.

“Say it, say my fucking name,” He commands, picking up the pace of his brutal thrusts as he talks you through it. “ - but remember that my name isn't a safe word.”

“Caleb, Caleb,” You say his name like a prayer, reverent and devoted as he gives you the pleasure he knows you need.

“Yeah, you’re doing so fucking good for me, sweetheart. So, so good,” Caleb rambles, noting how much you relax when you hear his voice. “You look so fucking beautiful like this - can feel you clenching around me, love. Are you gonna come for me?”

Your impending orgasm is so intense that it’s painful. Caleb immediately registers the look on your face as you milk his cock, eyebrows drawn together and lips falling open in a silent scream as you convulse, unable to control the trembling. He abandons his grip on one of your thighs to press his hand over your mouth, explaining his intention immediately so you’re not offended.

“Bite my hand, sweetheart - bite as hard as you need to, okay? I know it’s a lot, baby, I know.”

Without thinking, you bite down into the meat of his hand to ground yourself as you quake beneath him, soaking the sheets even further as he fucks you through it. The mix of pleasure and pain is so potent that black spots begin to dot your vision, jaw going slack enough that his hand falls from your mouth, riddled with your angry, red teeth marks. Caleb pulls out of you, a slew of curses growled under his breath, and lays next to you to pull you on top of him.

“I know, baby, shh - it’s okay, I know,” He hushes you and it’s then that you realize you’re sobbing from the overstimulation. “It’s okay, I’m right here, you’re right here. Breathe for me, sweetheart.”

It takes you a few moments to calm down, your mind and body so exhausted you can barely think straight anymore. Caleb soothes you through it, his hand pushing back sweaty strands of your hair. 

“So good, you did so good for me, love.”

Love.

It’s the last word you hear before you slip into unconsciousness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another night a few days later, Caleb has your head pressed into the bed, ass up in the air as he thrusts into you from behind, cock kissing your cervix almost painfully with each thrust.

“Take it so well,” He growls, fingernail biting into your cheeks as he relentlessly pounds into you. “I’m so proud of you, so nice and wet for me - so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s dizzying how good it feels - almost like he’s on the verge of breaking you with every movement - dangling you over the precipice just to yank you back. Your legs quake, your body so exhausted that you can no longer hold yourself up. Caleb senses this just before you collapse by tucking one of his arms under your stomach to prop you up for him, his strength and grit when he’s falling to pieces inside of you almost admirable.

“Love fucking you to sleep like this, sweetheart - love you,” He growls. “Does it feel good?”

“So - so good,” Your strained voice is muffled by the sheets. “B-But -”

“But what? Speak up for me, yeah?” Caleb immediately slows his pace to make sure he can hear you, almost as if he’s scared you’re going to say he’s hurting you.

“Y-Your face - wanna see your face,” You finally say after you manage to pull yourself up to rest on your elbows and look back at him.

“You want to look at me? Awe,” He grins at you, but listens to your request.

Caleb uses the arm he has supporting your stomach to leverage you before leaning forward and using his other to pull you up by your shoulders so your back is flush against his front. The angle change has you whining, forcing him deeper into you as you breathe in every bit of him, intoxicated by his closeness and scent. When Caleb’s satisfied with his hold on you, he keeps one arm around your stomach to reach up with the other and grab your face. With his thumb on your right cheek and his other fingers splayed across your left he gently squeezes to force you to look back at him.

“Like this, huh?” Caleb murmurs into your ear as he slowly begins thrusting into you again, the movements shallow, but intense as he grinds his hips against you.

“C-Caleb,” You choke out, his name falling reverently from your lips as he subjects you to a deluge of bliss with slow, intentional grinding.

“That’s my name, that’s right, sweetheart. Use it for me,” Caleb peppers abnormally sweet kisses across your face as he moves his hips. “That feel good for you?”

“Uh-huh,” You keen, the sharp sound coming out like a hiccup. “D-does it feel good for you?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Caleb’s voice is velvety, dark and intense as he chastises you. “You’re not to think about my pleasure, understand me? Everything feels good for me, let me focus on you.”

“But -”

Caleb lets go of your face to slip his arm gently around your neck in a loose headlock and press you harder against him, hips stilling completely.

“What’d I say?” He demands.

“To let you focus on m-me,” You whine, hips moving of their own accord to get him to keep going.

“Exactly, very good,” Caleb begins to move the hand that’s cradling your stomach down and further down until it’s at the apex of your thighs and teases you by ghosting his fingertips across the skin there. “Do you think you can come like this?”

“I’m already close,” You admit, trapped against his body with nowhere to move as he tightens the headlock enough to keep you still, but not enough to be super uncomfortable.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, okay?” He promises, moving his hips in uneven, shaky circles as he finds your clit with his fingertips. 

He begins rubbing agonizing circles against you as he fucks you shallowly with his cock, the position not providing much room for actual thrusting, but the grinding driving you crazy. You’re realizing just how much he’s intended this to be for you, focusing all of his attention on the friction and stimulating your clit as opposed to pounding in and out of you and taking what he needs. 

“You’re so wonderful,” You say breathlessly, little moans and grunts of effort spilling from your lips as he plays you like an instrument, fingertips dexterous and deft.

“Glad you think so,” Caleb teases, a chuckle fighting its way into his low voice to break up the concentration like you amuse him. “Sweetheart, you’re so fun to play with. It’s like every touch is the first for you.”

“Like a virgin,” You remark with a laugh, the Madonna reference so out of place that Caleb actually has to stop what he’s doing for a second to focus. 

“Fuck, you’re special.”

He doesn’t mean it.

You feel a sharp, ugly pang in your chest that you ignore, focusing instead on Caleb’s fingers and how good his cock feels inside of you, filling you to the brim and the drag delicious despite the minimal movement. He presses against your clit hard with a particularly dirty swivel of his hips and your legs begin shaking, a tell-tale sign of your inevitable demise.

“That’s it, all for me,” Caleb praises, “All mine.”

Am I?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Caleb is evolving into something of a drug for you. You tell yourself it’s that he really is the only thing that helps you sleep, yet you find yourself becoming so reliant on him that even when you feel like you can go a day or two without him, you call him anyways. It isn’t when he’s fucking the words out of you that you feel the heaviness set in, but in the tender moments between; the flick of your blissful tears with his delicate fingertips, the warmth his body provides when he’s seated deep inside of you even after you’re both come, the symphony of your breathless laughter and whispered sweet nothings like a knife to your heart when reality sets in.

“I wasn’t too rough for you, was I?” Caleb asks softly, brushing the hair from your face as his violet eyes bore into your own.

“I liked it,” You flush, unable to help the schoolgirl smile that plasters itself across your face. “It felt really good.”

“Good,” Caleb scoots closer so you’re chest to chest and rests his sweaty forehead against your own. 

You lay there like that for a few moments, neither one of you jumping at the chance to acknowledge the evening is ending and Caleb has to go soon so you can truly sleep. Caleb’s even breaths are like a metronome, soft on your ears and easy to focus on.

“Caleb?”

“Hm?”

“Are you - Are you ever going to tell me…” You trail off, not wanting to break the spell. “Nevermind.”

“What was it?” Caleb leans back, clearly not reading into the implication of your words.

You settle for a watered down version of the question you truly want to ask.

“Are you ever going to tell me why you can’t at least stay the night?”

Caleb’s body language changes immediately, completely stiff complete with a held breath that he lets out after a beat. His eyes shift so he doesn’t have to look at you.

“I don’t think we have to say that part out loud,” He says finally. “You and I both know why I can’t.”

You hide your face in his neck, unable to stop yourself from inhaling the sweet scent of cinnamon and apples that’s grown so much on you. 

“I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not,” Caleb rubs your back in soothing, delicate motions. 

“Just please,” You beg. “Please tell me it’s not all in my head.”

“Sweetheart -”

“Caleb.”

He groans, but pulls you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you so tightly and securely you feel safe - sane for one second.

“It’s not all in your head, okay? Let’s not go there, sweetheart. I don’t think you want the answers to the questions you have.”

“Tell me it’s real, Caleb,” You press.

Tell me you love me.

“Go to sleep, baby, you’re so exhausted you’re delirious,” Caleb changes the subject, pulling you so tightly against him it’s hard for you to sleep.

As always, you fall asleep in his arms.

As always, you wake up alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time has begun working in funny ways and the effects that your abominable sleep schedule has been having on your overall state of being have started to drag you down. Half of the time, you’re dragging yourself into work after snoozing your alarm, even after Caleb’s worked his magic to wear you out the night prior.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror at work and hardly recognize yourself. Your skin has taken on a sickly tinge and the bags that hang beneath your eyes have grown so pronounced and swollen that no cool compress or under-eye patches have been able to help. 

It’s gotten to the point that your coworkers have noticed and one of your favorites, Tara, has been expressing concern.

“Are you sure you don’t need to go home? You’re beautiful, you know I think that, so I truly mean no disrespect - you look so exhausted.”

You offer her a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and gesture to your nearly empty coffee cup.

“I’m working on it – refuelling.”

She fixes you with a concerned frown.

“Really, it’s a slow day. You’re more than capable and one of the strongest people I know, but you need to prioritize your health. For me?”

You want to tough it out but it’s been getting harder to remain upright, let alone conversational. Tara gently pries the coffee mug from your hands and puts it aside.

“What do you have left to do today?” She asks kindly.

“Just a little bit of paperwork, but really -”

“I’ve got it,” Tara interrupts you with a smile. “Seriously. I’m bored and looking for things to do.  Jenna’s been worried, too. She would never say it, buuuuuut -”

“Thank you,” You cut her off with a grateful smile. “I’ll speak to Jenna, okay?”

“Okay,” Tara reaches out to place a consoling hand on your shoulder and gives you a gentle squeeze. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It turns out that even Tara has the capacity to downplay things, because as soon as you find Jenna, she demands you go home and get some rest. You don’t have enough energy in the tank to explain yourself or your current stresses, so you simply thank her and head out.

You shuck your worn shoes off as soon as you step foot inside and moan at the immediate relief. Due to your unexpected half-day, you find that you’re not as exhausted as normal when you come home later and decide to channel that energy into some much needed self care. Your long, hot shower and the skincare you’ve been depriving yourself of offer you a semblance of comfort, and while you don’t exactly feel like a brand new person, the small acts of maintenance feel rejuvenating even if the placebo effect tinges the intent. 

The sun has barely begun to set after your nightly routine has concluded and you can’t find it in you to muster up the energy to cook dinner for yourself. You’ll never admit it to Caleb or yourself fully, but you’re far too excited at the prospect of seeing your dreamy companion and the comfort he brings you to do anything but slip into some comfortable sleepwear and turn in for the night. Your head has barely hit the pillow before you’re calling for him, too dazed and exhausted to know whether or not you’re doing it in your mind or vocally. 

“Hello, beautiful,” Caleb greets, perched at the edge of your bed. “Miss me? Seems like you did since you couldn’t even wait for nightfall, huh?”

“Mhm,” You smile at him tiredly, finding the strength to sit upright so you can look at him fully. 

Caleb has only gotten more attractive to you over time. It’s like he glows a little more with every visit; his body more muscular than ever, arms bulging beneath the black fabric of his shirt. His skin shines, healthy and glassy and free from any blemishes or scars save for a light, barely there dusting of freckles. You question your mind and your memory, vaguely wondering if he’s always been like this or you’re just taken aback every time you see him.

He’s devastating to look at.

“Devastating? That’s a new one,” He beams at you, crossing the small distance to cup your cheek in his large, comforting hand. 

He studies your face as he strokes your cheek and the corners of his lips begin to droop and turn down in a frown.

“Wh-what, is everything okay?” You ask, the expression on his face causing you to panic.

“Yeah,” He says softly, letting his hand fall from your face and turning to look away from you as he composes his face into an unreadable mask. “I don’t think I should stay tonight.”

“What? Wh-why?”

Caleb stands, his back to you.

“I think you need a night off, sweetheart.”

You scramble to your feet to clumsily make your way to him and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens under your touch.

“Please, I can’t sleep, C-Caleb, I need your help.”

“I don’t think I’m what you need right now,” He turns to face you, unable to hide the grimace on his face. “You came home from work early, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” You bury your face in his chest. “I’m so tired. You’re the only one that can fix it.”

“Baby,” The term of endearment flies easily from his tongue and embeds itself into you like shrapnel.

It sounds domestic. It makes your chest ache. It hurts.

“Y-you know what, it’s fine,” You pull away from him to let your arms drop loosely at your sides. “I don’t really know what it is that you do, but I’m sure you’re very busy… doing that. I know I’ve been calling for you every night, so you’re probably sick of me, anyways.”

You turn away from him, frustrated and exhausted tears pin pricking burning your eyes. Caleb reaches to stop you, slipping his arm around your stomach.

“Don’t be like that,” He chastises you. “You’re crabby because you’re tired so I’ll let it slide this time.”

“Do I look bad? Is that it?” You find yourself asking bitterly. “You can just say so. If you’re not attracted to me, then -”

“No, no, no, no,” Caleb tugs you closer to him so that his front is flush against your back. “Feel how hard I already am? I just don’t know if you can handle much tonight, okay?”

It may be your exhaustion or the amalgamation of all of your insecurities building up inside of you, but his words make you sadder. You sag in his grasp, visibly deflating as the last bit of your willpower leaks out of you, resignation settling into your bones as you draw your  lips together in a tight line.

“Okay,” You agree, your voice hollow. “Just go.”

With a quick tug, you expel an unnecessary amount of force to extricate yourself and make your way back to the bed. You don’t have the energy to pull back your comforter, so you simply climb atop it and lay back.

“Pipsqueak -”

“If you want to go, just go,” You cut him off, voice thickening with tears. “You don’t have to be here.”

“Hey, you don’t have to -”

“Just stop acting like you fucking care,” You seethe, that dejected sadness curdling into a sick, festering anger. “If you’re not going to fuck me then just leave. You never stay after anyways and I know you’re full of shit whenever you’re pretending to be nice.”

It’s the loudest you’ve ever spoken to him; the nastiest you’ve ever allowed yourself to be. It comes from almost nowhere, the dregs of your worst qualities swirling in your stomach and rising like bile, staining your words and voice with hate. If you were in your normal, functioning state, you’d be horrified by the ugliness you’re currently proving you’re capable of. It’s not you, but you need him to leave so he can’t see you crying.

“Is that what you want?” Caleb tilts his head to the side, that pitying and obnoxious frown still marring his perfect face. 

“Yes,” You breathe, closing your eyes so you won’t chance looking at him. “I don’t need you or your pity.”

The room goes silent, but you keep your eyes closed. Trails of wet, hot tears begin to leak from your eyes as you believe you’re safe - free from Caleb and whatever judgement he might cast upon you for getting so worked up for no reason. You angrily wipe them away from your eyes as your chest heaves and you choke back sobs. This inevitable breakdown has been chipping away at you for weeks – months, really - and today your willpower has plummeted. 

You go still as you feel Caleb’s hands join yours, fingertips sweeping away the small puddles of tears on your face as you openly cry. You’re not brave enough to open your eyes, partially because looking at him might send you spiraling even further and partially because the sting is already too great to handle.

“This isn’t how I wanted to make you cry today,” Caleb laments somberly. “I’m sorry.”

“Y-you - stop it, please stop acting like you care,” You’re almost hyperventilating, overcome with the weight of your exhaustion and his empty words. “You don’t mean it.”

Caleb says nothing,  but climbs into bed next to you to pull your shaking body into his embrace. He leans back against the pillows so you can rest comfortably against his chest. 

“It’s okay,” He says tightly. “You can cry. Whatever you need.”

You must really look pathetic if he’s being this kind to you, but you’ll take what you can get. Instead of fighting back with angry words you’ll regret, you conserve your energy and try your best to calm down so you won’t stain his shirt. Caleb doesn’t seem to care one way or another and begins stroking the sides of your arms with his fingertips. 

It’s uncertain to you still whether or not you’re actually sleeping and the recesses of psychologically thrilling movies in the back of your mind beg you to listen to your instincts, but it doesn’t matter. The last thing you remember before coming to hours later is Caleb holding you. Of course he’s gone when you realize you’re no longer sleeping, but the sting in your throat lets you know your tears were more than real. 

Am I really crying in my sleep now?

The clock lets you know it’s almost six in the morning, so you’ve gotten a few hours of sleep under your belt and you suppose Caleb is partially to thank for that, regardless of the method. Sleep resides in your limbs as you stand, every movement weighted by invisible cinder blocks. You manage to lumber to the kitchen, no longer able to ignore the incessant pang of hunger in your stomach. 

You open your fridge, blinking sleep away, trying to find something quick to slake the starvation. A large bag sits in the center of your fridge – something you don’t remember making or bringing home. Your browns knit together in confusion as you reach for it, trying to remember what it is. Takeout isn’t something that’s super common for you due to your need to save as much as you can and you usually don’t keep leftovers. With shaking fingers, you open the bag to find  a container of a light liquid you assume is soup and a wrapped item that looks like a sandwich. You pull the food out to inspect it and find that today's date has been written upon both of the items in neat, bold marker. 

It’s not your handwriting.

[gilbertscurls]

until you — chris sturniolo

Chris never thought about the future.

Not in the way most people did, anyway.

When his friends talked about five-year plans, dream houses, and kids with big eyes and their last name, he tuned it out. It was never for him. The thought of settling down, of putting down roots, of letting himself believe in something permanent—it never felt like a possibility.

Because permanence was a lie.

Because people left.

Because the second you let yourself want something, the universe found a way to rip it out of your hands.

Chris had learned that young.

So he never let himself want.

Not until you.

You were never supposed to mean anything.

That was the truth of it.

You had walked into his life on an ordinary day, wearing an ordinary outfit, saying ordinary things. There had been no grand moment, no earth-shattering realization, no love-at-first-sight epiphany.

But somehow, you had slipped under his skin anyway.

Maybe it was the way you looked at him—like you actually saw him. Like you saw past the jokes, past the easy charm, past the version of himself he put on for the world.

Maybe it was the way you never asked for more than he was willing to give, never tried to make him into something he wasn’t.

Maybe it was just you.

But whatever it was, it ruined him for anything else.

Chris didn’t realize he wanted a future with you until it was already too late.

It was a quiet moment—one of those unremarkable nights that don’t seem significant at the time but end up changing everything.

You were sitting on his couch, hair piled in a messy bun, wrapped up in a blanket you had stolen from his bed. You were flipping through channels, barely paying attention, your fingers tapping absently against your knee.

And then—then—you had looked at him.

Just a glance. Just a second.

But something in your expression made his breath catch in his throat.

Because for the first time in his life, Chris saw something more than just now.

He saw tomorrow.

He saw you in the passenger seat of his car, feet on the dashboard, singing along to songs you only knew half the words to.

He saw you laughing in his kitchen, dancing barefoot on cold tile, stealing bites of his food when you thought he wasn’t looking.

He saw you in his bed, tangled in sheets, sunlight spilling across your skin, sleep-soft and his.

He saw a life. A future. A forever.

And it should have scared him.

But it didn’t.

It just made him ache.

Because he knew—deep down, in the places he didn’t like to acknowledge—that he could never have it.

That he didn’t deserve to have it.

Not with you.

The downfall was inevitable.

Chris had never been good at holding onto things that mattered.

And you—God, you mattered.

Maybe that’s why he destroyed it before you had the chance to.

Because it was easier that way.

Because it hurt less to rip the bandaid off than to wait for the slow, agonizing realization that you would leave him just like everyone else had.

So he let the distance grow.

He let the silence stretch between phone calls.

He let the I love yous die on his lips, let the warmth of your touch slip away, let the weight of everything unsaid bury you both alive.

Until, one day, you stopped waiting.

You stopped calling.

You stopped loving him.

Or maybe you still did.

Maybe you just loved yourself more.

Chris doesn’t think about the future anymore.

Not because he doesn’t want one.

But because the only one he ever wanted had you in it.

And now, it’s gone.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick

[sh4nksslvt]

maybe i need a whole fic with luffy x reader married now... i'm not charging you, maybe i'm just in love with your writing

a/n: thank u <3 hope u like this~

Wait… Luffy’s WHAT?!

Luffy reunites with his childhood sweetheart, who also happens to be his secret spouse. The crew thought he was joking… until they weren’t laughing anymore.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, ooc, marriage, reader is opposite of luffy

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.3k

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Thousand Sunny drifted through the final tunnel, water glistening against its protective bubble as Fishman Island came into view.

“WOAAAH!” Luffy yelled from the deck, eyes wide. “It’s so shiny!”

“I can’t believe it’s real!” Chopper spun around.

Robin smiled behind a hand. “The architecture here is said to be older than the Grand Line itself.”

“I heard the royal family is pretty generous,” Nami added. “If we play this smart, we could stock up for weeks.”

But Luffy? His mind was somewhere else entirely. Or rather, on someone.

He leaned against the rail, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I wonder if they’re here…”

“LUFFY, GET BACK HERE, YOU CAN’T JUST–!”

“NAMI!, I SMELL MEEAAT!”

He was already gone. Sprinting like a man possessed through the bustling bubble streets of Fishman Island, eyes wide, tongue out, arms flailing in glee.

“Captain,” Robin said with a small smile, “seems excited.”

“He's always excited,” Zoro muttered, arms crossed. “But this time he’s extra stupid.”

Brook hummed thoughtfully. “Yohohoho, I wonder if the meat will marry him too.”

“Wait, did you say marry?” Usopp blinked. “Oh yeah! Didn’t Luffy say he was married once?”

“…Didn’t we all think he was joking?” Franky asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” Chopper added with a little snort. “He said something like ‘I already got a wife, and they’re way stronger than all of you!’ and we just laughed.”

The crew exchanged glances.

“…You think he was serious?”

MEANWHILE.

Luffy skidded around the corner, bonking a coral lamp post with his forehead. “Ow–!”

“Still no sense of direction?”

He froze.

That voice.

He knew that voice like the back of his hand — or the taste of meat. Slowly, his wide eyes turned toward the source.

There, standing with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, was you.

Stoic, calm, one eyebrow raised, and totally unamused as always.

“Y/N!!” Luffy beamed, bolting toward you. “Y/N Y/N Y/N! YOU'RE HERE!!”

Before you could scold him, he’d wrapped you in a tight hug that nearly knocked you back.

“Still a hugger as usual, huh?” you mumbled, eyes softening just a bit.

“Missed you! SHISHISHI,” he grinned into your shoulder.

“You saw me six months ago,” you said, deadpan.

“Yeah!, but that’s like…so long!!”

You sighed, though your hand was already resting on his back, grounding the chaotic ball of sunshine that had stolen your heart all those years ago.

“…You never change.”

FLASHBACK - Windmill Village

“You’re so noisy.”

“C’mon Y/N, let’s go punch that tree again!”

Putting your book down, you sat with your arms folded, watching as young Luffy jumped up and down with excitement, a stick in his hand like it was the strongest sword in the world.

“We’ll get stronger together! Then we’ll go on adventures and eat meat every day!”

You blinked. “That’s your dream?”

“Yup! What’s yours?”

You shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Then make one with me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Make a dream with you?”

He nodded seriously. “We can share. Like best friends. Or… like married people!”

“…That’s not how marriage works.”

“Then I’ll change the rules!”

You stared at him.

“…Fine.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

“What now.”

“If we ever get married, can I still eat meat at the wedding?”

You looked up from your book. “Obviously. I won’t marry someone who doesn’t love meat.”

He blinked, surprised. “So you will marry me?”

You went back to reading. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

His heart exploded like fireworks.

BACK TO PRESENT

“Wait,” Sanji whispered from the side of the plaza, crouched with the rest of the crew behind some candy-colored seaweed. “Is that them?! MELLORINEE~~”

“THEM?!” Usopp whispered. “You know them?!”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Sanji sighed dreamily. “That’s Y/N — calm as the sea before a storm. Feared in the Grand Line and cold-hearted~"

“Yeah, but they’re…” Chopper tilted his head. “Letting Luffy carry them like a backpack right now.”

“Are they… cuddling?” Zoro’s eye twitched. “In public?”

“I’m SUPER! emotionally confused,” Franky muttered.

“Yohohoho,” Brook said softly. “So our captain is… married.”

“And he was serious,” Robin added, intrigued.

Luffy still hadn’t let go. You were currently being dragged around the island as he loudly pointed at every fish-person, street food stall, and bubble coral with endless excitement.

“Look, Y/N, look!! That octopus is playing drums!!”

You nodded. “Mm.”

“And that shark guy has THREE swords!”

You blinked. “Impressive.”

“Oh! That candy shop sells meat-lollipops!! Want one?”

“…Fine.”

He gasped, eyes shining. “You said yes! You never say yes to candy!”

“It’s for you, dumbass.”

He beamed so hard it could’ve powered the Sunny.

LATER, WITH THE CREW

“LUFFY!!”

He turned mid-bite of his meat-lollipop. “Huh?”

“WHAT. IS. GOING. ON?!” Nami shrieked.

You were sitting beside him, sipping seaweed tea calmly. “Can I help you?”

“YEAH, YOU CAN EXPLAIN HOW YOU’RE—MARRIED TO LUFFY?!”

He tilted his head. “I told you guys already.”

“YEAH BUT YOU SAID IT WHILE EATING A SEA KING LEG!!”

Franky pointed dramatically. “That’s not the time for SUPER confessions, bro!”

You raised a hand. “We’ve been married for years. It’s just not something we flaunt.”

“…You married Luffy. As in legal.”

“Technically yes. I still have the officiation snail photo. Luffy drew a mustache on it.”

“HE LOOKED SO FUNNY!! SHISHISHI” Luffy grinned, remembering it fondly.

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY?! YOU’RE THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE!” Usopp flailed.

You stared at him. “What about it?”

“I dunno!! It’s just… Luffy’s sunshine! You’re like… moonlight. That can kill people.”

Zoro finally snapped. “Okay, no offense, but how do you even deal with him?”

You sighed, placing a hand over Luffy’s head as he practically melted beside you.

“…I’ve dealt with worse than a meat-goblin with a hero complex and zero sense of personal space.”

“That’s me!!” Luffy said proudly.

Robin giggled. “You really are opposites.”

“They’re so cool,” Sanji whispered, nose bleeding. “They’re scary. But like, in a hot way~”

“Are you crushing on our captain’s spouse?!” the crew hissed.

“Can’t help it~”

LATER THAT NIGHT ON THE SUNNY

You sat at the edge of the deck, legs dangling above the water, watching the glowing sea beneath.

Luffy flopped beside you, resting his head in your lap like he always did when the sky was quiet.

“You’re really okay with all this attention?” you asked, fingers brushing his hair.

“Mmhmm. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You never cared about showing people.”

“I didn’t think I had to. You're mine. That’s already the best thing ever.”

Your hand paused. Then resumed slowly.

“You’re still dumb.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your dumb.”

“…Yeah. You are.”

He yawned, curling closer. “Remember the promise we made?”

“Which one? You made a lot.”

“The one about sharing dreams.”

You looked up at the stars. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I still wanna do that. Even if it’s dumb. Even if I die trying.”

You tapped his forehead.

“You won’t die. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

NEXT MORNING — FISHMAN ISLAND MARKET

“I WANT TO BUY THAT ONE!”

“Luffy, that’s a pearl the size of a cannonball.”

“I WANT IT!!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Luffy, if I have to carry another crate of your ‘souvenirs’ I will drown you.”

He gasped. “Y/N!! That’s mean!”

“…You like that.”

“I DO!”

“Ew, please stop flirting where I can hear you,” Nami groaned as she walked by.

Zoro muttered, “Every time I think they’ll kill each other, they end up flirting again.”

“Do you think they’ll ever kiss in front of us?” Chopper asked innocently.

Sanji's eye turned into fire. “NO WAY! I'LL KICK YOU! YOU DAMN MONKEY!!!"

“Luffy, stop licking the pearl.”

“You know,” Robin said later that evening, watching you drag Luffy back from trying to arm-wrestle a sea king, “they’re oddly perfect together.”

“Opposites attract,” Franky nodded.

“They’re like fire and ice,” Brook added.

“More like hyper gremlin and emotionless murderbot,” Nami muttered.

“…Still somehow works,” Zoro said.

Sanji sobbed. “WHEN WILL MY TURN COME?!"

.

.

— A FEW DAYS LATER

“Hey, Robin,” Usopp whispered as the ship cruised along the current.

“Yes?”

“…Do you think we should throw them a wedding party?”

She sipped her tea. “I think if you try, you’ll die.”

“Right.”

“Besides,” she added, glancing at the couple watching the sunset at the bow of the ship, Luffy wrapped around you like a sleepy octopus, “I think they already had the only wedding they needed.”

[kquil]

REMUS LUPIN | 19:53 — BARISTA BOYFRIEND

SUM. : you suddenly gain a boyfriend after a beautiful but annoying creep flirts with you

TAGS : barista remus ; cafe regular reader ; modern au ; muggle au ; fluff ; very fluffy ; everyone loves hot chocolate ; remus makes great hot chocolate ; protective remus ; secret pining ; creepy but beautiful stranger

LENGTH : 1.4k

NAVI. | MORE REMUS

You’re a regular at a coffee shop that serves a variety of blends, so much so that the air almost always smells of ground coffee and is only slightly entwined with the sweetness of baked goods. However, you weren’t a regular for their coffee or treats, you were a regular for their hot chocolate, made by a specific barista.  

“Hello again,” Remus (the barista in question) greets fondly as you come up to the counter, ready to order. He’s a tall brunette with a gorgeous smile and a talent for making hot chocolate. “The usual?” 

“Only if it’s you’re making it, Remus,” you chirp, smiling up at him as he chuckles—it still astounds you that you’ve become such a regular customer that you’re comfortable calling him by name. You note the incredible length of his lashes as they brush against his cheekbone and admire the faded scar marking his jawline. He’s the perfect model-looking-barista archetype that pulls in customers with a simple glance, and you’re embarrassed to admit that you were one such weak-willed individual: shyly stepping into the cafe for the first time without anything in mind to order until he suggested the hot chocolate, and you were hooked ever since. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t let anyone else touch your hot chocolate, love.” It makes your heart flutter every time he calls you that fond endearment, and you’re sure he knows it too—he probably calls all the lady customers by that name. But no matter what you tell yourself, you weren’t just there for the hot chocolate… “Would you be interested in a sweet treat to go with it this time? Everything’s baked fresh,” he gestures to the array of baked goodies on display, and you try not to drool at the selection openly. Remus has made this offer so often that you don’t think it’s simply him trying to generate more profit for the cafe anymore. But because of his consistent assertions and soft eyes, you finally cave, worn down like the cliff edge by the ocean, sending you crumbling down and into its depths. “I’ll make sure to give you a discount.”

“Alright, alright.” Side-stepping, you lean over to inspect the display case and the delicious array of treats it holds. “It’s kind of a hard choice…”

Remus laughs and nods in understanding, “I don’t blame you. Please take your time, it’s a slow hour.” 

Despite his reassurance, you continue to struggle and soon get anxious over not having made your pick yet. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“Of course!” Stepping away from the coffee machines he preoccupied himself with, Remus gestures to his personal picks, “If you want to satiate that sweet tooth more, you can’t go wrong with our chocolate chip cookies. But if you want something a little less sweet to go with your hot chocolate, our all-butter shortbreads are also a good choice.” With his help, you’re finally able to choose and watch as he selects the biggest, most delectable-looking one in the display—you try not to smile too hard at that; he’s the sweetest. “I’ll have your hot chocolate ready for you soon, love.” Not only did he give you a discount, but he didn’t charge you a single penny.

“Thank you so much, Remus.” He sends you away with a charming smile and your plated treat. When you eventually choose a window seat, you decide to wait until your hot chocolate is done to indulge in your snack pairing and take to observing the city scene outside. 

With a sigh of gratitude, you quietly thank the cafe walls for providing you with such peace. This has become such a safe corner for you in the city that you couldn’t believe you survived so long without it. And it was all thanks to glimpsing Remus’ gorgeous face and sweet nature by chance. The memory made you want to giggle, but you’re soon pulled from such thoughts by the obnoxious clearing of a throat beside you. 

When you turn, you find the source to be the most annoying man you’ve ever met, already introducing himself and quickly beginning to ramble obnoxiously. (What did he say his name was?) He had an ethereal type of beauty with his pale skin, grey eyes and midnight-black hair, dressed in leather like a biker from the 80s, but with a voice that itched your brain in the worst way possible. Was he trying to flirt with you? 

“I’m sorry?” you ask, just to be polite and also to test if this guy was being serious or not about his brazen behaviour. 

“Oh, don’t be sorry, dollface~” he leans in uncomfortably close, “I know I’m a looker, so there’s no need to be shy, you can look at me all you want—all day long if you must.” The stranger flutters his lashes at you, and you swear that you have the most confused and aghast expression on your face. You’re staring at him like he’s grown two extra heads, but he doesn’t stop and continues with his ‘flirting’. “Anyway~ I’m a looker and you’re a looker, why don’t we be lookers together and go for a date?” he wiggles his brows with a smug smirk on his lips, and you try your best not to gag, giving him enough breathing room to continue without an answer. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Before you could respond and politely try to shoo him away, a dark, coarse and almost familiar voice answers for you from where it looms over your figure, “Yes, she does,” Blinking in surprise, your voice gets stuck in your throat with your breath when you look over your shoulder and up to find Remus with a menacing look on his face, one that you couldn’t believe he was capable of ever expressing.

“You’re her—”

“I’m her boyfriend.” Remus reaffirms matter-of-factly, and you try to pretend that your face doesn’t feel like it’s suddenly been set on fire as he turns his icy glare from the stranger and onto you. The instant his eyes met yours, Remus was back to his kind and gentle self, with an additional warmth in his gaze as he placed your hot chocolate on the table in front of you. “Here’s your hot chocolate, my love.” He gently presses his nose against your hair and allows his lips to lightly brush against your temple. “I’m sorry it took so long…I had to redo it.” You don’t know what happened—still spiralling from the dreamy scene happening around you—but the creepy man dressed in leather quickly scampers off. 

Breathing a heavy sigh, Remus sinks into the unoccupied chair next to you. “Th-thanks for that Rem–” to your embarrassment, despite the justified reaction, you let out a small yelp when the barista in question takes the leg of your seat and pulls you closer, his thighs spread apart so you could be as close as possible. When your head was a few inches from his chin, he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable…” 

You wait until your heart rate slows to a normal pace before answering, smiling softly at his considerateness, “I wasn’t uncomfortable at all, not by you at least. Thank you for saving me, Remus.” It was quite adorable how soft he had become, nuzzling into your shoulder to apologise. You couldn’t help but think that he was like an affectionate dog trying to act sweet to express its regret, which you were very weakhearted for. Unable to help yourself, your hand comes up to gently comb through his hair—you can’t believe how soft it is! 

“No. I didn’t save you.”

“What do you mean?”

“...You have to deal with me now…” 

OUTTAKE :

“Remus was so mean, Jamie! And after the sacrifice I took for him!” Sirius whines as James rolls his eyes and shares an amused look with Lily, who sips at her tea while his arm slings over the back of the sofa behind her. “I was only trying to get him together with his lady! It was a success, but I can’t believe that this is the ‘thanks’ I get! Me! The perfect wingman, but glared at, like I’m some sort of villain!” 

“Perfect wingman, more like perfect creep—” 

“Not you too, James!” Sirius shouts, the agony rich in his voice and falls back into his loveseat dramatically, as if struck by an arrow, “I can’t believe you would mock my genius acting like that!” 

“Get over yourself, Sirius.” Lily comments, hiding her smirk behind the lip of her teacup. “What matters is that Remus is finally with his favourite regular.”

“Yeah~ Get over yourself, Sirius~” James teases mockingly, narrowing his eyes at his friend, still smirking in amusement before he drops the jeering facade. “Moony’s with his lady now, ain’t he? He’ll stop giving you the silent treatment soon enough”

Sirius huffs, arms crossed, “I never get any praise around here! A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice!” 

NAVI. | MORE REMUS

A/N : god...i missed writing for sirius XD and remus and james too of course! it's been a while since I've written a timestamp but i hope you darlings enjoyed the read hehe~

[jamieroyjamieroy]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

I was tagged by @bidisasterevankinard 💜 I haven’t been writing much lately. This is something I started a few days ago and I need the inspiration and motivation to continue writing it. I am ignoring canon for Lab Rats. Please tell me if I should continue with this or not!

This shift will definitely go down as one of the crazier ones and that’s saying something when it comes to them. Chim is being isolated for now. So is Hen while they wait for transportation to hospital. Karen is on her way to collect Maddie and wait for their significant others to be admitted for treatment. Ravi, Bobby, Athena and Buck have been through decontamination again just to be on the safe side. The danger has passed but the army and the Feds believe in doing things in triplicate, CYA in full effect.

Adrenaline is crashing and the realisation of how badly this could have gone is crashing into Buck. They could have been arrested, probably should have been if he is honest. The positive outcome is their only saving grace. The only reason he can walk up to a waiting Tommy, a Tommy who looks relieved and terrified at the same time. Buck walks with purpose grabbing Tommy’s flight suit and dragging him chest to chest, staring deep into questioning blue eyes. “Why did you come? Why did you risk everything?” He asks softly, full of awe and curiosity.

“Because you called.” Tommy answers truthfully, tiredly. His look of uncertainty, of hope, of having said the wrong thing again flash across his face and it cracks something deep inside Buck.

Tommy has always been there. No matter what. If he is on call, just finished a brutal shift, when he believes Buck has no feelings for him. Tommy is always there. A warmth spreads through Buck, a sense of being seen, understood and loved. Something no other partner has ever made him feel. Buck stops thinking, stops overthinking and follows his heart. He takes Tommy’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. Trying to say all the things he has been scared to voice before. Needing Tommy to understand how much he feels for this incredible man.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Tommy pants into their shared space“but what was that for?” He asks running a thumb across Buck’s cheek.

“You came. For me. You always do. No matter what has happened between us. You are always there for me.” Buck replies pulling Tommy in for another kiss. “Thank you.”

“I can’t help it. I can’t stay away from you Evan.” Tommy sighs resting his forehead on Buck’s and gripping his hips. “I know things didn’t end well but.” Tommy is cut off by lips slamming into his own, a tongue searching for an entrance and hands pulling him closer.

“We can talk later.” Buck says pressing himself into Tommy and kissing him again. “Would you come to the hospital with me? I want to check on Chim and Hen.”

“Of course Evan.” Tommy replies accepting the enthusiastic kiss, chuckling softly as more kisses are pressed on his lips, face and neck.

“Tommy. Thank you.” Bobby says approaching the two, one arm wrapped tightly around Athena. The other extended out to Tommy.

Tommy shakes the offered hand wrapping an arm around Buck “It was nothing. Evan said a distraction was needed, I’m nothing if not a good distraction.” Buck goes taut beside Tommy feeling that the remark was aimed at him. Does Tommy think he was using him as a distraction the last time they hooked up? He knows he said something like that to Maddie but he was trying to hide the hurt and the want he still felt for Tommy.

“I heard it was some fancy flying, sorry I didn’t get to see it. But it wasn’t nothing. You risked a lot for us. I’m glad you two have worked things out. I know Buck has missed you and he is a lot happier when you are together.” Bobby continues unaware of how still both Buck and Tommy have suddenly gone. Athena however notices and taking pity on them interrupts.

“We are going to head to the hospital. See you there.” Athena says dragging Bobby along with her, she gives Buck a look that in equal parts tells him to fix this situation and you’re welcome for taking Bobby away before things become more awkward.

“You aren’t just a distraction. Not to me.” Buck says imploring Tommy with his eyes to believe him. “I know I messed up and we need to talk properly, but not tonight, I just need you to know you are more than that to me.”

“We both messed up. I’m here for whatever you need Evan. Whatever. But I have to admit I am glad I’m more than that. Let’s get to the hospital, see how everyone is and then we can worry about everything else after that.” Tommy reassures Buck, squeezing his hand. “Your family needs you right now and I want to be there when you need me.” Tommy says softly cupping Buck’s cheek and kissing him sweetly.

Np tagging @fairytalegonewronga03 @laundryandtaxesworld @astoopidfool @bybobbysbeard @dum-amo-vivo9 even though it’s no longer Wednesday

[httpvomitello]

childhood best friends to lovers trope featuring Joaquin Torres and Y/N, with the high school-to-reunion glow-up vibe

You hadn’t seen Joaquin since graduation—the last time he hugged you, he still smelled like cheap cologne and high school cafeteria fries. Now, standing in front of you in that perfectly fit flight jacket, he was taller, stronger, but somehow still had the same boyish spark in his eyes. “Still remember our late-night pact?” he asked, that crooked grin tugging at your heart like it always did. You laughed, but your pulse skipped—because the truth was, you remembered everything: the way he used to walk you home, the time he almost kissed you at prom, and how he promised he’d find you again. And now he had.

sorry for the long paragraph

But when they reunited can you do like where Sam and Bucky are there

I hope you like it ~ ☆

Almost Promises .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: Now, at a military reunion where you’re just a guest, Joaquin Torres stands in front of you in his flight jacket, grown into himself in every way, with the same soft spark in his eyes.

joaquin torres x f!reader

It was after graduation, under a streetlight that flickered like a bad memory. He smelled like cheap cologne, cafeteria fries, and a little bit of nerves. You were both eighteen, slightly buzzed on freedom, and he hugged you like he didn’t want to let go.

“You’ll find someone cooler in the Air Force,” you joked, tugging on his gown sleeve.

He grinned, that crooked boyish grin. “Nah. Not possible.”

You rolled your eyes. “Promise you won’t disappear?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “Promise I’ll find you again.”

And then he kissed your cheek—barely missed your lips—and walked away into the night.

You didn’t see him again.

You didn’t really want to be here.

Only reason you showed up was because your cousin, Sam Wilson, pulled the family card.

“Just for a few hours,” he’d begged. “There’s food, music, probably some retired generals you can impress.”

“You mean terrify.”

He grinned. “Same thing.”

So you put on a dress, threw your hair up, and walked into a room full of medals, uniforms, and champagne flutes.

Bucky Barnes was already by the bar, looking eternally unamused in a dark suit. You made a beeline for him. He gave you a small nod, like a silent “hey.”

“You hiding too?” you asked, sipping your drink.

He smirked. “Always.”

And that’s when you heard the laugh.

That laugh.

You froze mid-sip. It was louder, deeper now. But unmistakable.

You turned—and there he was.

Joaquin Torres.

Wearing a perfectly fitted Air Force flight jacket over his blues, taller than you remembered, broader too. But his eyes? Still held that same warm spark. Mischievous and soft all at once.

He looked right at you.

And smiled.

“No way,” he said, crossing the floor like he hadn’t aged a day. “You’re here?”

Your brain short-circuited. “I—yeah. I’m here. You—damn, Torres.”

That made him laugh. “Still remember our late-night pact?”

Your heart actually skipped. You tried to play it cool. “You mean the one where you swore you’d come find me and then ghosted for almost a decade?”

He winced dramatically. “Okay. Yeah. Fair. But look—I’m here now.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that was part of the plan?”

He leaned in slightly, his grin softer now. “I never stopped meaning it.”

You felt your face warm.

“Sam didn’t say you’d be here,” you mumbled.

“He doesn’t know. It’s a last-minute drop-in. Recon training group is in town for a few days, and I tagged along.”

You tried to hide the flutter in your chest. “Guess you grew up.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, and so did you. Not that you needed it—you were always ten years ahead of me.”

Bucky slid up beside you, raising an eyebrow at Joaquin. “You flirting or reminiscing, Lieutenant?”

You jumped. “Oh my God, Bucky.”

Joaquin gave him a look. “Both. Respectfully.”

Sam appeared from behind, clapping a hand on Joaquin’s shoulder. “So you did find her again.”

You blinked. “Wait—you knew?”

Sam gave you a smug look. “Kid’s been asking about you every time he stops by. I just didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Joaquin shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Told you I’d find you.”

You stood by the edge of the rooftop, heels in hand, city lights glittering below. The air was cool, and for once, you felt like you could breathe.

Joaquin appeared beside you, two drinks in hand. “Peace offering.”

You raised a brow. “What for?”

“For being a dumbass and not messaging sooner.”

You took the glass. “Apology accepted.”

There was a pause. Comfortable. Charged.

“You look good,” he said. “Like… damn.”

You laughed. “You clean up alright too.”

“I thought about writing,” he admitted. “A lot. Just didn’t know what to say.”

“So you decided to wait eight years and say it in person?”

He smiled crookedly. “Yeah. I figured it was the only way I’d get it right.”

You sipped your drink, trying not to stare. “You almost kissed me at prom.”

“I almost did a lot of things,” he murmured.

The silence after that was heavy with everything unsaid.

He turned to face you. “Still too late?”

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned in and rested your head on his shoulder.

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.

And for now, that was your answer.

[the-marshals-wife]

Ain't No Grave (Edward Rutledge x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW FOR G20, YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

A/N: Vengeful blond Aussie Antony Starr re-wired my brain and I needed more of him. Specifically, I needed soft!Rutledge, so here is an indulgent fic born from the idea "Yes he's evil, but what if I was his favorite?" I know this man would do anything for the woman he loves, even if that means cheating death itself. Also they did not do his backstory / trauma as a veteran justice at all in the movie, so I'm here to fix that too.

Description: Edward Rutledge x Fem!Reader, established relationship. Hurt + comfort, fluff, spice, extreme angst: eat up, y'all | Rating: MATURE, just to be safe. Warnings: kissing/making out, sensuality, pet names (endearing), blood and injuries described in-depth, partial nudity, mild language, alcohol, PTSD + trauma alluded to, suggestive themes, Reader is distraught for bit, Eddie gets patched up and all the loving he needs. | Word count: 4.2 k | Tagging: @hangmanscoming @walkingnearfoxes

Imagine Rutledge coming home to you after you believed him to be dead, and helping mend more than just his wounds

How could it have gone so wrong? What was supposed to the last stop on the way to freedom had become a nightmare that you couldn't wake up from. The remote safehouse where you had waited for Edward had transformed into a prison of shattered dreams. By the third day, the tears had stopped. A cold emptiness had taken their place, creeping into your bones and settling into your every fiber. You felt the ache of his absence with every breath.

It was the sixth day now. Time alluded you, but you were vaguely aware it was sometime in the evening because the shadows were growing long. You sit on the floor of the hallway with your knees pulled to your chest, utterly numb. This had become your preferred spot. The bed was hollow, and the sofa was haunted. Whenever your mind screamed at you that you should get up and try to leave, such thoughts were inevitably met with despair.

Of course, there was no rational reason to stay. You understood all the facts. No one was coming to save you. The food was almost gone, and there'd hardly been much to start with. You were going to die here alone if you didn't leave.

Edward was not coming back.

No, there was nothing rational about what you felt. You just couldn't let go. This is where you were supposed to wait for him. This is where he was going to come back to you. This is the last place that you were together.

Holding your head in your hands, another wave of grief washes over you. From the day you met Edward, you knew it was never going to be easy. You also knew there was no one else for you but him. His demons danced perfectly with yours, and you wrestled them better together. Even still, he had his own war to wage, and he had to fight it his way. As long as you could be at his side when the battles were over, you made peace with looking the other way.

Then, he found a way to win, once and for all. That's what he believed, at least.

You both agreed that the less you knew about the G20 Plan, the better. But being ignorant about the finer details didn't prevent you from worrying; if anything, it only made it worse. The knowledge that it would be the last time he'd leave you for a mission had been the only thing keeping you sane. That, and thinking about the future that awaited you when he returned.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the memories, but you were powerless to halt their coming. That last night before the summit seemed so long ago now. If only you'd known then...if only you could've stopped him...

★

The warm night air spills through the open balcony doors and clings to your skin. The smell of damp earth from nearby rain fills your nose, and the steady chirping of crickets evokes a familiar comfort. You recline on the sofa with your head propped up on your hand along the back, waiting for Edward to return with his 'surprise.' In the kitchen behind you, you hear him shuffling around and rifling through the cabinets.

"You're not peeking, are you?" he calls out.

"I'd never dream of it," you holler back, smiling despite yourself.

"I just got word from Titos. The boys are all set for tomorrow. Everything's falling right into place," he informs, no small amount of satisfaction in his voice as he draws nearer, "Now that the cryptowallet is in our possession, all that's left is to take the bastards down."

"No turning back now," you say to yourself, holding back a sigh.

You look up to see him returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, a grin spread across his face.

"Tada," he announces, placing them on the coffee table in front of you. "I know, not much. But we can't make a bloody toast with water, now can we?"

"Wow. What exactly are we toasting?" you inquire, sitting forward.

His expression twists with confusion, but he doesn't lose his smile as he proceeds to pop the cork and begin pouring. "Our victory, of course. What else, darling?"

"Don't you think that's bad luck? You haven't won yet, Eddie," you remind, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in your gut.

"But we will," he insists, offering you your drink, "And since when have you been the superstitious type?"

"Since you decided to break into the most heavily armed place on the continent," you answer. You take the libation and stand up to join him.

"My poor love. Ever fretting over my sorry hide," he teases with pitiful affection, "Needlessly, might I add."

"Someone has to, Rutledge," you retort, glaring at him knowingly, "I've grown rather fond of that 'sorry hide', so you call it. Or have you forgotten?"

He bites his lip in amusement, noticeably trying to maintain his composure after your comment.

"Perhaps you need reminding," you suggest, bating your eyes.

You can't help but smirk, enjoying how easily you could make him flustered.

Re-establishing eye contact, he leans in closer and drops his voice to a whisper. "I think these ought to be empty before I can permit that kind of talk, girl."

"Agreed," you concede, pleased with yourself.

He raises his glass, and you do the same.

"To a new world," he declares.

"To a new world."

The clinking of crystal rings through the air. You swallow a generous sip and try to wash the words from your mouth. Edward downs half of his own portion before turning away and stepping out onto the balcony.

"By this time tomorrow, everything is going to be different," he exhales, peering out into the pitch black night.

You reclaim your seat and train your wistful gaze on him. You knew what he was doing. The nearest civilization was miles away, but that did not deter him from scanning the perimeter. You'd grown used to his vigilance; come to depend on it. Yet even in the middle of a moment of celebration, he could not fully let his guard down. You consider calling him back inside, but think the better of it. The moment would pass, as it typically did.

Instead, you reflect on the half-hearted toast you'd just made. Your playful exchange had distracted you from your troubled thoughts momentarily. But as sure as the coming dawn, they reappeared. You'd tried to put on a smile for him, but in truth, you were feeling far from jubilant. In the weeks since Edward first spoke to you of the G20 plan, it'd become a chore to keep your mind from wandering into the future, and all the dread that it held for you. There was no small part of you that was truly worried for his safety, a concern you attempted to convey to him time and again to no avail. It wasn't even the prospect of living in hiding that you found troublesome, as would be necessary after every nation on the planet saw his face tomorrow. You were already accustomed to one form of "off-the-grid" living or another following Edward around the globe for the past few years, so the concept certainly didn't bother you anymore. Your identity from before was long gone, and as long as you were together, the person you'd have to become next made little difference to you.

The reason for your dismay was much worse than that. You hated yourself for even thinking it, but deep down, you could sense that you'd begun to doubt him. You feared what would happen if his plan failed, and perhaps even more, you were terrified of what would happen if it didn't.

At last, Edward turns toward you, grinning once more. "The world is going to be our oyster, sweetheart. You've got nothing to worry about anymore."

You distractedly swirl around the remaining golden liquid in your glass. "Oh Eddie, you make it sound so easy."

"That's because it will be," he assures, pointing emphatically, "For the first time in my life, I have clarity of purpose. I know what I have to do. People have to be awakened to what's happening before their very eyes. They must be made to understand the truth so we can bring about real change. No one will stand in my way this time. And when the work is done, when we finally put an end to all the wars and deceit and corruption, I'm going to have everything I want. What we're owed."

"Oh yeah?" you ask, unconvinced by his impassioned oaths.

"Is that doubt, I'm hearing? Surely not," he says, sounding genuinely surprised. He walks over and sits beside you on the couch, awaiting an explanation. "Tell me I've not lost your faith."

You stare down at your hands as you speak, unable to look at him.

"You haven't. I know you'll accomplish what you need to. You always prevail. It's just..." you hesitate, unsure if you should reveal your insecurity.

"What is it? Hm?" he asks, comfortingly resting his hand on your leg.

"You'll be the most powerful man on the planet. You could go anywhere, do anything, with anyone. And I'm just wondering where I fit into all of it."

He's silent only a moment before he replies with renewed resolve.

"Now you just listen hear, darling. I said I was going to give you the world, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Shaking your head, you set your glass on the table. "I don't need the world, Eddie. All I want is you."

He smirks, undaunted.

"You already have me," he says, pulling you into his lap, "You know that, don't ya?"

You nod distantly in response, proceeding to softly trace the tattoo on his arm with your finger as he continues.

"You've been beside me in the dark, and I want you right there with me in the light. It's gonna be you and me, just like always. The money won't change that."

"How will it not?"

"Because I won't let it," he vows, "Besides, I couldn't replace you if I tried for a million years. You are my one and only." He snakes his arm around your waist and meets your eyes before repeating the words, "My one and only."

"And you are mine," you reply, leaning in closer until your forehead rests on his. Just like that, he had silenced your doubts, and put in their place a hope that you could hold onto. "You sure have a way with words, Corporal."

"I know, I know," he chuckles, "How about just two more?"

Instantly, you detect a shift in his tone that makes your heart skip. You sit back and stare at him expectantly.

He beholds you with quiet confidence. "Marry me."

"Eddie, be serious," you begin to laugh.

"I am being serious," he says, his gaze softening, "I love you. With all my bleeding heart, I love you, Y/N."

Your heart swells at his confession, tears flooding your vision. "I love you, too."

"This is the final mission. I'm done. I know I've put you through it, and somehow, through thick and thin...you haven't given up on me."

"Not yet," you smile.

He follows suit, continuing his impromptu speech.

"I want to take care of you. Proper like, from now on. Let me prove that your faith in me has not been for nothing," he says, taking your hand in his, "When I get back from this, will you marry me?"

"Yes," you answer, beaming, "I will."

"Atta girl," he purrs through his smile, "Now what was this you were sayin' earlier? Something about a reminder..."

Before you can blink, he eagerly pulls you against him and closes the meager space between you, capturing your mouth with his own. You claw at his chest and kiss him back fiercely, tasting the champagne on his tongue when he parts your lips. You melt into his wandering touch as he then peppers kisses along your jaw and down your neck. The gentle scratch of his beard on the sensitive skin makes your pulse quicken as you close your eyes.

"Promise that you'll come back to me," you say breathlessly.

He pauses his fevered exploration to cup your face in his calloused hands.

"Nothing will stop me from coming back to you. I promise."

★

The memory leaves you reeling, Edward's voice still echoing your head. You could see it all so clearly, as if you were still there in the ecstasy of his embrace. But when you open your eyes again, you're met with the cruel reality. He was gone, and he'd taken everything with him.

The sound of the locks releasing on the main door of the safehouse pull your from your desolate stupor.

You scramble to your feet as quickly as you can, but consecutive days of sporadic food and water intake immediately catch up to you as you struggle to find sure footing.

In mere seconds, a thousand thoughts flashed through your panicked mind. This was it. They'd come for you. Someone somewhere had figured out your connection to Edward, and they were about to lock you away for the rest of your life. It didn't matter that your only true crime was loving him. They would say you were a terrorist too. Guilty by association. You'd never see the sun again.

What difference did it make? It held no warmth for you anymore.

Accepting your fate, you step out into the open. You expect to see a stealth squad of some kind, hoping to catch you off guard and take you in for questioning.

Instead, a lone figure staggers forward from the shadows. You stand frozen as they limp closer, and the waning sunlight spills across their battered visage.

The second those familiar blue eyes meet yours, the air in your lungs disappears.

His name falls from your lips in a whimper. "Eddie?"

"Hello, darling." He flashes a weary smile, holding his arm across his torso.

"Is it really you?" you whisper, afraid that you would make him fade away if you even dared to move.

"It's me, love," he answers weakly, wincing just to speak, "What's left of me, anyway."

"Eddie, oh my god," you cry, your fragile composure shattering.

You run to him and throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him for dear life. After recovering his balance, he holds you tightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"You were dead. You were dead," you repeat through sobs.

"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here," he consoles, stroking your back, "Everything's alright now. I'm here."

Now that you were sure he was not a ghost, you feel secure enough to release your grip, if only just a little. His arms stay firmly encircled around your body as he gazes upon you with glistening eyes.

"It was all over the news. They said you fell, that-that survival was impossible," you stammer in disbelief, "I thought you were gone."

"For a moment there, so did I," he replies, reaching to caress your cheek. "But I had a promise to keep."

With that, you pull him into a desperate kiss. He returns it fervently, his fingers lacing into your hair. You savor every sensation you thought you'd never feel again as your hand slides up underneath his shirt. He lets out a pained groan against your lips. You're keenly aware of his injuries once again and carefully surrender your hold on him.

"Easy, darling. I'm gonna need a little R and R before I can have too much fun," he teases, touching his forehead against yours.

"Sorry. Habit," you wince, "Are you okay?"

"I'll live," he chuckles, "I missed you too."

It's then you realize that your hand doesn't feel quite right, and you look down to see your fingers smeared in crimson.

"You're bleeding!"

He growls in frustration, "The damned stitches must have ripped, climbing up this bloody mountain."

"Put your arm around me, let's get you to the couch," you instruct, moving to hold him upright.

"Too bad we finished that whole bottle, ay?" he grunts, complying through the pain.

Adrenaline helps you overcome your own fatigue enough to bear his unsteady weight over your shoulders and hobble into the next room.

"You're not dying on me now, Rutledge. You owe me."

"What are you on about, woman?" he grounds out, followed by a string of curses as you help lower him onto the cushions.

"You owe me a husband. You can't die until after you've married me," you pant, your head starting to pound from the exertion.

His pained expression turns baffled. "You still want to?"

Between the immense stress and his audacity to ask such a thing, your temper starts to flare. "I know you didn't just ask me that."

Switching on the lights, you rush to the kitchen to run some warm water and retrieve the medical kit, trying to work out a strategy. You quickly return with the necessary items, noticing the sudden shift in his mood even in your frenzied state.

"Why would you want to be tied to a miserable ratbag like me? You don't deserve that," Edward mumbles, looking at his boots.

The weight of his failure had apparently started to crash down on him, but it's more than you can bear at present.

You clench your trembling fist and stand over him. It takes all of your remaining strength not to yell.

"For your sake, I'm going to blame what I'm hearing on the head trauma you clearly sustained. Because I know if it weren't for that, there is no way in hell you'd be saying those things to me after everything that's happened," you warn, finding your courage. "Now shut up, Corporal, and help me get all of this off."

As much as you wanted to slap him and scream about the grief he put you through, your focus was on keeping him breathing. Gritting your teeth, you help him remove his soiled clothing until he was stripped down to the waist. He's left in visible agony afterward, but makes no complaints, lying as still as he can manage. You reflexively cover your mouth with your hand as you realize the full extent of the damage. His self-sewn stitches on his abdomen were indeed torn open at the bottom of the evident puncture wound, and he had what appeared to be a stab wound towards the back of his left shoulder that had since stopped bleeding. On top of that, he was completely covered in bruises, all shades of purple and black that made your stomach churn. By the looks of his right side especially, he probably had broken ribs, but there was nothing to be done about it. Staunching the bleeding was your priority, but despite your initial scare, it didn't seem as bad as you'd first thought.

You both remain silent as you kneel before him and begin cleaning the surrounding area with a wet cloth the best that you can. Apart from the rise and fall of his ragged breathing, he remains unmoving. You glance up to see a thousand-yard stare plastered on his face. Better that than the nonsense from before, you think. You wiped away as much dried blood as you could before deciding it would have to be good enough. Before long, you have the antiseptic at the ready.

"This will hurt," you say calmly.

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. Steeling yourself as well, you pour it over the wound liberally. He flinches, but only just so. As difficult as it was to imagine, you remind yourself that he'd been through worse than this.

While you carefully dab the area with gauze, your eyes wander to the scars you knew by heart. Like you'd done many times before, you attempt to picture where he was when those wounds were fresh, and who had been there to care for him then. He almost never spoke of his past, and whenever he did, it was only of the people he'd lost. Never of his own pain.

Having sorted through the supplies and found the suture kit, Edward raises his hand in protest.

"Leave it. It'll mend. Just the bandage."

"Are you sure?"

He only nods. You don't push it any further, too drained to argue. He obviously had far more experience with first-aid than you, and you felt better knowing you'd at least treated it against infection.

"I said I would give you the world. I failed..." he says solemnly.

"Edward, stop," you implore. You're blinking back tears once again, trying desperately to concentrate on your task. "Please. I don't want to hear about that anymore. I can't take it."

You secure the edges of the crisp white bandage in place, but your plea falls on deaf ears.

"I failed you."

You'd finally had enough, all of your emotions spilling over beyond the edge of your control.

"You really are the most thick-headed man I've ever known. Don't you understand? I never cared about any of it! All I have ever wanted is you. Not the money, not the politics, not the revenge. Just you!"

Your strained outburst echoes through the room.

"And I know that doesn't make sense to you, because you can't understand how someone could love you as you are. Accept both the good and the bad. But I do, Eddie. I always have. You're just gonna have to find a way to live with that."

"I'm broken, Y/N."

You open your mouth to dispute him, but the tear running down his scarred cheek steals your words away. He looks upon you with a tormented gaze that cuts through you like a knife. The devilish twinkle that you loved so much had vanished from his eyes. In some ways, he seemed like a completely different man than the one who sat in that very same spot only nights before and proposed to you. Yet in others, he was more that man than he'd ever been, and all you wished for now was to take the pain away from him.

You crawl into the seat alongside him and slowly turn his head towards you. "Then show me how to fix you, one and only."

Your offer destroys what remains of his fortitude as he breaks down into sobs, succumbing to his grief. You cradle his head to your chest and press kisses into his hair while he weeps. His numerous injuries don't prevent his unburdening, the pain deep inside clearly far greater than whatever he felt in his body.

"They're gone. They're all gone, because of me," he cries, "I failed them. I always fail them."

Suddenly, you're seized with realization. He didn't just mean the men killed at the disastrous summit. His meant his brothers in arms that he lost in the war. His best mates. At last, you understood. He felt responsible for their deaths, and the guilt was killing him. It had been poisoning him long before you'd ever met.

"It's not your fault, baby," you console, wondering if he'd ever heard those words before, "It was never your fault."

"Why did I survive? It should have been them. They should have lived. Not me...not me."

His anguished laments send shivers down your spine as your heart breaks for him. How quickly had it all reversed. Now he was the one that clung to you for dear life.

"Oh my love," you murmur, tears falling from your eyes onto his blond locks, "I'm so sorry."

He'd been through more suffering and loss than he had a right to, and you longed to carry that burden with him. But even in these throes of sorrow, you couldn't ignore the spark of hope you were now feeling inside. A sense of peace had begun to settle where the dread and despair had so recently been. For the first time ever, Edward had truly let you inside his darkness. He trusted you; not just to tend to his wounds, but to mend his heart. Indeed, it was the smallest of sparks, but it was a hope that you would die to keep burning for him.

You hold him in your arms for as long as he needs, and it feels like a lifetime before he finally draws back and looks to you with bloodshot eyes.

"Don't give up on me," he begs, his voice raw, "Please, I can't lose you too."

"Never," you pledge, taking his shaking hand and holding it to your heart. "Thick and thin, remember?"

He smiles a bit, some of the light returning to his eyes. The storm inside him was beginning to subside.

You continue on, "All of those men followed you because they believed in you. Just like I believe in you. And I'm not going anywhere."

He stares at you in awe. "What did I ever do you deserve you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Rutledge," you answer, overwhelmed with yearning.

"I swear to you, I will earn this second chance," he says sincerely, cupping your cheek, "If you'll still have me."

You smile.

"Always."

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 12)

<- prev next->

WC: 1937

Tags: Brief mention of injuries?

Hospital Room – Early Morning

The first pale light of dawn crept through the slats of the hospital blinds, casting long, golden strips across the linoleum floor. The world outside was beginning to stir — nurses changed shifts, machines beeped softly down the hall, but inside this room, time had frozen.

Daryl hadn’t moved from the chair in hours.

Not once.

He was slouched forward now, elbows on his knees, his broad shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he just folded tight enough, maybe he could shield you from the world. His hand hadn’t left yours since the second they let him in the room. His fingers, calloused and rough, were laced tightly with yours, unmoving except for the occasional, unconscious squeeze. Every so often, he’d shift slightly, just to press his thumb over your knuckles or brush a strand of hair from your cheek. His touch was so soft, like he thought if he held you too hard, you might slip away completely.

He hadn’t slept. The dark smudges beneath his eyes were stark against his already bruised skin. His lip was swollen, cracked open in one corner. His nose had bled earlier, dried rust-colored now along the edge of his nostril. But he didn’t care. Not about the pain. Not about the way his body ached from the fight, from the hours spent hunched in that unforgiving plastic chair. His jacket was crumpled over the backrest. He hadn’t touched it. The room was freezing, but he hadn’t noticed. His only focus — the only thing anchoring him — was you.

The doctors had tried to make him leave.

They’d gently asked him to go get some rest, to wait in the family room, to let them “do their job.” But he wouldn’t budge. He’d stood like a wall beside your bed, eyes burning with something unspoken and unmovable, and told them flat-out, “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” When one of the nurses tried again, Jess had snapped and told her, “She wakes up and he’s not here, it’ll be worse. Just let him stay.”

So he stayed. He sat there through the night, through the steady beeping of the monitors, through the soft murmur of nurses checking vitals, through the heavy silence of your stillness.

And now it was morning.

The sunlight had begun to wash away the harsh white hospital light, softening the room with gold. But you hadn’t stirred.

The ward was fairly peaceful, filled with the filtered rays of sunlight and gentle morning chatter.

But then—

The door burst open.

“Get your goddamn hands off my daughter.”

Sheriff Bennet.

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He just looked up slowly, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than any bruise.

“She’s okay,” he said softly, voice ragged from hours of silence. “Concussion, no swelling.”

Sheriff Bennet stormed into the room, fists clenched, face red with fury. His badge caught the light briefly as he crossed the floor with heavy boots. “I said get away from her, Dixon. Right now.”

Daryl didn’t move. He tightened his grip on your hand instead.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “Not leavin’ her.”

“You think I give a damn what you want?” the sheriff growled, stepping closer. “You’re the reason she’s in here.”

“No I ain’t,” Daryl said, finally rising to his feet. Slowly. Not with defiance, but with the calm of someone who had nothing left to lose. “And if you’d just listen, I’ll tell you what happened.”

The sheriff’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.

Daryl swallowed hard. His voice was hoarse. “It was Shane. She told him it was over, and he didn’t take it well, he grabbed her and I intervened.”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Ask Jess,” Daryl said quickly. “She saw it too. He was gettin’ in her face, grabbin’ her arms. I stepped in. Told him to back the hell off. He took a swing at me, and I fought back.”

“And that’s when you knocked her down?” the sheriff snapped.

Daryl’s jaw clenched. His voice shook. “No. That ain’t how it happened.”

He looked down at you, eyes clouded with guilt.

“She tried to pull Shane back when we were fightin’. She didn’t want it to get worse. She put her hand on his arm—right when he swung again. His elbow caught her in the face. She went down hard. Didn’t even scream. Just—” His voice broke. “Dropped.”

The silence that followed was thick and ugly.

“I didn’t touch her,” Daryl whispered. “But I couldn’t catch her either. I tried.”

Sheriff Bennet looked at you then, really looked. His expression faltered just slightly when he saw the faint bruising on your cheek, the cut at your temple, the gauze taped above your hairline.

“She ain’t hurt ‘cause I was fightin’ him,” Daryl said. “She’s hurt ‘cause she thought she could stop it herself.”

“She shouldn’t’ve been near you,” the sheriff barked, eyes hot again. “I told her to stay away. Told you both.”

“You think she listened to that?” Daryl’s voice sharpened. “You think she’s just a little girl you can bark orders at and she’ll sit pretty behind her window?”

The sheriff stiffened.

“She wanted out,” Daryl said, softer now. “Outta this town, outta your rules, outta whatever cage you built around her.”

Sheriff Bennet’s fists were trembling at his sides.

“I love her,” Daryl said suddenly, the words leaving him like a punch to the chest. “And I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. And I tried to respect your wishes, I tried to stay away, but it broke both of us. But I ain’t leavin’ her side just because you can’t stand seein’ me next to her.”

The sheriff was silent for a long moment.

Then he exhaled—harsh, broken. Ran a hand down his face.

“You bring trouble everywhere you go,” he muttered. “You always have.”

Daryl didn’t argue.

“But if what you said is true,” the sheriff added, glancing at your unconscious form again, his voice lower, rougher, “then Shane Walsh is gonna have a hard time getting out of this.”

Daryl’s eyes snapped up.

“He’s in the holding cell,” the sheriff muttered. “Banged up. Loudmouth. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

He stepped back toward the door.

“You’ve got an hour,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re gone. I don’t want to see your face in here again. This ain’t a blessin’, Dixon”

Daryl didn’t answer. He just sat back down, took your hand in both of his, and bowed his head like a prayer.

When the door closed behind the sheriff, the quiet returned.

And Daryl whispered, voice cracking against the stillness:

“I’m right here, darlin’. Ain’t movin’. Not till you come back to me.”

~

Hospital Room – Early Morning (Continued)

Silence settled in again once the door clicked shut behind your father, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was thick — heavy with everything unsaid, everything broken. Daryl let out a shaky breath and leaned forward again, pressing his forehead gently to the back of your hand like he could pray through skin and bone.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. His voice was rough, a whisper of gravel. “I never should’ve left you.. I never should’ve.”

Your fingers twitched.

Just barely — the smallest motion, so slight it might’ve been a trick of the light — but it sent a jolt through him.

Daryl froze.

He lifted his head slowly, eyes scanning your face.

Then—

Another twitch.

Your lashes fluttered, lids fluttering in that fragile, broken way like a dreamer caught between worlds. Your brow creased just slightly, and your lips parted with a soft breath, dry and cracked.

“Hey,” Daryl breathed, voice cracking. He sat upright so fast the chair creaked beneath him. “Hey—Sophia—baby, you with me?”

Your head shifted, just a fraction, and you winced at the pain behind your eyes. A faint sound escaped your throat—hoarse, uncertain.

Your eyes opened, unfocused and glassy.

“D…Daryl?”

His name left your mouth like a question, like something sacred and far away, and it broke him in half.

“Yeah,” he choked. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

You blinked slowly, trying to orient yourself, and your gaze found his face. Bruised. Bloodied. Exhausted. Your breath caught.

“Your…face…”

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispered, cupping your hand between both of his. “I’m fine. You’re the one who scared the hell outta me.”

Your eyes flickered again, brow knitting. “The game… Shane…”

The memory came back in pieces — the yelling, the parking lot, the heat of hands grabbing your wrist. The fight. The blur of fists. Then the sharp snap of pain and—

Darkness.

“I—I tried to stop it,” you murmured, eyes glassing with tears. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt—”

“I know,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I know you did. You were tryin’ to protect me. But it ain’t your job to step in the middle of a fight like that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shh, no. No, baby, I ain’t mad,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your temple, careful not to touch the bruising. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Shane—he caught you with his elbow. You were tryin’ to pull him back. He swung, and… he hit you.”

You looked around the room slowly, trying to make sense of it, and then your eyes sharpened just slightly.

“…Where’s my dad?”

The words were hoarse. Barely above a whisper. But they hung in the air like a stone dropped in water.

Daryl stilled.

“He—he was here,” he said gently, hesitating just a beat too long. “Came by a little while ago.”

You searched his face, your foggy brain trying to connect the dots. “But… he’s not here now?”

Daryl’s expression faltered.

“No,” he said. Quiet. Honest. “He left.”

You blinked again. Your heart sank. “He left?”

Daryl didn’t try to soften it with lies or excuses. He just sat there, still holding your hand, watching the shift in your face with something raw and aching in his eyes.

“He told me I had an hour,” he said quietly. “Before he made me leave, too.”

You turned your face away then, just slightly, staring at the ceiling as your throat tightened. You hadn’t even realized how much you needed to see him — needed your dad to be there when you woke up, to sit beside you like he used to when you were little and had a fever, whispering that it’d be alright. But now there was only the echo of his absence. And a deep, hollow ache that opened somewhere inside your ribs.

“He didn’t stay,” you murmured.

Daryl was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he leaned forward.

“No,” he said again, voice low.

Your eyes filled then. You didn’t mean for them to. You weren’t even sure what you were crying for — the pain, the fear, the disappointment, all of it crashing down in the quiet of that sterile room. You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears slipping past your lashes like they’d been waiting all night to fall.

“I thought he’d be here,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “He’s my dad…”

“I know, baby,” Daryl said softly. “I know.”

You turned your head back to him, and he saw it — that little piece of you that had just broken. The part that still wanted to believe your father would always come through, even when he didn’t.

Daryl reached for you then, real gentle, real slow — like you were something made of porcelain, something fragile and precious. He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, then rested his forehead against your arm.