#*gets up on an overturned crate*

[writersdrug]

Bartender Simon when a customer yells at reader for a mistake?

I love the way you guys think LOVE keep em comin!!

It starts when he's restocking his bar, carrying crates with fruit, bitters, coasters, and straws. He comes down from the pantry upstairs to a decently relaxed lunch crowd, when he hears the second half of the customer's tantrum.

"You expect me to eat this?! It's bloody raw!"

"I'm so sorry, I can take it back aga-"

"You already did that - went to the kitchen and stuck it under the warmer for a few seconds and thought I wouldn't notice, huh?"

"No sir, I gave it to the che-"

"I don't want to hear fucking excuses, just go fix my damn burger. I'm paying for this shit, aren't I? And you're working for my tip. So fucking work, cunt."

Humiliation isn't enough to describe what you feel - there isn't a strong enough word for it. Claiming you're a liar, saying you grovel for tips, yelling at you in front of your other tables, calling you a cunt - it makes your eyes sting with oncoming tears, staring at him and using every muscle in your jaw to keep from spitting insults back at him. You want to throw the food in his face, but instead, you grab his plate and storm off to the kitchen before he can see you cry.

The man scoffs, looking at his watch. "Fuckin' great..."

Simon's still standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding his crates and staring daggers at the man. He knows what it's like, being berated by customers. He says "that's customer service for ya" and moves on. But for this wanker to berate you - he sees red. He sees his next target.

He swiftly crosses the restaurant floor, boots thudding against the old wood as he drops his crate behind the bar. Soap's already yelling about the asshole when he pushes his way into the kitchen.

"Order it fuckin' rare and ye get fuckin' rare, bloody clipe- talkin' mince, bawface bastard-" he slams the burger back onto the grill with a tense arm, continuing to grumble as it sizzles. "Cookin' ye a nice strip o' shoe leather-"

You're sitting on an overturned crate, sobbing into your hands, pen and notepad on the ground beside you. Price is on one knee, one arm around your shoulder and the other on your leg - you'd never officially met the owner of the pub, but now was as good a time as any, you suppose.

"Wot happened?" Is all that Ghost could say without going off on a rampage. He's saving that for later.

"He fucking embarrassed me, that's what happened!!" You snap, looking up at Simon. Your eyes are red and puffy after only crying for a minute or two, cheeks wet from your tears. You hug your arms around your middle and choke on a sob. "Told me his fucking burger wasn't cooked, so I sent it back- then he tries to say I never even gave it to Soap?! Calls m-me a cunt in front of my tables?! Make me fucking work for his money - I don't want his goddamn money!!"

Price shushes you, worrying your anger might be leaking through the kitchen door - he doesn't want the same customer to hear you bad-mouthing him, although it's rightfully deserved. He rubs your back gently as you drop your head into your hands again, shoulders shaking as you cry.

Simon's seething - he's already moving before his brain can catch up, still stuck on the picture of your teary face. He marches behind the line and reaches across Soap, picking the burger right off the grill.

Soap makes a shocked sound. "Ye gone mad, LT?!"

"Table six?" Ghost asks, holding the sizzling burger patty in his hand, grease dripping onto his forearm.

You stare between his face and the patty - your crying stopped, your face now replaced with a stupefied expression. "Uh- yeah."

And like that, he's off; he shoves himself back out onto the floor and makes his way towards the customer who yelled at you. The burger burns his hand, but he doesn't even notice the pain. He drops it onto the table in front of the man, who yelps in disgust. "What the fuck-"

"Better?" Ghost says, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looked down at the man, now stuttering and blubbering in shock. Specks of grease are freckling his white dress shirt.

"Are you- is this a fucking joke?"

"It's your fuckin' burger."

"I can't believe this-"

"Then get the fuck out my pub." Ghost growls; he grabs the man by his arm, ripping his blazer off the back of his chair, and drags him to the front door. The other customers look with wide eyes as he busts the door open with his shoulder and throws the man onto the sidewalk. He wheezes as he hits the ground, and Ghost throws his blazer at him next.

"If I ever see your face in 'ere after this, 'm throwin' you out again and keepin' your bullocks as a fuckin' souvenir."

The man stares at him, flabbergasted, as Ghost walks back inside. People are focused on their meals now, heads down and pretending they didn't see Simon body a man to the ground - the guy deserved it, after all.

Simon huffs, picking up the burger from the now-empty table. His hand stings a bit, but he has years of callouses built up to keep any real burns from settling in. He gently kicks the chair back into place and starts heading back to the kitchen, when he sees you.

You're staring at him with wide, wet eyes, standing in the entryway to the kitchen and mouth slightly ajar in awe. You've fully stopped crying, but there are still tears on your face from before. Eyeliner and mascara are smudged a bit, but it only makes Simon's fondness for you blossom.

He gently nudges your shoulder with his elbow as he pushes past you. "Take a fifteen. I'll watch your tables."

You stare after him as he throws the burger into the trash, grabbing a fresh towel and wrapping his hand. Wide back facing you as he looks at Soap, who stares at him with a frustrated sigh.

You're horny now. Horny for Simon - and you're definitely relaying this entire shebang to your friends tonight.

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Eight: Daddy’s Little Girl

Warnings: 18+ | Mentions of light BDSM | Blood | Death(?) | Angst | Wanted to nut but I’m crying in the club

Outside, the Mississippi heat simmered, but inside The Devil’s Tongue, cool shadows lingered, pierced only by slats of honeyed light through half-open shutters. It was quiet, but not silent. Too many things stirred beneath the surface for true peace.

Sera padded barefoot across the smooth floor, her legs bare and her body wrapped in one of Stack’s white button-ups—thin, oversized, and left undone at the top where her collarbone and a teasing slip of soft brown cleavage peeked through. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs and swayed with each step she took, revealing just enough to make the silence hum. She hadn’t bothered with putting on her underwear since she couldn’t find them. There was something sacred in the fainting throb between her thighs, something unspoken she wasn’t ready to cover up. Not yet.

She wandered around with a lackadaisical purpose, fingers trailing across the edges of makeshift tables, overturned crates, and the old piano Smoke had dragged in just three days ago. Her ginger curls were still damp from the wash Stack had insisted she take, and her skin shimmered faintly with the almond oil he had massaged into her thighs and hips while muttering something about “bruises that don’t belong on delicate things.” She didn’t protest. Not when his hands had been so gentle after being so wicked the night before.

Smoke stood near the long bar that stretched across the left side of the room, sleeves rolled up and eyes squinting over a dingy ledger as he scribbled figures in the margins. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips, unlit and forgotten. Beside him, Stack moved like a phantom, counting bottles on the shelf with one hand and tossing an empty one over his shoulder with the other. It shattered against the far wall and neither man flinched.

Both of them watched Sera out of the corner of their eyes. They always watched her. Like two wolves, one cold and calculating… the other wild and impulsive… tracking their prey even after the hunt was long done. Their eyes followed every sway of her hips, every turn of her neck, every flutter of her lashes as she bent to pick up a stray rag and wrung it absently between her fingers. She wasn’t trying to tempt them this time, not on purpose, but she wasn’t hiding either.

She was still learning what it meant to be touched, kissed… Worshipped with mouths and hands until she shattered like a glass bottle thrown against a wall.

Stack was the first to speak, voice laced with teasing danger. “Ain’t no shame in glowin’, baby girl. You look good in my shirt… Real good.”

Sera glanced over her shoulder, lips curving just slightly, unsure if it was pride or embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. “You got a lotta nerve talkin’ like that Mr. Stack… after what you did to me.”

Smoke didn’t look up from the ledger, but the side of his mouth curled with dark amusement. He liked that Sera was getting comfortable enough to sass them and wanted to hear more of it from her. “Ain’t even do half of what we could’ve. You still breathin’, ain’t you?”

Stack chuckled. “Barely.”

Sera shook her head but kept moving, pretending she wasn’t trembling under their gaze. “You always this loud in the morning?”

“Only when the night before was that sweet,” Stack said, licking his bottom lip.

Smoke finally looked up, eyes dark brown like fresh roasted coffee. “Stack, count again. I ain’t payin’ foe guesswork. And stop runnin’ your mouth… leave our woman be.”

That earned a tsk from Stack, but he obeyed, dragging his eyes away from Sera to focus on his assigned task. “We down six bottles of rye, four of corn, and two of the apple shine.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed. “That ain’t bad. If we keep the mixin’ tight and don’t let these fools pour heavy, we should pull close to two hunnid profit just tonight. Maybe more if Randy people show an stay too long.”

“Randy people?,” Stack quizzed, snorting. “After what we did last night, I doubt they gonna show at all.”

The barn-turned-juke was cleaner than it had a right to be after what happened outside just hours earlier. Blood never touched the floorboards, but the memory of it clung to the twins like cologne. Smoke’s hands still lingered with a scent of gunpowder. Stack’s boots still carried dried earth from where he’d dug one of the graves. They hadn’t planned to kill anyone. Not that night. Not before sunrise. But Samuel’s little “lesson” had come too early and been too bold. And now six men lay rotting behind the tree line.

Sera didn’t ask about it but she knew something happened last night. She felt it in the way Smoke’s voice lowered when she was near and how Stack’s smile didn’t fully reach his eyes today. It was in the tension stretched between their shoulders and the way they watched her like something holy that had almost been snatched away. They weren’t sorry. But they were… different. Quieter. More possessive.

Stack reached for another bottle, paused, then turned his head slowly toward her. “You eat enough this morning, sweet girl?”

She nodded. “I ate all you fed me.”

“That don’t answer the question.”

She looked down at her belly, smoothed the shirt over it, then nodded again. “M’happy.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpened. “Come here.”

Sera blinked and shifted her weight on each foot before listening. Her legs moved on instinct now. Like the imprint of last night was still guiding her steps. She reached him, and he tilted her chin up with his fingers, calloused and firm. “You still got that tingle?”

Her eyes flickered between his and Stack’s. “A lil’…”

Stack grinned. “Good.”

Smoke gave a warning glance to his brother before brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. “You say somethin’ if it gets too much. Got some that can soothe it… Understand?”

Sera nodded, heat rising again low in her belly. It wasn’t fair. The way they could talk about bottles of liquor and body counts and still make her thighs press together with just one look. One touch.

Smoke stepped back, letting her go with a sharp inhale. “Go sit, sweetheart. Can’t have you wanderin’ all over this place with no drawers on.”

Sera quietly squeaked and turned quickly with her cheeks burning as Stack let out a laugh so loud it bounced off the rafters. She walked toward the velvet loveseat in the far corner. Every step felt like a reminder of who she belonged to now. Of what her body had learned in the dark. The twins went back to work. But neither of them stopped watching. And neither of them planned to let her wander far. Not tonight. Not ever again.

Smoke scribbled one final figure into the margin of the ledger, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mentally tallied the math. Profits looked promising. Folks had been whispering about The Devil’s Tongue all week, buzzing like flies around honey. If tonight went smooth, they would have more cash than they knew what to do with and a new kingdom to rule. Bootlegging, blues, bodies—it was all lining up.

Stack crouched near the lower shelf behind the bar, counting the last row of bottles, but his gaze kept drifting to Sera.

She was perched sweetly on the velvet loveseat in the corner, curled with her knees tucked to her chest and his shirt riding dangerously high along her thighs. Her eyes were drifting, heavy with leftover sleep and the itis. Every few seconds she’d stretch one leg, then the other, as if trying to find a way to sit that didn’t remind her of how they’d left her the night before.

Stack grinned to himself, licking his thumb and rubbing it across a dusty bottle of peach liquor. “She’s real tender today,” he stated, not really intending to be heard.

Smoke kept his eyes on the ledger. “That your way of sayin’ you sorry?”

Stack’s grin widened, voice dropping even lower. “Nah. That’s my way of sayin’ we need to think ‘bout jade trainin’ her. Eventually.”

Smoke froze and the room went still. The soft clink of bottles, the scratch of pencil, even the breath of the room seemed to pause for just a moment. Then Smoke slowly lifted his head, his eyes hard and cutting like steel. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Stack straightened, bottle still in hand, brows raised like he was daring Smoke to make this something it didn’t have to be. “I said what I said.”

“Nah nigga. Run that by me again?” Smoke asked, not loud, but sharp like barbed wire.

Stack dusted his palms on his slacks, gaze unwavering. “I say we jade train her. Like we used to. You know… soft stretchin’, light discipline. Build her up right foe’ we take that next step.”

Smoke’s eyes darkened. He turned fully now, shoulders squared and breath slow. “She ain’t like them sorry ass girls you used to pull from whorehouses out west,” he spat out. “She’s pure. A church girl. She don’t need all that.”

Stack’s expression twisted, his usual playfulness curdling into something sharper. “Don’t stand there actin’ holier than thou. You the one who taught me how to train a woman, Elijah.”

“Yeah, and I regret teachin’ you anything when you throw it ‘round like it don’t mean nothin’, Elias. Her daddy done enough damage to her.”

“It does mean somethin’!” Stack snapped, chest rising. “It means takin’ control. Breakin’ her down real slow so we can build her back up better. Softer. Obedient. That ain’t abuse, that’s moldin’. That’s what you told me!”

Smoke took a step forward. “That was for women who wanted it. Who came to us already half-ruined. You think Sera’s ready foe that? She still blushin’ when we kiss her, still squeezin’ her damn thighs together tryin’ to understand what we did to her.”

“She ain’t stupid,” Stack shot back. “She felt everything and she liked it. I saw the look in her eyes when she was rockin’ against you like her soul was on fire. You think she ain’t crave more?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked with frustration. “It ain’t about what she crave it’s ‘bout what she can handle.”

“You scared she’ll love it too much?” Stack pressed, stepping in closer. “Or is you scared you will? Huh?”

Their bodies were close now… twins face to face, tension simmering hot enough to spark.

Stack’s voice dipped into something darker. “You remember how you used to be? How many women begged to be your doll? Lucille, Dorothy, that pretty chocolate woman from Baton Rouge. You used to own ‘em. Used to bend ‘em over velvet couches just like that one and make ‘em beg with tears on their cheeks and spit hangin’ from their mouths. You don’t get to stand here and act like Sera’s too precious for that just ‘cause she pray on Sundays.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes flicked over to the velvet couch where Sera now lay sprawled out like she’d been kissed by exhaustion.

Stack caught the look. “Don’t lie to me, Smoke… You want it too. You want her kneelin’ tween’ your legs with a jade plug stretchin’ her pretty lil’ ass while you tell her she’s been a good girl for takin’ your discipline.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“You want her wearin’ a collar so everyone from Mississippi to Illinois know she belongs to us.”

“I said—”

“You want her trained. Just like I do.”

Smoke moved so fast the ledger hit the floor. In one stride, he was in Stack’s space, gripping the front of his shirt, breath hot and sharp through gritted teeth. “She ain’t ready. And you don’t push her. Not unless she ask for it. You hear me?”

Stack didn’t flinch or blink. He was the only person on this earth his brother couldn’t intimidate. “She’s askin’ already. Not with words. But with her body. You think she don’t feel it? That ache tween’ her thighs? That emptiness we left her with?”

Smoke’s hand flexed and he nearly shoved his other half down to the ground. But Sera stirred then, shifting on the couch, making a soft and broken sound that immediately silenced both men. They looked over in unison. Her legs stretched slightly, shirt slipping higher up her thighs as she turned and tucked herself into the cushion, sighing like a kitten half-remembering the dream she just left behind.

The tension deflated a notch. Just barely.

Smoke stepped back first, running a hand over his hair as he looked away. “We go at her pace. That’s final.”

Stack smirked, though there was something bitter behind it now. “Fine. Her pace. But when she starts beggin’ for more, don’t act like it’s a surprise. You the one who taught me how to turn angels into demons.”

He stepped back, the heels of his boots dragging slightly across the old wood planks as he moved toward the liquor shelf again. He looked casual on the surface, but his jaw tightened with quiet defiance as his mind started plotting. He crouched again and plucked a half-full bottle of corn whiskey from the bottom row, then straightened slowly and tilted the bottle just enough for the liquid to swirl like it was mocking the tension still hanging between them.

“Bo’s got a new shipment comin’ in today,” Stack said offhandedly, but there was a sharp edge laced in the calm. “Chinese stuff. High-grade. All kinds of trinkets.”

He turned, leaned against the shelf, and took a mocking sip straight from the neck of the bottle. His eyes slid to Smoke like he was measuring just how far he could push him. “Imported jade. Premium glass. Leather cuffs softer than rabbit fur, strong enough to hold a horse.” He smirked around the mouth of the bottle. “Said he’s got some real rare pieces. Thought I’d stop by and pick up a few things… just in case her pace changes.”

Smoke’s eyes snapped back to him, flint meeting flame. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Stack asked, playing dumb as he rolled the bottle between his palms. “You said we wait on her, right? So I’m just preparin’. You know… like how you always taught me big brother. Be ready. Never let the opportunity come knockin’ and find you empty-handed.”

Smoke took a step forward again, this time slower and measured. “I ain’t lettin’ you put no damn plug, no collar, nothin’ on her without her beggin’ for it so hard she can’t breathe. And even then,” he growled, “I say when it’s time.”

Stack’s grin faded as he held Smoke’s piercing gaze. “She ain’t just your woman and I ain’t gonna hurt her, Smoke,” he whispered. “But I am gonna teach her. And if she starts beggin’? If she comes crawlin’, red-cheeked and teary-eyed, sayin’ she don’t know why her belly won’t stop cryin’ unless one of us fills her from behind—”

His voice dipped further, like poison in honey. “Then I’ll be ready. Cause’ you made me this way.”

Smoke silently glared at his brother. Nothing Stack said was wrong and that’s what he hated. Sera was different and he knew that… his heart knew that. But every time she would call him Mr. Smoke or Elijah… the sadistic part that he tried to keep buried away stirred inside of him begging to be released.

His voice was flat and dangerous. “You bring that shit back here and touch her too fast, I’ll put you in the ground right next to Samuel’s boys.”

Stack scoffed, pushing off the shelf. “You gonna kill me for doin’ exactly what we both dreamin’ ‘bout?”

“I’ll kill ya for gettin’ greedy.”

There was another pause. Both men stood chest to chest and the shadows around them stretched long and sharp across the dusty floor between them. The only thing breaking the tension was the quiet shift of Sera’s breathing in the corner, soft and innocent. Completely unaware of the storm brewing nearby.

Finally, Stack stepped back and his smirk had returned—but this one was filled with mischief. He wouldn’t be able to bring his brother on board just yet, but he knew he would come around in due time. He just had to help him see the vision clearly. “Relax, Elijah. I ain’t touchin’ her like that til’ she asks for it.”

He turned, walking back towards the bar, voice thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought. “But I’m still stoppin’ by Bo’s. Be a damn shame to miss out on good inventory.”

One hour turned into two. Then three. And by the time the clock inside the juke struck noon, the light bleeding in through the warped windowpanes was thick with summer heat… like God himself had turned His face from the Delta and let the devil take over.

Sera hadn’t meant to stay this long, but after breakfast and a much-needed nap, she couldn’t find her main two dresses and decided to wear the only thing that wasn’t missing, her thin, tinged-yellow slip. The cotton clung damply to her hips, more translucent now with every drop of sweat and shift in light. The heat had softened her edges and left a light sheen on her skin, and though she tried to cross her legs modestly on the couch in the back corner, the fabric rode up high each time she shifted.

She didn’t know that Stack had tucked her dresses behind a row of whiskey barrels in the far stall, where no woman would dare venture in fear of snakes or spiders. And she sure as hell didn’t know that Smoke… Mr. Smoke… the epitome of indifference and self-righteous perfection was currently carrying around her drawers like a thief with a holy relic stuffed in his back pocket. Folded neatly, pressed against the curve of his thigh like some shameful treasure.

“You forgot the goddamn kerosene,” Smoke snapped, bending near a battered crate of lanterns. Sweat darkened the fabric of his undershirt along the spine and under the arms while his broad back flexed with every move. His voice cut through the stagnant air like a blade.

“No the fuck I didn’t,” Stack yelled, tossing a hammer onto the floor with a metallic clatter. “You the one who said, ‘make sure we got extra nails.’ Which we DO. So stop all that lip flappin’.”

Sera flinched a little at the sound, but didn’t move. She was starting to get used to their arguing. It was always loud and always sharp but never dangerous. Not to her, at least.

She stretched her arms above her head and let her spine curve into a long, sweet arch, unaware of just how much she revealed as the hem of her slip inched up higher on her thighs and her breasts subtly outlined beneath the dampened fabric. Her wild ginger curls stuck to the sides of her neck, and when she turned slightly to fan herself, she didn’t see the way Stack’s eyes followed the movement like a hawk tracking a rabbit.

“Why she take my shirt off an wearin’ that slip?” Stack asked suddenly, wiping his brow with the back of his arm, a glimmer of mock innocence in his tone.

Smoke didn’t answer. Just grunted and pulled out a rusted lantern to test its wick.

Stack grinned, knowing damn well what he’d done. “Ain’t like she got nothin’ else to wear…”

“She had other clothes,” Smoke muttered, but there was no conviction behind it. No real protest.

Stack kept pushing. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I ain’t seen hide nor hem of them dresses since breakfast.”

Smoke shifted uncomfortably, reaching into his back pocket and brushing his fingers against the soft cotton stored there. Her underwear. White, ruined, and still drenched with her juices folded tightly. He didn’t know why he’d done it. He just remembered seeing them tucked into a corner of his bedroom after she’d gone back to rest. One look at the way they curled like silk petals in the morning light, and something in him snatched them up before reason could catch up.

Now, they were his little secret. And it was eatin’ him alive.

Sera stayed quiet, perched on the couch with her knees pressed together, the hem of that thin yellow slip barely reached her mid-thigh. Her eyes danced cautiously between the twins like she was watching twin Goliath’s fight for dominance.

Stack stopped working and leaned against the wall just a few feet away, arms folded as his gaze unapologetically raked down her legs so bare, smooth, and glistening faintly with heat. His eyes dragged ravenous, over the curve of her thighs, the bend of her knees, the delicate arch of her ankles. He wanted to taste her again… A sly grin curved his lips as his gold tooth glinted in the light.

“Ain’t said nothin’ since breakfast,” he quipped, voice silk-drenched and quiet. “You fallin’ asleep with your eyes open, little dove? Or just tryna drive a man crazy sittin’ there lookin’ like a glass of sweet tea on the hottest damn day of the year?”

It was like Smoke could read his twin's mind and his voice cut through the heat like a bucket of ice cold water. “Control yourself.”

Stack gave a quiet laugh but didn’t look away from Sera.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, voice softer than usual. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her slip in her lap, eyes cast downward. “Just… thinkin’. I—I think I’m ready to go now.”

Silence wrapped around the room like a noose. Smoke straightened from the crate he was leaning over, the muscle in his jaw ticking once… twice… before he finally spoke. “Go where?”

Sera swallowed. “Home. I… I didn’t mean to stay so long. I missed church this mornin’. My daddy probably worried sick.”

Her voice faltered at the end, lips parting like she wanted to say more but couldn’t bring herself to. Her eyes didn’t lift. She couldn’t bear the weight of theirs, not when her whole body still throbbed with the memory of what they’d done to her last night. Not when her soul still felt tangled in the sheets of their sin.

Smoke stepped closer, his feet heavy on the floorboards. “You sure?”

Sera nodded once, still twisting the fabric of her slip. “I just need to… check on things. I—I don’t wanna make it worse by stayin’ away. Not today… Not on the Lords day.”

Stack pushed off the wall, a flicker of something indistinguishable passing over his face. “You think that preacher man ain’t gon’ raise all kinds of hell the second he sees you in that?” He motioned loosely toward her slip, eyes narrowing. “He see you walk in with that and smellin’ like us? He gon’ throw a damn fit.”

Sera stiffened. “I’ll change,” she whispered. “If… if I can find my other dresses.”

Stack opened his mouth to respond, but Smoke shot him a look that made his brother fall back a step and press his lips into a thin, crooked smirk.

Smoke crouched in front of her, lowering himself until he was eye-level. His voice was softer now, deeper in tone but edged with something tight beneath the surface. “You sure this ain’t about guilt?”

Sera’s honey brown eyes finally lifted to meet his, wide and glistening. “It’s about what’s right.”

“You think what happened last night was wrong?”

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead she looked away and nibbled on her bottom lip.

Smoke didn’t press her for an answer. Just stood. “If you ready, you ready,” he said, voice clipped. “I’ll take you.”

Stack scoffed and dramatically threw his hands in the air. “This nigga…”

Smoke started toward the barn’s back room where his coat hung on a hook and paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “You got five minutes to find ya other dresses, my love.”

That nickname… that damn nickname that made Sera’s heart race a million miles per minute almost made her rethink wanting to return home. Almost. She stood slowly, bare feet padding quietly across the floor as she moved towards the back and began her search. She didn’t ask where her other dresses or underwear were, didn’t accuse, didn’t cry. She just kept her head down and her fingers tight around the edge of her slip.

As she searched, Stack watched her go and his grin was long gone, replaced by quiet calculations. Smoke came back out with another cigarette between his lips, her drawers still tucked tight in his pocket.

“She ain’t stayin’ gone,” Stack said flatly.

Smoke didn’t answer. He just struck a match, lit the cigarette, and let the smoke curl around his head like a halo from hell.

The ride back to Sera’s home was quiet. Too quiet.

The iron-bell rumble of the C.R. Patterson filled the heavy air as it trundled down the long dirt road towards her home. Dust curled behind the wheels like smoke from a slow-burning fuse, and the sun overhead bore down in wide, unrelenting strokes. No birds sang. No breeze stirred. Only the grumble of the motor and the crackle of gravel beneath the tires marked time as the juke joint faded into the horizon behind them.

Sera sat in the back seat, small and still, with her knees pressed together and her arms wrapped tightly around her waist like she was holding herself in place. The tinged yellow slip still clung to her body, too thin for the sun, too sinful for Sunday, and too revealing to return to a preacher’s home. But she hadn’t found her dresses because Stack hadn’t let her. And Smoke had said nothing.

So now she rode like this. Silent, soft, and her curls pinned back but frizzing from the humidity. Her bare thighs stuck to the warm leather seat each time the car hit a bump, and every so often she tugged the hem of the slip lower as if modesty could be wrung from fabric already see-through in the light.

Smoke drove with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw sharp and a cigarette twitching between his lips though it had long since burned out.

Stack rode beside him, arms folded tight across his chest, hat tipped low but not enough to hide the scowl twisting his mouth. “You really takin’ her back there?” He muttered under his breath, voice sharp like a blade being dragged across leather.

Smoke didn’t look over. “Not now.”

“She’s sittin’ there half-naked, and you gon’ put her back in that house like it’s fine?”

“I said not now, Stack.”

“You think that bastard won’t smell us on her?” Stack snapped, tone just low enough not to carry to the back seat. “You think he won’t notice how she walkin’ slower? How she can’t even look either one of us in the eye for too long without her breath catchin’?”

Smoke gripped the wheel tighter, the leather creaking beneath his fingers. “Keep ya damn voice down.” My

Stack glanced back at Sera. Her soft, solemn profile lit with that tender glow from the window and then leaned in closer to Smoke, lowering his voice further, words slipping like venom through clenched teeth.

“You sendin’ her back to that man? The same man who beat her and locked her in a room like she was livestock?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

“She your woman now,” Stack hissed. “Ours. And you treatin’ her like she just some stray we borrowed for a night and now we takin’ her back to the pound.”

Smoke’s voice was barely above a growl. “You think this ain’t killin’ me too?”

“Don’t look like it,” Stack spat. “Look like you pacifyin’. Like you tryna pretend last night was some fever dream and not the start of the rest of her damn life.”

Smoke pulled the cigarette from his lips and crushed it dead against the dash. His eyes flicked once in the rearview mirror, landing on Sera just long enough to watch the way her lashes brushed against her freckled cheeks and her delicate hand rubbed over the bare skin of her sun kissed arm.

“She needs to want it,” Smoke said, barely moving his lips. “The blood, the break, the end of that bastard’s reign… it gotta come from her. Not us. Or it’ll never stick.”

Stack scoffed. “So what, we just drive her up the road and toss her back into the fire, waitin’ for her to crawl back blackened and burned?”

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

“No. She’s softer than you wanna admit.”

They were both quiet for a moment. The car dipped in a rut, and Sera jolted gently in the back seat, adjusting her posture with a soft wince that didn’t go unnoticed by either man.

Stack ran a hand down his face, agitated. “You keep talkin’ about lettin’ her decide if Samuel dies,” he said after a beat, voice a harsh whisper again. “But the longer you wait, the more shit he stacks up on her shoulders. You think it’s gonna help her to walk back into that house lookin’ like she just rolled outta bed with the Devil himself?”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His thumb tapped the wheel.

“She goes back now,” he said, each word drawn tight like a tripwire, “and she sees how different everything feels. How ugly it looks compared to where she just came from. How small he is. How loud we echo, even in silence.”

Stack shook his head and focused his eyes on the road ahead. He didn’t agree with this plan.

Smoke went on. “She’ll want blood soon enough. We don’t gotta ask for it. She’ll beg for it.”

When they finally arrived Sera stood outside her childhood home with her heart hammering behind her ribs and a fire bubbling low in her stomach. Smoke stood on her left. Stack on her right. She could feel them both watching the house ready to burn it down. But this—this was her fight.

She took a breath as deep as the river, held it in her chest, and stepped up onto the porch. Her bare feet brushed the warped wood slats, worn soft from years of Sunday shoes and silent retreats. The screen door creaked softly in the breeze, hanging slightly ajar. That was her first warning. The second was the smell. A thick whisky aroma clung to the air. It was sour, sharp, and it slapped her in the face the second she stepped over the threshold. Her nose crinkled. She looked around, brows drawn in confusion. Her father never drank. Never even kept it in the house. Had called it the Devil’s water since she was a child.

But now? A bottle sat open on the table next to Pastor Samuel's favorite chair—his Bible in one hand, his glass in the other. He was slumped in his seat, eyes bloodshot and brooding, lips moving silently over some passage as his thumb dragged across the underlined verses. The room was dark despite the daylight. Curtains drawn and a fan clacked softly overhead.

She took one step in, and the floor creaked. That was all it took before his eyes lifted and fixed on her. Suddenly it felt like Sera walked into a freezer the way a chill crawled down her spine.

“Close my damn door.”

Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, pulling it shut behind her. The latch clicked softly, and the silence between them became unbearable.

She swallowed. Hoping if she pleaded her case Samuel would be understanding. “Daddy, I—”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was bitter and full of disappointment. “Not after what you done.”

Sera stepped forward cautiously. “I only stayed one night. I was safe. I came back...”

“I wanted you back ‘fore they touched you,” he snarled, standing slowly, the Bible still in his hand, knuckles red and split from God knows what. “Not after they finished with you like you some field whore they picked up for sport.”

Her face crumpled, shoulders drawing tight. “They didn’t—Papa, it wasn’t like that. They care about me.”

“They own you now!” he foamed at the mouth, stepping forward, eyes wild. “You walkin’ around dressed like your mother, talkin’ like her, thinkin’ a man—or two… Lord help us—can fill the God-shaped hole in your chest!”

Her voice was a whisper. “Why are you drinkin’? I’ve never seen you—”

“I’M drinkin’,” he shouted, spit flying from his lips, “because my daughter let not one but TWO killers lay with her like dogs, and now the whole damn town gon’ whisper about how the preacher raised a harlot!”

Sera recoiled, one hand pressed to her chest.

He stared at her, eyes roaming her slip, disgust carved into every crease of his face. “You couldn’t even pick one man like a regular whore? You had to take two? Two, Seraphim? TWO!?”

“They… they care about me,” she said, but the words were faint and trembling.

“They defiled you. And you let ‘em.”

And then—he raised his hand.

It happened so fast, it was barely a thought. His Bible slipped from his fingers and thudded on the floor, and his arm came up like it had done plenty of times back when she was a child and talked too loud in front of the church elders. That same heavy weight in his palm, same heat in his eyes.

But this time… his hand never reached her. The door burst open behind her so hard it slammed against the wall, and the air rushed out of the room. Smoke entered first like a hurricane moving in slow motion.

Stack followed, and he saw red. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t shout. Didn’t warn. He stormed over to Pastor Samuel and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack so sharp it echoed like gunfire.

Samuel stumbled back, crashing into the armchair, glass shattering on the ground beneath him.

“DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ TOUCH HER!” Stack roared, dipping low and drawing his blade from the sheath at his hip, “I’ll gut you like the bloated fuckin’ coward you are. Say I won’t.”

Samuel groaned, clutching his jaw, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Get off me—get your devil hands off me—!”

Stack yanked him forward by his collar, pressing the tip of the blade against his ribs, slowly pressing the tip into his flesh. “I’ll carve out that lying tongue first, preacher man. Then I’ll go for the lungs. You won’t make a sound in ya own house eva’ again.”

“Stack.” Smoke’s voice rang out, sharp but quiet. He was standing beside Sera now, one hand hovering over her back. His eyes never left Samuel. “Wait.”

Stack looked at his brother with a bewildered expression. “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’! You saw him raise that hand!” he growled. “You saw it!”

“I did.”

“He don’t get to live!” Stack’s voice was sharp, crackling like heat off a skillet. His chest heaved with each breath, rage making his hands tremble around the knife still slick with threat. The veins in his neck bulged. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to speak.

Smoke didn’t blink and didn't look at Stack. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on the preacher slumped in the chair, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth like a bitter communion.

“He doesn’t,” Smoke said finally.

Sera inhaled sharply. Her head turned fast and her eyes darted between the two men. “Wait… what does that mean?”

Smoke turned to her, slow and sure, as if this wasn’t something sudden but something inevitable. He wished it could’ve played out differently but this moment had been circling the horizon since long before any of them were born.

He reached out and gently tucked a loose frizzy curl behind her ear. His voice was steady and barely louder than a hum. “I need to ask you somethin’, my love,” he whispered in a gentle tone.

Sera blinked, her heart hammering. “What?”

“If I protected you—if I did what needed to be done… would you ever hate me for it?”

Her lips parted, confusion creasing her brow. “What kind of question is that?”

Smoke’s eyes didn’t waver. “Just answer it.”

Sera pondered on the question for a long minute. She knew the twins were dangerous but she wasn’t quite sure how dangerous they were or what methods Smoke and Stack would use to protect her. And right now, after what her father told her… she didn’t want to think for herself. “I… No. Of course not.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something inside him. Something he’d been holding back. Something that had been pacing behind his ribs for far too long.

“Go upstairs,” he said gently before tenderly kissing her forehead. “Take your time. Get whatever you want to keep, my love. You ain’t stayin’ here no more.”

Sera hesitated, looking between the twins. Stack was still vibrating with fury, standing over her father like a storm about to strike. Samuel wheezed, a dark wetness bubbling in his throat, but there was no remorse in his eyes when he looked over at her only resentment. “Whore.”

Sera swallowed, then gave a quiet nod and moved toward the stairs. She didn’t ask any more questions and didn’t look back. She trusted the twins to make the tough decisions she couldn’t make herself. The moment her bare feet disappeared up the steps, silence fell heavy in the room. Smoke didn’t look at Stack. Stack didn’t look at Smoke. But the air between them sparked like fireworks on the white man's favorite holiday. No words. Just a slow exchange of breath, memory, and pain.

Smoke gave the faintest nod and Stack’s shoulders dropped like he’d just been given permission to become what he’d been holding back. Without a word, he turned and grabbed Samuel by the collar, yanking the older man to his feet like he weighed nothing.

Samuel screamed. “NO—NO PLEASE—NOT LIKE THIS—!”

Stack punched him in the face again before dragging him across the floor, his boots thudding heavy against the worn wood.

“I’M A PASTOR! A MAN OF GOD! YOU TOUCH ME AND THE WHOLE TOWN—!”

The rest of it was lost in the slam of the back door flying open.

Smoke didn’t move. Just stood there, still as a statue, staring at the blood-streaked Bible on the floor. He bent down slowly and picked it up with one hand. Flipped through the pages. They were smudged and torn in places. One of them had a faint reddish smear right through Corinthians.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

He hummed and shut the book.

Outside, the sounds of struggle grew louder. Stack’s voice was deranged and Smoke could hear him somewhere near an old smokehouse. “You think ‘cause you wore a collar and stood behind a pulpit, you was safe, nigga? We warned ya ass.”

“PLEASE—PLEASE—SHE’S MY BABY—”

“She was,” Stack growled. “Now she’s ours. And you tried to put your hands on OUR woman.”

There was a thud. A grunt. Then more dragging.

Smoke still didn’t move and he didn’t flinch when Samuel screamed again, this time raw and animalistic. The sound echoed through the backwoods like judgment day had arrived on four legs and no mercy.

And then silence fell over the land. A door shut somewhere out back.

Smoke exhaled through his nose and looked up the stairs. He listened for Sera’s footsteps, the soft creak of the floor above. He imagined her kneeling at her old bed, folding a dress she hadn’t worn in two summers. Maybe she’d pause at the windowsill where her mother once planted violets. Maybe she’d run a finger across her old Sunday school book before leaving it behind.

He hoped she didn’t cry because after today… after what he let Stack do… after what he would do… there would be no going back.

And if she did cry… He hoped it wasn’t for that man. He hoped it was for all the things she’d finally been freed from and what he and his brother would show her.

The stairs creaked under Sera’s feet as she descended, a leather bag strap dug softly into her shoulder. It was a worn thing—her mother’s old market satchel, faded and stitched at the sides where time had aged it but it now held all the pieces of her she couldn’t bear to leave behind. A pressed church dress that still smelled of gardenia. Two dog-eared Bibles; one hers, one her mother’s with passages underlined and scribbled margins full of long-forgotten notes. And a photograph. Just one.

She took her time on the steps. The house was too quiet. Unnaturally so. The fan overhead still hummed and somewhere outside, a crow called once, then went silent. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused. Smoke and Stack were waiting. Just like she expected them to be. But something about them was different now.

They didn’t stand shoulder-to-shoulder like usual. Smoke had one hand tucked into the crook of his arm, his weight shifted to one hip, gaze calm but distant. Stack leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, the buttons of his undershirt undone halfway down like he hadn’t bothered to fix himself back up. Neither wore their jackets. Neither looked like they had an ounce of regret between them.

But it was the details that caught her. Stack’s sleeves were unevenly pushed up, and his slacks—dark gray wool, usually spotless—had irregular speckles dotting the fabric, just above the knees and down one thigh. A deep burgundy-brown. She blinked at it but said nothing. There were faint scratches along his forearm too. Raw and recent.

Smoke… he had cuts. Clean and shallow, but unmistakable across the tops of his knuckles. The kind that came from skin meeting bone. She could see where he’d wiped away the blood but hadn’t tended to it properly. His sleeves were also rolled up, exposing tendons and veins, and his shirt hung open at the throat. One collar tip was crumpled.

They looked like they had gone somewhere the devil would be too frightened to travel. Sera swallowed a nervous gulp and she still said nothing. Instead, she shifted her bag on her shoulder and let her fingers trail along the banister as she stepped down the final stair.

Stack straightened when he saw her, eyes scanning her face like he needed to know if she was alright with just a look.

Smoke tilted his head slightly. “You ready?”

Sera nodded. “I… I took what I could carry,” she said softly. “Some memories. Some… pieces.”

Smoke gave a small nod of understanding. Stack offered the tiniest, crooked smile that was soft, despite the hardened edge in his jaw.

She hesitated then, her voice wavering as she turned toward the kitchen. “I was gonna leave a note. On the table,” she said quietly. “Just a goodbye. Let him know I ain’t runnin’ from him. Just… choosing something different. Think he’ll write back?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked toward the hallway behind her towards the back door. Just for a second. Then he stepped forward, slowly, and brushed his thumb along her cheek. “He might,” he said, voice warm and sweet in the same way a parent would address a child asking about Santa. “But don’t hold your breath, sweetheart. Sometimes men like that… they already decided what they wanna hear. Nothin’ you write gon’ change their mind.”

Sera nibbled on her bottom lip. “Still feels wrong, leavin’ without sayin’ it.”

Stack heard enough and stepped in beside her then, reaching down to lift her bag from her shoulder and toss it over his own. His arm brushed hers. She felt his fingers graze the back of her hand—barely there, but firm enough to anchor her.

“You did say it,” Stack comforted her. “You just finally said it with your feet instead of your mouth.”

Sera turned back to Smoke. “So I shouldn’t leave the letter?”

He gave her a small smile gentle, that couldn’t hide his tiredness. “Leave it if you want. But write it for you. Not him.”

She stood still for a moment, caught in the middle of a house she no longer belonged to, between two men who’d done something while she packed up her innocence upstairs. Something she hadn’t seen, but felt. In the walls. In their skin.

Whatever had happened while she was gone… it was finished now. And they weren’t going to make her carry the weight of it. Smoke reached for the front door and held it open. Stack touched her lower back to guide her through. She stepped out into the sun, bare feet on the porch wood, the hem of her yellow slip dancing around her thighs in the breeze and didn’t look back.

The door shut behind her with a quiet click.

It sounded a lot like a lock turning.

Or a chapter ending…

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No one:

Sera after the twins ctrl+alt+deleted her daddy:

Authors Note: For anyone confused about ‘Jade training’ it’s basically anal training. Sex toys in the 1920’s weren’t common BUT glass and jade anal plugs existed (very rare). Listen… it’s fanfiction and if you’ve read my other work it was only a matter of time before I figured out how to incorporate toys while keeping things historically accurate 🤭🤭🤭

Tag list:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious @deexoxomuah @nanamiismine @monstaxmomma0 @a4g3lstarfire @blk-afrodite @melodyofmbaku @championshipshade @aretasreads @nubiagurllll @wabi-sabi1090 @swiftscepterdragon @midnightmemoirsofher @plan3tch1ld @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast

[zeroseuniverse]

Into That

Word Count:633 Summary: “Han might be onto something,” you murmured, just for him to hear. “You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?” Pairing:Seungmin X Reader

Taglist: @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120 @0-ryolei-0 @torkorpse @stayvillecitizen

Navigation

The mission debrief had long ended, but the team lingered in the underground base, still riding the high of another successful operation. The dim lighting flickered above, casting long shadows over the cracked concrete walls. The air smelled of sweat, gunpowder, and the faintest hint of antiseptic from Seungmin’s hands as he patched up a minor wound on Jeongin’s arm.

Across the room, you sat on an overturned crate, lazily spinning a knife between your fingers. You weren’t even paying attention to the blade; muscle memory did the work for you. Your focus was instead on the conversation happening between your teammates.

“Why aren’t you dating him?” Felix asked bluntly, nodding toward Seungmin, who didn’t even look up from his work.

You snorted. “Because I’d destroy him.”

There was a beat of silence before Jisung, ever the instigator, grinned. “He’d be into that.”

Seungmin’s hand stilled for just a fraction of a second before he resumed wrapping Jeongin’s arm, jaw tightening. He didn’t even bother looking up when he spoke, voice perfectly dry. “I hate that you might be right.”

That earned a chorus of laughter from the team, and even you smirked despite yourself. But you didn’t miss the way Seungmin finally glanced up, meeting your gaze with an unreadable expression. Calculating. Interested.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

The tension in the underground base didn’t dissipate with the laughter. If anything, it hung heavier in the air, thick like smoke after a detonation. Seungmin’s gaze lingered on you just a moment too long before he turned back to Jeongin’s arm, finishing up the bandage with a sharp tug that made the younger man hiss in protest.

“Ow! Okay, I get it, you’re upset about the joke,” Jeongin grumbled, flexing his fingers to test the tightness of the wrap. Seungmin ignored him, methodically putting away the supplies as if he hadn’t just been called out in front of the entire team.

Felix, always one to keep the pot stirring, leaned back on his elbows. “So, are we pretending that didn’t just happen? Or are we all agreeing that there’s something here?”

You smirked, still idly spinning the knife between your fingers. “Felix, I know you live for drama, but you’re reaching.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Han piped up, waggling his eyebrows. “Seungmin got awfully quiet. Maybe he’s picturing—”

Seungmin threw a discarded gauze pad directly at Han's face, and the room erupted into another round of laughter. You watched the medic carefully. He was composed as ever, but there was something about the sharp set of his jaw, the flicker of something in his eyes before he rolled them and muttered a dry, “You all need serious help.”

It would’ve been easy to let it die there, to brush off the moment as nothing more than team banter. But you weren’t one to let things slide—especially not when it came to a challenge wrapped up in the shape of Seungmin.

Rising from the crate, you sauntered over to where he stood, arms crossed as he leaned against the metal table. The others watched unabashedly, waiting for the next move. You leaned in just close enough to catch the faintest trace of antiseptic and something uniquely Seungmin beneath it.

“Han might be onto something,” you murmured, just for him to hear. “You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?”

Seungmin didn’t flinch, didn’t move an inch, but you caught the way his fingers curled slightly where they rested against his bicep. His gaze flicked to yours, unreadable but undeniably focused.

Then, in that ever-unbothered tone of his, he replied, “Try me.”

Oh.

The team’s whoops and jeers barely registered in your ears. Because for the first time in a long time, you found yourself genuinely intrigued.

This was definitely going to be fun.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16

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TW: cussing, early seasons Daryl, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, Shane is creepy, mentions of hunting, mentions of dealing with hunted animals.

Part 7

Dead Weight - Part 8

The world is bone-white and brittle.

Snow crusts the edges of the broken asphalt road, turning brown with slush and dried blood. The trees are bare and skeletal, their branches reaching like claws toward a sky the color of dirty wool.

You’ve been walking for hours. Every step cracks ice or crunches through frozen leaves.

You’re wrapped in a coat two sizes too big, sleeves flopping past your hands. There’s only one blanket for every three people. Lori got hers first. No one argues —not that you would have before either.

Not when you see the bump poking out from her shirt, Lori needs this she is pregnant after all.

When Glen quietly offers you half his protein bar, you shake your head.

“I’m alright,” you say, voice soft and steady. “She’s the one carrying a baby. She needs it more.”

You don’t see Daryl watching you from just up the trail.

His expression is unreadable—but his eyes flick down to your coat, the way your shoulders tremble despite the layers. He notices how your lips are starting to dry from the cold.

He says nothing.

The next shelter is a sagging two-story colonial at the edge of a pine grove. The front door hangs askew on its hinges. There’s no glass in the windows. Snow has drifted in across the living room floor.

Rick calls the group to search in pairs. Daryl disappears upstairs without a word, crossbow slung over his back like a second spine. You end up in the kitchen, poking through ruined drawers.

The pantry is stripped. You find a can of peaches, a broken flashlight, and a cracked bowl.

You exhale quietly and sit down on an overturned crate, rubbing your hands together for warmth.

“Not hungry anyway,” you murmur to yourself.

Upstairs, Daryl hears that.

He pauses by a bedroom doorway, jaw tightening.

He’s still fuming—not at you, but at everything. At the cold. At the emptiness. At the unfairness of who eats first and who gets left shivering.

But mostly, if he’s honest, he’s angry because you aren’t angry.

You should be.

You should be yelling at Lori, or at Rick, or taking that protein bar—but you’re not.

You’re being good.

Selfless.

Sweet.

And for some reason, it pisses him off.

You’re hauling a half-frozen crate out of the root cellar when he appears behind you like a shadow. You jump, your breath catching.

“Shit,” you whisper, “you scared me.”

“Ain’t my fault you can’t hear nothin’,” he mutters, brushing past.

He snatches the crate out of your hands and sets it down with a thud like you’re made of glass.

“What are you doin’ liftin’ this? Gonna throw out your damn back.”

You blink at him, surprised. “I was just trying to help.”

"Help by not getting in the way.”

There it is—that growl of his. That sandpaper tone he uses like a wall. But his hands are on his hips, not his crossbow.

He’s standing between you and the icy draft creeping down the stairs. Without realizing it, he’s shielding you.

“You cold?” he barks, eyes flicking down your form.

You hesitate. “I’m fine.”

He makes a noise between a scoff and a curse and reaches into his vest. His gloves, fingerless—still faintly warm from his own hands—are shoved toward you.

“Here. Take 'em.”

You glance at them, then up at him.

“Won’t you need it?”

His jaw ticks.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Your fingers brush his when you take the gloves.

He jerks his hand back like he’s been burned.

The group sets up in the living room, huddled around a weak fire made from broken furniture. You’re curled in your coat, you’ve got the can of peaches beside you, unopened.

Daryl sits across the room, crossbow in his lap, watching you from beneath the brim of his hair.

He watches you offer the peaches to Carl before taking a single bite yourself.

He watches you laugh softly at something Carol says, he watches you not complain, when you have every right to.

The house creaks under the weight of cold, the wind howls low through broken shutters. Inside, the fire’s died down to a dull orange flicker.

Everyone’s sprawled across the living room—wrapped in coats, curled up on floorboards softened only by dust and thin blankets. Rick’s against the far wall, rifle nearby. Glen and Maggie are a tangle of limbs in one corner. Lori has Carl tucked close.

You’re by the cold hearth, curled on your side, your coat drawn tight—but your shoulders tremble with visible shivers.

Daryl notices.

He’s not even trying to. He’s seated upright against the wall, crossbow across his lap like a guard dog at rest. His eyes are half-lidded, but when the firelight hits your face and he sees the faint tremble in your jaw—his entire posture shifts.

A twitch in his fingers.

A flick of his eyes.

The poncho he’s had slung over one shoulder since camp—a patchwork thing of earth-tones and fraying edges—sits bunched beside him.

He stares at it.

He mutters under his breath. Something about “stupid Woman not speakin’ up” and “freezin’ like a damn idiot.” But then he slowly stands, knees cracking softly. Crossbow left behind. Silent steps. Barely audible over the creak of the floorboards.

You’re still asleep. Shivering.

He hovers.

You look even smaller like this—half-lost in the coat, hair falling messily around your face, one hand tucked under your cheek.

There’s a crack in your lip and your fingers are raw from cold. But your expression is calm—like you trust this broken world to leave you alone just long enough for rest.

Daryl scowls. Not at you. At himself.

He kneels. Haphazard and ungraceful, like his body doesn’t quite know how to move gently. The poncho unfurls in his hands.

He hesitates.

And then, with unspoken care, he drapes it over you, adjusting it near your shoulders, tucking the edge against your cheek to stop the draft. He pulls it down just enough to keep you covered but not wake you.

He stares a second too long.

His hand twitches—almost like he might brush your hair from your face.

“Dumb Woman,” he mutters under his breath, getting to his feet.

“Sweet, you mean.”

He freezes.

Carol stands in the shadows, arms crossed. She’s leaned against the archway between the lounge and kitchen, her expression full of warmth. No judgment. No teasing. Just the quiet patience of someone who sees what others don’t say out loud.

Daryl huffs and looks away.

“Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” she says softly. “But she’ll be warmer now.”

He mutters something incoherent and stalks back to his corner of the room, reclaiming his seat like it offended him. The fire spits. He crosses his arms before begining to chew on his thumbnail.

The pale gray of dawn barely seeps through the broken slats of the abandoned house’s boarded-up windows. Cold clings to the floor like a second skin, biting at exposed fingers and faces. Most of the group still sleeps in hunched silence, the rhythmic sound of breath and the occasional creak of someone shifting beneath thin blankets the only noise.

A soft rustle breaks that stillness.

You flinch slightly as something nudges your shoulder—calloused fingers, not rough but not quite gentle either.

“Hey,” Daryl’s voice rasps low. Gravelly. Mornings always make him sound like he’s been smoking nails.

“Up. ‘Fore they start hoggin’ all the fire.”

You blink groggily, pushing your hair back. “Is everything okay?”

“M'Alright.” He stands, already crouched near the fireplace, fiddling with kindling he must’ve scavenged earlier.

He tosses a look over his shoulder. “Figured you might want somethin’ warm ‘fore everyone else gets their fill.”

Then you see it.

A squirrel. Lanky, limp, and freshly dead—a hint of blood near the head where an arrow did its work. Daryl has already slit it open with his hunting knife, peeling back the fur with swift, practiced efficiency. His hands are stained but steady.

You sit cross-legged nearby, trying to hide the instinctive crinkle of your nose.

He doesn’t miss it.

“What?” he mutters, not looking at you. His voice is rough and only a little mocking. “Too raw for your pretty little stomach?”

“I—I didn’t say anything.”

He pauses, glancing up with that familiar squint of his, head tilted slightly, knife poised mid-slice.

“Didn’t have to,” he says, but there’s no venom behind it. More like... amused observation. He flicks the squirrel’s guts aside into a rusted pot with a soft squelch.

“Bet yer the type to order salads in restaurants, huh?”

You blink. “Sometimes.”

“Figures.”

He returns to working the carcass with quick, precise movements—knife dragging along sinew with a wet sound. But then he speaks again, quieter this time.

“Ain’t gotta watch if it bothers you. Just figured… y’know. You looked cold. Hungry.”

That quiet sentence lands heavier than it should. Daryl has never offered kindness this easily.

You realize he must’ve gone out hunting before sunrise—for the group.

You inch a little closer despite yourself. “Doesn’t bother me. Just… never seen anyone skin something before.”

He finally glances up again, squinting against the light breaking over the windows. His brow softens a touch.

"M'sorry.”

The fire catches, and he shifts to cook the meat on a piece of old mesh wire. He stays crouched the whole time—knees wide, forearms resting across them, crossbow set beside him. His movements are sharp but measured, shoulders always tight, always ready.

When the squirrel starts to sizzle, he tears off a piece and holds it out on the end of his knife.

You hesitate, then take it between two fingers. It’s greasy, gamey, and not entirely pleasant—but the warmth makes your stomach ache with longing.

You chew slowly.

Daryl watches.

And for the first time in your interactions—he doesn’t seem angry. Or suspicious. Just… watchful.

“Ain’t bad, huh?” he mutters, leaning back slightly.

“Told ya. Folks always think squirrel’s all nasty. Ain’t if you cook it right.”

You look at him, eyes soft. “Thank you, Daryl.”

That catches him off guard. He shifts his weight, scratches the back of his neck.

“Don’t make a thing of it,” he grunts. “Just food.”

But then he rips off another chunk and holds it out again.

“S'warm. Eat up.”

The fire pops softly between you as the last bones of the squirrel blacken in the coals.

The cold presses in through the broken seams of the house—each gust of wind rattling the warped windowpanes like ghostly fingers.

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, both for warmth and perhaps courage.

He’s sitting cross-legged near the hearth, boots scuffed, a few squirrel hairs still stuck to the blade he wipes clean on his pant leg.

You watch the way he moves—quick and practiced, like someone who’s been fending for himself a long, long time.

And then, too softly to sound like a challenge

“Could you teach me to shoot?”

Daryl doesn’t look up right away. He flicks his eyes your way, squinting through his fringe like he’s trying to decide if you’re serious.

“You?” he mutters, tone half-amused, half-dismissive. “Reckon you’d jab yourself before you hit anythin’.”

Your lips tighten—not because he’s wrong, but because the tone bites. Still, you hold your ground.

“Teach... Not insult.”

A pause. Daryl stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why your asking him.

“Just… don’t be like Shane was, okay?”

And that—that’s where it changes.

He freezes.

A shadow crosses his face, and his expression shutters, mouth twisting like he’s been slapped.

The way he stares at you now is different. Not angry—not exactly—but something darker.

Defensive.

Hurt.

And the worst part is, he tries to hide it with attitude.

“Tch. Think m'like 'im?” he barks, louder than you expected.

You blink, startled by the sudden snap in his voice. “No—I didn’t mean—”

“Y'sayin’ I’m some handsy asshole who don’t listen?” he interrupts, rising to his feet in one fluid, restless motion.

He paces a few steps away, voice low but sharp like a rusted blade.

“That what you think I am?”

Your heart starts to pound, not from fear—but from the rawness in his tone. You realize, too late, that you touched something deep.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly.

“It’s just—he made me uncomfortable. Back at the farm. You told him to back off, remember?”

He does remember. You know he does. You can see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, his jaw grinds. But he’s not ready to let go of the wound you’ve just opened.

“Y’know what people like you see when they look at me?” he snaps, still not facing you. “Trash. Redneck. Backwoods freak with a weapon.”

The words are acidic.

Self-loathing.

And they fall too easy from his lips, like he’s heard them before—from himself, from others.

Maybe even from Merle.

“Ain’t never laid a hand on no one that didn’t come at me first. Ain’t ever forced nothin’ either. But one word—one—and suddenly I’m the same kinda bastard as him?”

His voice cracks at the end, and he stops pacing, running a hand through his hair, half-snarling under his breath.

You rise slowly, keeping your voice gentle—measured.

“I didn’t mean to compare you. I trust you, Daryl. That’s why I asked you to teach me. Not anyone else.”

Silence.

The kind that hurts.

Then, he glances back. Eyes shadowed. Lips pressed in a hard line. Something flickers there—uncertainty, maybe regret.

He stalks toward his crossbow, scoops it up, and tosses a glance toward the back door.

“C’mon. Ain’t got all day.”

The wind bites at your cheeks as you step carefully over frost-bitten leaves, your boots crunching just loud enough to make you flinch each time.

A thin veil of fog clings to the forest floor, curling like smoke around tree roots and brittle branches. The house behind you creaks with the wind—your makeshift practice spot for the morning. Sunlight filters in through the overgrown trees, which form the forest around what was once a home.

Daryl walks a few paces ahead, crossbow over his shoulder, the tail of his poncho fluttering behind him like a ragged flag. He doesn’t speak at first—but there’s something different in his gait.

He’s keeping your pace, not striding too far ahead. Every so often, he glances back with a furrowed brow like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t bailed.

"Alright,” he grunts, finally stopping and dropping a small bag to the ground. “Ain’t no targets, we use what we got.”

He nods toward a rusted can perched on a stump and draws out a small pistol, offering it butt-first.

“Safety’s on. You hold it like this,” he says, miming the grip in the air beside you—but keeping his distance, just like he promised.

You mirror him carefully, hands trembling just a little, not from cold. He watches, hawk-like, and when you get it wrong—your elbows too tight, grip too high—he doesn’t move to fix it.

"Don’t strangle the damn thing. You ain’t tryin’ to choke it out, just guide it.” He growls

It’s rough. But it’s honest. And it makes you chuckle—just a little.

You raise the gun again, correcting your grip.

“S'Better,” he mutters.

Just as you steady your aim, a low groan rasps through the trees. Both your heads snap to the sound.

A walker.

One.

Then another two.

Shambling, slow, but too close.

You step back instinctively, heart already pounding as your breath catches. Daryl raises his crossbow in a flash, but he doesn’t shoot.

“You got it?” he asks, voice flat. Testing you.

You stare. The nearest walker is maybe ten feet away, its jaw slack, face half gone.

A woman once.

Your fingers twitch around the gun.

"Ain’t gonna wait forever,” Daryl growls. But his eyes are locked on you—not the walker. On you.

With a shaking breath, you raise the gun again. Hands slippery. You don’t even aim well, just squeeze the trigger and—

Bang.

The shot cracks through the air. The walker stumbles, but it’s the second shot—reflexive, panicked—that drops it.

The third walker is already on you.

You don’t think—you stab. Your knife, shinny and new, plunges up into its chin and lodges through soft bone and grey matter. It collapses against you.

Heavy. Wet. Real.

The smell hits you first—burnt gunpowder and rot.

The weight of what you've done hits second.

You start to shake.

You're kneeling on the cold, uneven earth, your knees soaking through with old leaf rot and snowmelt. The forest is still again—too still. The walkers are gone. The sounds of groaning and shuffling, the adrenaline-filled thump of your pulse in your ears, have been replaced by a silence so deep it feels like your own breath doesn’t belong in it.

The walker’s body lies just feet from you—slumped, collapsed, still. The blade still juts from its skull at a crooked angle, the handle vibrating faintly with the last twitches of undeath leaving the corpse.

Her face is half gone. One eye hangs low in its socket, milky and unseeing. Her skin—what remains of it—is mottled and grey-green, tight in some places, peeling in others like wet parchment.

Tufts of stringy hair cling to her scalp, but they’re no longer a color that belongs to the living. There’s a necklace still tangled around her throat, half buried in dried gore—a cheap pendant, shaped like a dolphin. It shimmers faintly in the sun.

She was someone once.

And you ended her.

Your mouth goes dry.

Your vision swims.

You blink once.

Twice.

You fall backward and land hard on your rear in the dirt, the breath rushing out of you with a tiny gasp. The pistol dangles limply from your fingers. You stare down at your hands, at the drying blood that cakes your knuckles, smears your sleeves.

The tears come without warning.

“I—” your voice trembles, throat closing. “I killed her…”

Daryl’s boots crunch as he steps closer, cautious. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“S'already gone,” he mutters finally, voice low, gravelly.

But you barely hear him.

Because it hits you all at once.

She could have been someone’s friend. Someone's daughter. Someone waiting to be rescued. You imagine your own friends faces—soft smile, tired eyes—and for a terrible second, it is her. The walker. You shake your head as if to erase the image, but it stays, burned behind your eyes.

Your stomach lurches. You curl forward, both arms around your middle like that might hold in the sob clawing its way up your throat.

“They're all dead.”

Your voice is just a whisper, but it’s full.

"My family. My home. My friends. My whole country…”

You knew that, logically, but you’d buried the weight of it under layers of distraction—of helping, of surviving, of trying to find new footing in this strange land with these stranger people.

But that walker made it real.

There’s no plane to take you home.

No family waiting.

No future to return to.

The scream that rises in your chest doesn’t escape—only a keening sob that tears through your demeanor and rips you raw.

You double over into your hands, crying now with full, shaking shoulders, tears and blood mingling.

You don’t care how you look. You don’t care who hears.

You are alone.

And you are a killer.

Daryl watches from a few feet away. His jaw clenches tight. He shifts his weight from one boot to the other like he’s resisting the urge to move—to do something—but has no idea what that is.

He glances over his shoulder—maybe checking for more walkers, maybe for witnesses—but then he turns back to you. His fingers twitch again by his side, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how.

You flinch when he shifts closer, and he freezes.

“Hey,” he says, low and rough. Not unkind. “Ain’t gonna touch ya, alright? Ain’t Shane.”

That makes you sob harder.

“They’re gone, Daryl,” you whisper. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye"

You look up. His eyes are stormy and unsteady, like he’s not used to being looked at—really looked at. But something in his expression cracks open, just a sliver, and you see it.

He understands.

Without a word, he reaches behind his neck and pulls his poncho off in one swift motion. Gently, deliberately, he drapes it around your shoulders. It smells like smoke and pine and old leather. Him.

He settles beside you—not touching, not crowding—but close enough to offer warmth.

[gossameres]

chapter three, oil and honey

pairing: jacob black x f. reader

notes: did not mean to be posting daily but hey! more fluff more fluff i love when he’s sassy so theres lots of banter and cutesy little moments

genres: childhood friends, best friends to lovers, mutual pining

word count: 1.6k

prev. series masterlist! next.

You: I’m walking by your place

Jacob: I’m in the garage

You: Should I swing by?

Jacob: You already are

Jacob: Get in here

You slip through the side door and find him crouched next to a half-disassembled motorcycle. The smell of oil and dust clings to the air, warm and metallic. He doesn’t look up right away–just twists a wrench, tightens something, and wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen better days. You’re perched on an overturned crate, watching as Jacob wrestles with a stubborn bolt, his biceps flexing under the strain.

“You just loiter outside people’s garages now?” he asks without turning.

“I make exceptions for guys who owe me gummy worms,” you retort, referencing the other day at your place when he spilled your entire bag of sour Trolli’s on the ground.

He finally glances up. There’s a smudge of grease on his cheek and that tired grin he always throws your way when he’s caught off guard.

“Then you better earn ‘em.”

You sit cross-legged on the concrete floor beside him. No invitation needed.

“You’re gonna strip it,” you say.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters.

“You don’t got it.”

He shoots you a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna try?”

You nudge him aside. “Move over, hotshot.”

He huffs but scoots back, arms crossed as you take the wrench from him. You brace yourself, adjusting your grip, and twist. The bolt gives almost immediately.

Jacob stares.

“...Okay, yeah, that’s bullshit.”

You grin, tossing the wrench back to him. “Maybe you’re just weak.”

He catches it easily, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m weak?”

“Mmhm.”

He leans in closer and the air between you feels hotter. You’re hyper aware of the way his gaze lingers on your face, the way his chest rises and falls just a little faster. Your pulse stutters and you can hear his pick up. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he leans back into himself and grabs the hem of his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby toolbox. Sunlight streams through the open garage door, gilding his skin as he drags a hand over his brow, muscles shifting under the sheen of his sweat. Those are new.

You blink and you realize you’re staring.

He hesitates, glancing at you. “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. Do you mind if I–?”

“No,” you abruptly respond, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s–it’s fine. Hot. It’s hot… out.”

Jacob smirks, but there’s something unreadable about his expression as he turns back to the car. You swallow hard, trying (and failing) not to stare. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable, just charged.

“You remember when we got stuck on the side of the road in the middle of summer?” you ask, just to say something and break the silence.

Jacob snorts. “You passed out from heatstroke.”

“I did not pass out. I was resting my eyes.”

“You were snoring. On the side of the road.”

You shove him and he laughs, shoulder bumping against yours. Your own laugh escapes, softer than his, and when you glance up, he's already looking at you. His smile doesn't fade so much as settle, something unbearably fond in the curve of it. Like your laughter isn't just sound but honey, the slow drip of something golden and sweet. Something worth savoring on his tongue.

You end up staying longer than you meant to.

The conversations start with harmless updates–school, your mom’s new obsession with puzzles, the neighbor’s cat that keeps trying to sneak into your room. Jacob nods along, humming in acknowledgment as he tightens a bolt, but his responses aren’t just filler. He listens in that way of his, sharp and present, tossing in a question here and there like he’s cataloging every detail.

He tells you about Billy’s latest attempt to organize the shed, how he nearly dropped a toolbox on his own foot. He says it like it’s nothing, but the way he smiles when he says Dad is soft around the edges. You’d always loved Billy—how he treated you like another kid, feeding you both saltine crackers until you groaned, scolding Jacob halfheartedly when he caught you two sneaking out late. And Jacob, for all his teasing, had a quiet adoration for his father he’d never say out loud.

You watch his hands as he works. There’s something steady about them, even when the rest of him seems like it’s working twice as hard to hold still. Your dad wasn’t wrong when he joked about Jacob being the only one he’d trust around a sprinkler. There was something unfairly competent about him, like he could fix anything if he just willed it hard enough.

“Here.” Jacob nudges a socket wrench into your palm without looking up. “You’re not just here to sit pretty.

You scoff, stretching your spine (you’d been hunched beside him for an hour like some kind of gremlin). “When have I ever sat pretty?”

He doesn’t answer, just smirks–that infuriating, knowing tilt of his mouth, like he’s got a secret tucked behind his lips. You elbow him, then pretend to inspect the bike’s engine with exaggerate focus, turning the wrench like you know exactly what you’re doing, copying him.

“So,” you drag out, poking at a loose valve. “How’s the rest of life going?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Y’know, like…” You tap the metal, clink clink. “Any super interesting secrets you’ve been keeping from me? Or how you’ve been dealing with my absence–which, obviously, was devastating for you. Or…” You grin. “Girls?”

Jacob freezes mid-turn, then slowly looks up at you, brow raised. "First off," he says, voice dry, "no secrets. You know I wouldn’t keep any from you. Second, yeah, real tough without you. Had to find a new punching bag and everything." He flicks a grease-stained rag at you. "And no. Been too busy." A pause. "You?"

“No secrets here,” you say lightly. “And not seeing you was no biggie, really.” You snap the wrench playful. “And nope.”

He snorts. “Liar.”

“Prove it.”

For a second, it feels like when you were kids again by daring each other and toeing the line. But then the sunlight shifts, painting the garage in a dimmer gold and Jacob leans back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. You did a pretty good job at not staring for the past few hours, but your eyes slowly drift before snapping out of it quickly.

“Dinner?” he asks, like it’s nothing.

You glance at your phone and realize the hours have slipped away like minutes. “I could eat.”

There’s no discussion, no plan, just the easy understanding that you’ll figure it out together. You grab two of his jackets (both of which still smell like motor oil and the pine-scented soap Billy loves to buy), lock up the garage, and pile into his car. The windows stay cracked, letting in the cooling sunset air and the radio murmurs some old rock songs under the rumble of the engine.

Jacob drums his fingers on the steering wheel, quiet for once. But it’s a good quiet. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Back at his place, you help unload the random assortment of things in the kitchen—barbecue-flavored Pringles, cheddar cheese, and, most importantly, gummy worms, along with a few other necessities. Billy’s out, probably at Charlie Swan’s or fishing with one of the other dads. The house is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty.

“We’re healthy, huh,” you joke, eyeing the scattered lineup of junk food across the counter.

“I’m very self-sufficient,” Jacob says. “I’ll cook something up.”

“Right,” you reply, deadpan. “With your two whole dishes: scrambled eggs and grilled cheese.”

“Don’t knock the classics,” he shoots back, pouting slightly as he starts pulling out a pan and whatever kitchen gadget he can fish out of the drawers.

You put a movie on in the background before joining him to help concoct whatever his limited cooking skills can manage, keeping a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t burn the place down. The TV’s volume is up, but neither of you really watches. You talk over it, and the clatter from the kitchen practically drowns it out anyway.

Once the chaos ends—and you both survive—you grab your plates: triangle-cut grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, a side of Pringles, two cups of water, and the gummy worms. You set everything down on the coffee table and settle into the couch, finally ready to pay attention to the movie.

Somewhere between finishing the second half of your grilled cheese and the third time the remote glitches, you catch Jacob watching you from the corner of your eye.

“What?” you ask, looking over at him.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You squint at him, but he doesn’t offer more. Instead, he leans back on the couch and tosses a pillow lazily in your direction.

“I’m just saying,” he adds after a second, “you’re easy to be around.”

It’s casual. Simple. But the way he says it lands heavier than it should.

You pause, just long enough that he notices. Then you nod, smiling, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You too.”

And you mean it.

When you leave, he walks you to the door. The porch light flickers as he opens it. Your mom’s parked nearby—Jacob offered to drive you back, but you felt bad about how much he’s been driving you around lately, so you called her instead.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, leaning on the frame.

“Is this a standing appointment now?”

“Guess so.”

You smile, step down the stairs, and walk toward the car. You don’t look back, but you can feel him watching until you slide into the passenger seat.

When you get home, your phone buzzes once.

Jacob: Gummy worms were a good call

[sunbeamlessreads]

Last Hand - Doc Holliday x Reader One-Shot

❝ If Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it. ❞

[doc holliday x reader]

~6.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit content, suicidal ideation, grief, terminal illness (TB), canon-typical violence, themes of death/loss

implied past relationship. a town held together by dust and bullets. he tries to die quiet—you won’t let him.

notes: This was a request for my lovely friend @milesalexanderteller. She’s been going through it IRL lately and she really deserves this. I added my own little twist for the end. I'm sorry if I make you cry!!

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The dust hadn’t even settled yet.

It still hung in the air, clinging to your skin and clothes like a second layer, gritty and bitter. You could taste gunpowder in the back of your throat. Could still hear faint echoes of shouting somewhere down the street, like Tombstone itself hadn’t quite caught its breath.

You hadn’t seen Doc since before the shooting started.

He hadn’t come back yet. Certainly not to you, at least.

You were moving quickly, boots crunching through the dirt as you cut behind the building, hoping maybe he’d circled around. That maybe he was leaning somewhere, cigarette lit, with that infuriating half-smile like the day hadn’t nearly ended in blood.

Instead, you heard your name—low and steady.

“Hey.”

You stopped short. Turned.

Wyatt stood just beyond the edge of the alley, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He looked rough—his usual crisp lines undone, hat crooked, dust clinging to every part of him. There was blood on his shirt, high on the shoulder, but it didn’t seem to be his. A dark smear ran across his jaw like someone had tried to grab him mid-fight. His holster was still unbuckled, gun half-loose at his side.

But it was his eyes that made your stomach twist. Wyatt Earp always looked ready for a fight, whether he wanted to be in it or not. But right now, he looked… tired.

“Got a minute?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before turning and nodding toward the alley.

You followed in silence. The light was dimmer there, the buildings blocking the last rays of sun. The sound of the street faded behind you until all you could hear was the quiet scuff of boots, the soft creak of wood, a few flies buzzing lazily near an overturned crate.

Wyatt didn’t speak right away. He came to a stop by the back wall of the saloon, hands resting on his belt like he was weighing the next few seconds in his head. He didn’t look at you—just stared out toward nothing.

You crossed your arms, heartbeat already picking up. Something about the way he held himself—the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw—it put you on edge.

Then he said it.

“Doc’s been tryin’ to get himself killed.”

It was flat. Not dramatic. No buildup. Like it hurt less if he just ripped the damn thing open.

You blinked a few times.

“What?”

Wyatt glanced at you, then looked away just as fast.

“I finally saw it for what it was today. Clear as anything. He stepped right into the open in the middle of the shootout. No cover. Nothin’.”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, like saying it left a taste he didn’t want.

“Didn’t duck. Didn’t even flinch when bullets started hittin’ the walls around him. Just… stood there. Took his shot at a man with his gun already drawn, like it was just another hand of cards to play.”

You felt your body tense, muscles coiling so tight it made your ribs ache.

“He’s been doin’ it more and more lately,” Wyatt continued. “Starting fights with men twice his size. Drunk half the damn time. And he doesn't wait for backup—hell, sometimes he doesn’t even tell us he’s goin’.”

He shook his head, voice low.

“It’s not just recklessness anymore. It’s suicide.”

You stared at him, throat dry, chest tight. Your mind tried to argue—tried to reach for some rational excuse—but it landed on nothing.

Doc hadn’t told you any of this.

And that silence suddenly meant more than anything he could’ve said.

Wyatt shifted again, his expression cracking under the weight of it.

“I tried talkin’ to him,” he said. “He just laughed. Told me if death was comin’, he’d rather it take him sooner than later. Said at least out there, he gets to choose the time and place.”

You swallowed hard. It felt like your body had turned to stone.

“I ain’t tryin’ to guilt you or anythin’,” Wyatt added after a beat, more gently. “But I’ve seen you be the only person in this whole damn town he listens to. Even when he pretends not to.”

He paused. Let it hang.

“I don’t want to have to drag his body out of the street. And I certainly don’t want you to have to see it.”

The words hit you low. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. You just kept staring ahead—past Wyatt, past the alley, past the part of you that wanted to crumple where you stood.

You felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the wind that had picked up between the buildings.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

You turned without a word.

Didn’t wait for Wyatt to say anything else. Didn’t let him see what was happening behind your eyes.

You walked back toward the saloon with fire building in your chest. Every step felt heavier than the last. Like the truth he’d handed you was too big to carry—but you’d carry it anyway.

Because if Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it.

The noise hit you before the doors even opened.

Laughter, clinking glasses, the clatter of poker chips on oak, boots on floorboards, and someone hammering out a tune on the piano that had long since fallen off-key. The room pulsed with heat and whiskey sweat, and under it all, that constant hum of men who thought they were untouchable—full of guns and bravado and cheap beer. Even after the happenings of the day.

You pushed the saloon doors open with a little more force than necessary.

For a moment, no one noticed. You were just another body walking in off the street, swallowed by cigar smoke and dim light.

But then you stepped in fully, boots echoing sharp against the floor, and the crowd seemed to shift. Not with words. Just a subtle awareness—like animals catching the scent of something coming that wasn’t good.

And then you saw him.

Doc Holliday sat like a goddamn centerpiece at the farthest poker table, sprawled in a chair like it was a throne. One hand held a fan of cards, the other rested casually on a half-empty glass of bourbon, the deep amber catching fire in the low lamplight. His hat was tipped back, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and he was smiling—that slow, lazy, devastating smile that could smooth over murder if he wanted it to.

He looked relaxed. Smug. Untouched.

He looked like he hadn’t almost died.

And something inside you snapped.

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was laughing at something someone said—low and smooth, smoke curling from between his teeth, eyes shining with the thrill of the game. A few men groaned and tossed in their cards. One cursed and leaned back, scowling.

And then he spotted you.

His gaze cut through the room like a blade, and that smile—God, that smile—grew just a fraction wider. He stood up in one fluid motion, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, cigarette perched between two fingers like a punctuation mark.

“Well now,” he drawled, like you were a pleasant surprise. “Ain’t you a—”

Your hand moved before your mind could catch up.

SMACK

The slap rang out like a gunshot. Loud, sharp, final.

His head turned with the force of it. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, still lit. His whole body froze—so did the rest of the saloon.

Silence bloomed in an instant. The kind that feels like thunder in reverse. Someone coughed, somewhere near the bar. The piano keys fell quiet mid-note. The dealer’s hand hung in the air above a split pot. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Doc didn’t look at you. Not at first.

He just stood there, jaw tight, cheek blooming red beneath your handprint, eyes cast downward like he was running through a thousand possible reactions and finding none that fit.

You were shaking.

Not with regret. Not with fear. With fury. With heartbreak so sharp it made your bones feel like glass.

You stared at him like he was a stranger.

“You selfish son of a bitch,” you said, voice low, steady, but trembling at the edges.

He finally lifted his gaze to you—slow, searching. And maybe, just for a second, the smugness fell. Not gone, but hollowed out at the center.

You didn’t wait for a response.

You turned and walked out.

Each step felt louder than it should’ve. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed through the saloon doors and into the cold night air, where the dust had started to rise again with the wind.

Behind you, the crowd stayed frozen in that stunned silence. Somewhere, someone whispered your name. Another voice said “Holy hell.” You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. You shoved the swinging doors wide and stepped into the cool night air.

You were halfway down the steps when you heard the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a glass hitting wood, and boots—heavy, purposeful—coming after you.

You didn’t have to look back to know it was him.

You could feel it, like a storm at your heels.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the hinges, slamming into the wall with a bang that shook dust from the beams overhead. After the door steadied from the prior abuse, Doc slammed it closed back behind him, unceremoniously.

You didn’t flinch.

You were standing near the dresser, back to the door, staring down at your hands. They were still shaking. You hated that.

“You got a hell of a lotta nerve.”

His voice was sharp, low, laced with the kind of fury that didn’t come from pain—it came from pride. From being caught off-guard. From being made a fool.

You turned slowly. Not with fear—with purpose.

Doc stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his face still flushed from the slap. The print of your hand burned red across his cheek. He hadn’t wiped it away. Maybe he hadn’t had time. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

His hat was gone now. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, shoulders tense, boots hitting the floor like gunshots.

His face was still flushed. The red mark on his cheek stood out, stark against his pale skin, and his jaw was locked so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped. “Or should I guess?”

He laughed—once. Harsh. Hollow.

“Whole goddamn saloon starin’ at me like I’d said somethin’ vile. Like I deserved it. You blindside me in front of half the town and walk out like you’re the one wronged?”

He stepped closer, gesturing vaguely with one hand, the other curled into a tight fist at his side.

“Did I cheat you? Did I lie? Did I forget your damn birthday?” His tone was mocking now, but the edge behind it was real. “Or was that just for show? You get somethin’ outta that?”

Now he was pacing, boots scraping the floor, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to pull his hair or punch the wall.

“You think that’s what this is about?” you said, low and sharp. “You think I walked in there just to bruise your pride?”

Doc didn’t back down. He turned to meet your gaze head-on, but there was something unsettled in the way his fingers twitched at his side.

“Well I certainly think I deserve to know why I got blindsided in the middle of a damn good poker hand.”

You stared at him, then laughed. Not with humor. It came out raw. Broken.

“You deserve to know?” you echoed. “You want to talk about what you deserve?”

You closed the distance between you in two furious steps and shoved him—not hard, but enough to make his boots scrape against the floorboards.

“You think I wouldn’t find out?” you hissed. “That you could just keep throwing yourself in front of bullets like it’s nothing and no one would notice?”

His brows pulled together.

“Wyatt told me,” you spat before he could speak. “He told me everything.”

Doc froze. You saw the mask start to slip.

“He told me how you walked straight into open fire,” you continued, stepping closer. “Told me you went after a man already drawin' on you. Like you didn’t give a damn whether you made it out.”

You were inches from him now, breathing hard, staring up into those pale eyes that always held a joke—but not tonight.

“I’ve seen you drunk. I’ve seen you bleeding. I’ve seen you cough your lungs up and spit red into a handkerchief like it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. But this?” Your voice cracked. “This is you giving up.”

He looked down at you, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. But he didn’t answer.

So you hit him with the one thing he couldn’t dodge.

“You were ready to up and die,” you whispered. “And you didn’t even think I deserved to know.”

That landed.

He stepped back half a pace, like you’d struck him again.

His mouth opened, then closed. His tongue wet his lips, slow. You saw it all happen in real time—his ego folding in on itself, that anger unraveling into something thinner, sadder. Guilt. Shame.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said finally, voice hoarse, “because I didn’t want you lookin’ at me the way everybody else does.”

You swallowed hard.

“And how’s that?”

“Like I’m already in the ground.”

Silence filled the space between you like smoke—thick, choking, unspoken things hanging in the air.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said. “The way people look at me when I cough. Like they’re just waitin’ on me to drop.”

He took another step forward, slower this time, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“But you didn’t look at me like that,” he said. “Not once.”

You wanted to scream. Cry. Shake him.

“I still don’t,” you whispered. “Yet you still chose to keep me in the dark. You didn’t even give me the chance to fight for you.”

Doc’s breath caught. His hands twitched at his sides, then slowly came up—reaching for you like a man touching water in a desert.

“You’re the only thing I got left that makes me feel like I’m still here,” he said stepping toward you, holding a sincere eye-contact.

Your chest cracked open.

You didn’t move when his hands cupped your face. Didn’t flinch when he brushed his thumbs under your jaw, tilting your head back like he needed to see all of you. His touch was trembling. He was trembling.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Mouth crashing into yours, breath hot, hands threading into your hair like he was trying to memorize the way you felt before death took him away from you. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to you like you could break the habit of death with your body alone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he kissed you like he was trying to live.

The kiss slammed into you like a wave breaking a dam.

There was no warning—just hands, heat, and the raw sound of breath catching in the back of his throat as his mouth crushed into yours. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent in its urgency, desperate in a way that bordered on collapse.

You tasted smoke and bourbon on his tongue, tasted the fear he refused to speak out loud.

And you gave it right back.

Your hands slid into his hair. His fingers dropped to your waist, gripping the layers of fabric at your hips in frustration.

“Too many goddamn clothes,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-growl. “You tryna drive me insane, sweetheart?”

“You first,” you gasped, stepping back from him.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—like you’d just dared him—and the look he gave you was half fire, half challenge.

Then his hands went to his waistcoat.

He didn’t waste time. The buttons came undone fast under his fingers, and he flung the thing off like it had no right to be between the two of you. His gunbelt and holster followed with a dull thud on the floor, then he was at the buttons of his shirt—no finesse now, just a frenzy of motion. He popped them open down his chest, and when one stuck, he tore the fabric loose, baring pale skin and a body cut hard by illness and held together by sheer will.

He returned to you and spun you gently—urgently—until your chest pressed to the wall, your hands bracing yourself against the wood. You felt him behind you, breath hot at your shoulder, hands already at the back of your corset.

“You wear this thing like a goddamn suit of armor,” he muttered. “What’s it protecting you from?”

“Men like you.”

He made a low, breathless sound—almost a laugh—and then you felt the tug of his fingers against the laces.

They didn’t come easily. Corset laces never did. But he worked fast, muttering curses under his breath as he loosened them enough to let you breathe. The pressure in your ribs eased. His fingers slid up your back, slipping beneath the loosened stays, tugging the entire thing over your head without ceremony.

The shift underneath clung to your skin, sweat-slick and thin. He spun you back toward him, ran his palms down your sides, up under your arms, then cupped your breasts through the damp linen. His mouth found yours once again for a kiss almost as desperate as the first.

“Still mad?” he panted, voice hoarse against your lips.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Furious.”

“Good.” His teeth scraped against your jaw, dragging down to the hinge of your throat where he bit—not hard, but enough to make you gasp again. “Don’t want you soft. Not for this.”

You barely had time to take in the sight of him—long lines, lean muscle, sharp hips, and heat in every breath—before his fingers were at his belt buckle, pulling it loose in a swift, practiced motion. His trousers hit the floor with a low rustle, and then he was stepping forward again, stripped to skin, eyes locked on you like he was starving and you were the last thing left worth tasting.

His hands slid to your waist—not rough, but insistent—guiding you backward through the glow and stillness, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back with a soft laugh of breath, landing on the mattress in a rush of tangled skirts and flushed skin.

He followed you down immediately—slow, controlled, lowering himself over you like gravity was finally on his side. One arm braced beside your head, the other still dragging your shift higher, fingers shaking with need.

You looked up at him, every inch of your body already singing for more, and the words tumbled out like a secret slipping past your lips.

“God,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the stars. “I love you.”

He went still—not in surprise, but in triumph.

His grin was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Oh, you do, do you?” he drawled, eyes gleaming even as his breath still came in short, ragged bursts.

Your face flushed hotter. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut you off with a kiss that tasted like sin and smoke.

“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth, like he was trying the words on for size. “Say it again. I want to hear it when you're lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I love you, Doc.” You cupped his face with both hands, even as your hips ground against him. “I love you, you reckless, brilliant bastard. Even when you scare the hell out of me.”

He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring. “I ain’t worth that kind of love.”

“Tough,” you said. “You’ve got it anyway.”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you—something wrecked and reverent flickering behind his eyes—and then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less hungry. Like the words you’d just spoken had knocked the wind out of him, and now he was using your mouth to pull breath back into his lungs.

His hand slid lower, under your shift and over the bare skin of your thigh, fingers slipping between your legs like he’d been there a thousand times in his mind. When he found how wet you were, he groaned low in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “That all for me?”

You couldn’t speak—just nodded, breath catching as his fingers stroked through the slick heat of you.

He kissed you again, open-mouthed and aching, while his hand worked slow, steady circles against your clit. Every flick of his fingers made your hips rise, your legs tighten. The warmth coiled sharp and fast, your body already trembling from the tension that had now broken since the moment you slapped him in that saloon.

His mouth moved to your throat, lips dragging down to your collarbone. “Let me hear you,” he whispered. “Let me feel it.”

You moaned as he slid a finger inside you—then another—stretching you just enough to make your back arch, your breath stutter. His fingers curled, searching, teasing. His thumb circled with steady pressure, pulling you closer, closer—

But before the wave could crash, he stopped.

You whimpered.

He pulled his fingers free, eyes locked on yours, and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean.

Then he rose to his knees between your thighs, gripping your hips as he shifted you towards the center of the bed, moving with you. Your skirts were still rucked around your waist, drawers shoved aside, shift hanging loose over your breasts. You were a mess of fabric and sweat and need.

He looked down at you like a man who’d finally found something to live for.

And then he lined himself up and pushed into you with one long, devastating stroke.

Not gentle—but not brutal either. It was pure need, sharpened to the bone. You gasped, one arm wrapped tight around his back, the other tangled in the sheets, your body clenching around him like it already knew he wouldn’t last long like this.

He pulled back and drove into you again—rough, deep, each thrust a little more ragged, a little less controlled. He groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking harder now, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

But he was breathing too hard.

You felt it—heard it—in the way his rhythm started to falter, his weight sagging more into your body. A soft cough rattled from his chest, one that he tried to swallow, but it pushed out between clenched teeth as he rocked forward again, slower now, less force behind it.

He kept going—God, he tried—but his arms were shaking, his breath was stuttering, and after one more broken thrust, he dropped down beside you, chest heaving, one arm slung across your stomach.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry. I can’t—I want to—just can’t keep it up.”

He turned his face into the pillow, coughing softly, wet and low in his lungs.

“I want to fuck you through the damn floor,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “But I’m so goddamn tired already.”

You looked over at him—his hair damp with sweat, his skin pale and burning, the fever hiding just beneath the surface—and something inside you melted. Not out of pity.

Out of need.

Because he was still trying.

Because he hadn’t given up.

You reached out and touched his face, fingertips trailing along his cheek, then his throat. His eyes opened—barely—and when he looked at you, something in them flickered like he didn’t know what to expect.

So you straddled him.

Slow. Sure. A deliberate climb over his hips as he blinked up at you in open surprise.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, hands finding your thighs instinctively, voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Then let me do it for you.”

And before he could stop you, before he could find the strength to argue, you reached between your bodies and guided him back inside you—slow, deep, all the way down with a breathless moan that made his hands grip tighter.

His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bobbing with a swallowed groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled your hips, slow and controlled, pressing your palms to his chest as he gasped beneath you.

“No,” you said, eyes locked to his. “It’s my intention to keep you here as long as I can.”

A beat passed, heavy with anticipation. His breath hitched, he stifled a cough, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, as if overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, his head fell back, mouth slack.

“Fuck,” he rasped, head falling back, mouth slack. “Jesus. Goddamn.”

You were shaking already. From the stretch, the pressure, the sight of him undone beneath you. He was so deep, your thighs already trembling from how tightly your body gripped him.

You started to move—slow, steady rolls of your hips, every grind dragging another sound out of him that made you throb around him.

But Doc wasn’t going to just lie still. Not even broken, not even panting beneath you like the breath kept slipping away faster than he could drag it in.

His hands yanked you down harder.

“Faster,” he growled, voice dark and ragged. “Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You gasped, hands braced on his chest. “I don’t want to break you.”

He let out a low, vicious sound—half laugh, half threat.

“Too late for that.”

He bucked up beneath you the best he could, hips snapping with sudden force, catching you mid-thrust and driving himself deeper, harder than you were ready for.

You cried out, full-body shudder, your hands scrambling for balance as he kept thrusting up into you, every motion fueled by something furious and raw.

“You think I’m just gonna lie here?” he bit out, voice hoarse, sweat slicking his chest. “Think you can get on top and make me behave? You know I'm not one to behave darlin'.”

His mouth was at your breast before you could answer—teeth scraping over your nipple, tongue hot, hands bruising your ass as he shoved you down, used you to do what he couldn’t do himself.

“Ride me,” he growled against your skin. “Come on, darlin’. Give it to me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You moved—hard and fast—grinding down with a gasp as he met you halfway, every thrust of his hips sloppy now, but still fierce, still intentional, like he was fighting the weakness in his limbs with everything he had.

Your forehead dropped to his as you bounced in his lap, both of you slick and shaking, skin slapping hard with every ragged thrust. He was breathing like he was about to collapse, but his hands were still firm, still dragging you down onto his cock like he couldn’t stand the thought of you pulling away.

“God, you feel so good,” he panted. “Like heaven. Like fucking heaven.”

His voice was breaking. So was his body. But his eyes—his eyes were locked on you, wide and hungry and alive, like this was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, half-wrecked. “Don’t stop, darlin'. Not yet.”

You didn’t.

You drove down like it was the last thing either of you would ever do—hard, fast, your nails digging into his chest, your hips stuttering as the pressure built fast and furious.

“Doc—” you gasped, head falling forward. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come.”

His hand shot up to the back of your neck, pulling you down, foreheads pressed, sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. His eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, desperate.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not yet. Hold on for me, darlin’.”

Your whole body seized, trembling from the effort to stop the climb. Your thighs burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your cunt clenched around him like your body didn’t care what your mind was trying to do—it wanted release. But you obeyed. You stayed right there—balanced on the edge, muscles coiled, every nerve frayed, every breath a battle.

“I wanna feel you break with me,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Don’t let go without me. Not yet. I need—” His voice cracked. “I need this right now.”

You nodded—barely, shakily. “Okay. Okay, baby.”

You rocked your hips slower now, grinding down onto him with control you barely had. Every drag of him inside you made you shake, made your breath falter, made your walls twitch around him in desperate, pulsing waves.

He felt it. He groaned—deep and ruined.

“You’re so close,” he said, almost to himself. “I can feel it. Fuck, you’re… you’re shaking.”

“I have to come,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please—please, Doc—”

“Not yet,” he said again, rasping like it cost him to say it. “Almost, darlin’. Just—almost—”

His hands were all over you now, frantic. One gripped your waist, trying to guide your rhythm, even though his muscles trembled with the effort. The other slid up to your breast, squeezing rough and clumsy, thumb flicking over your nipple like he was trying to coax you into holding out just a little longer. His mouth dragged up to your throat, kissing, biting, panting.

You buried your face in his neck, moaning, biting down to keep yourself from breaking. You could feel your orgasm right there, clawing at the edge of your spine, demanding release.

He bucked up into you again—sloppy but deep—and choked on a groan. “Just a little more, sweetheart. Stay with me. Please. Fuck—I’m so close.”

And you did.

You held out for him.

You held it until your muscles locked, until your legs were shaking and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his chest and shoulder. You held it until your body screamed, until you thought you’d explode just from the tension.

“Now,” he whispered. “Come now.”

Your body obeyed like it had just been waiting for the command.

The second the words left his mouth, everything inside you snapped. Your hips slammed down on him one final time as the tension that had been coiled like wire through your spine exploded—hot and all-consuming.

Pleasure ripped through you so hard it hurt. You clamped down around him, pulsing in sharp, rhythmic waves that left you gasping, keening, grinding against him like you couldn’t get close enough. Your fingers scrambled for purchase—his chest, his shoulders, the slick heat of his skin under your palms—anything to anchor yourself while the world dropped out from under you.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips. Your mouth opened but no words came out, just ragged moans and desperate little sounds you couldn’t hold back.

The pleasure hit you like a storm—sharp, shaking, so big it felt like grief and joy all at once. You weren’t just coming—you were coming undone.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, in his hair, in his shoulders—anything to keep yourself grounded now. But there was nothing solid. Just him. Just Doc. Just the sound of your name falling from his mouth like a prayer as he gripped your hips, holding you flush to him, thrusting up into you with the last of his strength.

Doc cursed—loud, broken—his hands flexing hard on your hips as your release hit him, too. He came with you, gasping your name as his head fell back, voice ragged and ruined.

“God—fuck—yes,” he groaned, hips jerking once, twice, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled everything he had into you.

He held you down, buried deep, and you felt him throb inside you as he came—red-hot and thick, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like it cost him everything. His head dropped back, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body taut with the effort of staying in it until the end.

You rode it out together, bodies shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. You collapsed onto his chest, limp and shaking, your heartbeat crashing in your ears. Sweat soaked the hollow of your back. You could feel his own heart thundering beneath your cheek—wild, irregular, but alive.

His arms slid around you—not tight, not strong—but present. Warm. His chest rose under you, then hitched once. A dry cough broke out, muffled against your temple.

He stayed there, head bowed against you, breath shallow.

And after a long moment, voice worn thin as paper, he said,

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.”

He didn’t say it like a gift. He said it like a confession.

Like it scared him more than the dying ever did.

You tipped your head closer, your voice steady when everything else felt like shaking.

“Then stay alive. For me. For as long as you can”

He didn’t answer. Just tightened his arms around you, fingers trembling where they held on.

And for a while, that was enough.

Seven months along, and you could still feel the weight of his hand on your belly like it had only just left.

Most nights, that memory was the only thing that kept you steady.

You'd learned how to move with the weight of him still inside you—not just the child, but the memory. The ghost of his voice, the echo of his laughter, the shape of his hands cupped over your belly like he could protect it, and you, from what was coming.

You knew the exact night the baby had happened.

Not just because of timing—but because everything about it had been different. No distance, no jokes, no walls between them. Just truth. Desperation. Love, raw and terrifying. He’d held you like he was trying to memorize you, whispered things he’d never dared say before.

You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.

And you’d told him to stay alive for you.

That was the night you'd made the baby. You were sure of it. The way he’d looked at you—like you were the only thing left in the world he couldn’t let go of.

He’d softened in a way you hadn’t thought possible, even as the light behind his eyes began to fade. At first, he’d joked—called you Mama, teased the child to come, offered names both ridiculous and oddly sentimental. But the jokes didn’t last. The coughing got worse. He slept more, ate less. You grew rounder, fuller with life, while he shrank into the bed like the world was letting go of him one piece at a time.

Still, he tried. He rubbed your back when the morning sickness took you under, kissed your neck with lips gone dry, told you you were brave even when he couldn’t lift his head. Once, in the dead of night, fever burning through him, he told you he wished he’d met you when he still had time to become the man you deserved. You held him through that too.

Near the end, words and wit came less often. But when you pressed his hand to your belly, he smiled—small and tired—and closed his eyes like he could feel the future.

“You’ll tell ‘em about me?” he’d rasped one evening.

You'd nodded, kissing his hand and blinking tears into his palm. “Every day.”

He left not but a few days later. No drama. No last gasp. Just a breath that didn’t return, and the sound of the wind outside like it was bowing its head.

The shame came soon after.

Unmarried. Alone. A woman with a swollen belly and no ring, no name but your own, and the memory of a dying man, whispered in your bones. They watched you pass in town—some with pity, others with tight-mouthed judgment. A gambler’s bastard, they said. A disgrace. A foolish girl who’d let love make you reckless.

Some nodded stiffly when you passed, like it pained them to acknowledge you at all. Others looked straight through you, eyes fixed ahead like you weren't even there. A few murmured your name in church, always just loud enough to be heard but never loud enough to offer comfort. No one said his name. Not in public. Not where it might stick to them. As if mourning a drunk gambler made you foolish.

But you kept walking. Chin up. Spine straight. Hand resting on the life inside you like it was the holiest thing you'd ever carried.

He’d asked you to live. To carry on.

And so you would.

You talked to the baby when it kicked, when it quieted. Told stories—about his sharp tongue and wicked grin, the way he held a pistol, the way he’d held you. You told it about the night the baby came to be. How he’d fallen apart in your arms and found something worth holding on to, if only for a little while.

Your house was quieter now. Lonelier. But when the wind rustled the curtains and the floor creaked just so, you liked to believe he was still here. Watching you. Walking beside you. Waiting for the child you made between heartbreak and hope.

You would see it through. For him. For what you’d made with him in the space between living and dying.

notes: AHHH @milesalexanderteller!!! I'm so sorry dude :'(

© Copyright, 2025.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Hi! I don’t know if you’re doing requests, if not ignore this. I love your writing! My request would be bad batch x Jedi!reader( can be gen) where it’s their reaction to you having to save them and do a bunch of cool badass force moves to get to them. 🩷

Absolutely— I will gladly take any request x

I hope you enjoy this, I kinda went off on my own little world at the end.

⸻

Title: “About Time You Showed Up”

Bad batch x Jedi!Reader

The op was supposed to be simple: get in, grab the intel, get out.

So naturally, it was a disaster by hour two.

The Bad Batch was cornered inside a decrepit refinery complex, hunkered behind a wall of overturned crates as blaster fire lit up the air. Explosions cracked the walls. Wrecker was bleeding. Tech’s datapad was sparking. Crosshair was out of ammo.

Hunter muttered a curse. “We need backup. Now.”

Crosshair scoffed. “You mean the Jedi?”

“Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing,” Tech said, wincing as he adjusted his shattered goggles. “They are highly efficient warriors, after all.”

“Well, ours is late,” Echo gritted, shielding Wrecker with a dented durasteel panel. “And I don’t think those guys outside are going to politely wait for her.”

Then, like the Force heard them bickering—

The air dropped a few degrees.

The wind shifted.

And then the main door of the facility exploded inward—not from detonite or a charge, but like something had pushed it in with terrifying, silent power.

Smoke billowed.

And out of it stepped you.

Cloak trailing behind you, lightsaber already humming in your hand, you walked into the chaos like you were late to a dinner party—not a battlefield.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, lifting your hand.

Three enemy droids shot into the air like ragdolls, slammed into a pipe overhead, and sparked out. “Had a bit of traffic.”

Wrecker blinked. “That… was awesome.”

Hunter stared as you leapt forward, deflecting blaster bolts without looking. “Remind me never to complain about Jedi again.”

You moved like a shadow. One second you were blocking a shot, the next you were throwing your saber, calling it back mid-spin, flipping off a wall, and dragging a pair of guards toward each other with the Force so they knocked heads and dropped.

“Show off,” Crosshair muttered, but there was something weirdly close to admiration in his tone.

“Excuse me?” you called as you force-pulled a turret off its base and crushed it into a ball. “You want to do this next time, sharpshooter?”

“I mean… I wouldn’t mind the view,” Crosshair said under his breath.

Tech, oddly calm amid the chaos, adjusted his goggles with a broken-off screw. “Fascinating. You manipulated five separate Force events within a span of—”

“I’ll send you a diagram later!” you called.

You sliced the control panel, opened the bulkhead, and gestured. “Come on, boys. I’m not babysitting this op all day.”

Hunter helped Wrecker to his feet. “That was… intense.”

Echo gave you a half-grin. “We’d be dead if you hadn’t shown.”

“You would be,” you said smugly. “Good thing I like you.”

“Is that a Jedi flirting?” Crosshair drawled. “Should I be worried about a lightsaber through my chest or a date?”

You raised a brow. “Depends. Are you always this cocky, or is it the blood loss talking?”

Crosshair smirked. “You tell me.”

As the team jogged after you, Tech whispered to Echo, “I believe this is what organic beings refer to as ‘tension.’”

“You think?” Echo grinned, ducking blaster fire as you launched an enemy into a vat of molten ore with a flick of your hand.

“Let’s save the flirty quips for after we’re not being shot at,” Hunter grumbled—but he wasn’t exactly not smiling.

You stopped mid-run, looked over your shoulder, and grinned. “Then pick up the pace, boys. You can flirt after we survive.”

⸻

The air inside the safehouse was still hazy from Wrecker’s attempt at cooking, and someone had definitely patched Crosshair’s blaster wound with duct tape and attitude.

But everyone was alive. And that was saying something.

You were seated cross-legged on a crate, calmly cleaning your lightsaber with the kind of peace only someone who had deflected about 200 blaster bolts could muster. The Force hummed around you, quiet but alert.

Hunter dropped onto the floor nearby, arms resting on his knees. “You always fight like that?”

You looked up, raising a brow. “Like what?”

“Like gravity doesn’t apply to you and you’re mad at every object in a ten-meter radius.”

You grinned. “Only when people I care about are in trouble.”

Crosshair, lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “So, you do care.”

“Don’t get excited,” you teased. “I’d do the same for my hydrospanner.”

Wrecker burst out laughing while Crosshair smirked like he’d just been promoted.

Echo, who was calmly running diagnostics on his arm, chimed in: “I don’t know. I think you’ve got favorites.”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

Tech looked up from where he was scanning his datapad, eyes sharp behind his cracked goggles. “You know, from a technical standpoint, some of your techniques—particularly the telekinetic manipulation mid-flight—could be extremely beneficial in combat.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying you want to train with me, Tech?”

He cleared his throat. “For research purposes, of course.”

Echo leaned back against a support beam. “I wouldn’t mind a session or two either. Might pick up a move or two that doesn’t involve being thrown across a battlefield.”

“I think I should go first,” Hunter said mildly. “Since I’m the one who has to keep all of you alive.”

Wrecker raised a hand. “Hey, I want to train with the Jedi too!”

You looked around at all of them. “Let me guess… you all want to train now?”

“Better than watching Crosshair try to flirt,” Echo muttered.

“I don’t flirt,” Crosshair said flatly.

“You stared at their hands for five minutes straight,” Hunter pointed out.

Crosshair didn’t deny it. “They’ve got good saber grip. It’s tactical.”

You smirked and slowly stood, clipping your saber back to your belt. “Alright. We’ll start tomorrow. One at a time. You’ll get a feel for the Force, and I’ll see who whines the least when they land flat on their back.”

“I never whine,” Crosshair muttered.

“Good,” you said with a wicked grin. “You’ll be first.”

Wrecker fist-pumped. Tech adjusted his datapad like it was a test. Echo and Hunter shared a look that said, We’re all going to die.

You stretched your arms and turned to leave.

“Oh,” you added over your shoulder. “And if you’re all so eager to get closer to the Force… don’t forget it can read minds.”

Five men froze. Completely.

You didn’t have to look to know exactly which ones had immediately panicked.

Yeah. You were going to have fun with this.

⸻

You stood in the middle of the field, arms crossed, calm as ever.

The Bad Batch lined up in front of you like misbehaving cadets at a very weird summer camp. Wrecker was bouncing on his heels. Crosshair looked bored already. Echo was trying to focus. Tech was holding a notebook. And Hunter—Hunter was watching you like he was trying to anticipate your every move. Again.

“Alright,” you said, voice light. “Rule number one: you are not Force-sensitive. So stop trying to feel it. You’ll just give yourself a migraine.”

Tech quietly lowered his fingers from his temple and put his notebook away.

“Instead,” you continued, pacing in front of them like an instructor, “we’re going to focus on reflexes, awareness, and how not to swing a lightsaber into your own leg.”

Wrecker raised his hand. “Wait—do we get lightsabers?”

You blinked. “Do you want to lose an arm?”

Wrecker grinned. “Kinda depends on the story I can tell after.”

Echo muttered, “Maker help us.”

You tossed a training baton at Crosshair, who caught it one-handed with zero enthusiasm.

“Let’s see how you handle this, sharpshooter,” you said, smirking. “Try to block me.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a magic trick to win a duel.”

You raised your training blade. “That’s cute. Try to last thirty seconds.”

What followed was the most stubborn, cocky, and utterly chaotic sparring session you had ever experienced.

Crosshair lasted eighteen seconds. He blamed the sun.

Hunter was fast, perceptive, and nearly knocked you off your feet once, but then got distracted when you smiled at him. He never admitted it.

Echo was calculated but got annoyed when you used a Force push to trip him mid-roll. “Not fair,” he growled, flat on his back.

“I told you I’d use it,” you shrugged.

Tech kept trying to guess your next move based on logic. Unfortunately, you were using the Force. And chaos.

“I have a theory,” he said, face-down in the grass.

“I’m sure you do.”

Then came Wrecker.

“Alright,” he said, grinning like a kid about to break a toy, “gimme your best shot.”

You dodged his first three swings. The fourth came very close.

“Easy, big guy,” you huffed, ducking under his arm. “This is training, not deathmatch—”

“Oops!” Wrecker slipped on a rock, stumbled forward, and you had to Force-jump to avoid being pancaked. You landed behind him, breathing hard.

“That was… impressive,” you managed.

“Did I pass?” he asked, hopeful.

“Pass? You almost Force-chucked me into next week!”

“Cool.”

Later, as the group collapsed in a sweaty, bruised heap under a tree, you sat cross-legged nearby, sipping from a canteen.

“I’ll admit,” you said with a sly grin, “you’re all… slightly less hopeless than I expected.”

“High praise,” Echo muttered.

Crosshair lay back, arms behind his head. “So when’s the advanced class?”

You tossed a pebble at his head. “Never.”

Tech looked up from scribbling notes. “I would still like to record your movement patterns. Possibly… for private analysis.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Private?”

Hunter cleared his throat, cutting in fast. “I’d be up for a meditation session. Just us.”

You blinked. “You meditate?”

“I do now.”

Wrecker sat up. “Wait, I want to meditate too!”

“No, you don’t,” Echo sighed.

You lay back in the grass beside them, arms tucked under your head, eyes half-closed. “You know… for a bunch of non-sensitive, chaos-wielding commandos… you’re not so bad.”

Crosshair, eyes closed, smirked. “Careful, Jedi. Keep talking like that, and we might start thinking you like us.”

You smirked back. “I do like you. I just like kicking your asses more.”

[itscalledastrategyfred]

Oh, Amore...

Request: 🌺 (But Kimi version!)

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x WEC Driver!reader

Themes: Minor angst with fluff (againnn!!)

Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)

Summary: Losing Le Mans wasn't supposed to happen. So Kimi cuts his weekend short to go help you.

A/N: imma move this up here. Kimi looks so cute in the first pic. this is from my main @heyitspapayaontop, but I may write here too!

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

The night air in Le Mans tasted like disappointment.

You didn’t even make it past the garage. Still half-zipped out of your fireproofs, knees pulled to your chest while you sat on an overturned pit box crate. The Cadillac crew tiptoed around you, eyes low. You could still hear the roar of Ferrari’s champagne-soaked celebration from the podium.

But you didn’t make the call until later. Until you were alone. Until the ache in your chest cracked wide open and spilled down your cheeks.

It rang once.

Then twice.

And then Kimi answered.

He sounded tired—post-quali tired—but the second he heard you sniffle, the edge in his voice softened instantly.

“Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong, amore?”

“I lost,” you whispered. “They passed us in the last ten minutes. Ferrari. They won.”

Kimi didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed gently into the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you said, so quiet he almost missed it.

“No. Don’t do that.” His voice was firmer now, protective. “You drove Le Mans. You led Le Mans. You don’t get to say sorry for being brilliant.”

You wiped at your cheeks. “And it’s not fair.”

“It never is,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t change what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Mine,” he said simply. “And the best damn driver in that field.”

That’s when your voice cracked fully, and Kimi knew. He knew you didn’t just need his voice. You needed him.

So he made a few calls. Told Toto he wasn’t missing a thing. Took the overnight flight from Montreal and didn’t even stop at the hotel. Straight to the track, still in his team hoodie, eyes rimmed red from no sleep.

When you saw him, you didn’t even move. You just stared, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“…Kimi?”

He nodded once. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

You stood slowly, unsure if you were dreaming.

Then you crashed into him like the checkered flag itself.

He held you close, hands spread wide across your back, his chin tucked into your hair like he’d been waiting for this all day.

You sniffled. “You missed your race weekend.”

“You needed me,” he said. “And I needed to see you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still shiny. “You always know.”

“I know you,” he said softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

He pressed his lips to yours. Not hungry with desire, but gentle.

Against your lips he whispered, “Come on, Amore. Let's go to the hotel, okay?”

You were too tired to tell him no. Not like you would have. So you nodded and he took your hand as he led you to the car.

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

The next morning, he slipped out the room carefully. He walked to the kitchen of the fancy hotel room and thought for a moment.

Finally, he looked over at you and smiled sadly. He grabbed his keys, threw on his shoes and walked out the door.

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

An hour later, he came home with a paper bag of groceries.

He set it down before closing the room door so you wouldn't wake up.

After, went back to the kitchen and took out a knife and a wooden cutting board as he chopped the basil. He threw it in a bowl with eggs, whipping cream, salt, and pepper. He turned on the mixer and left it while he turned to the stove with a pan.

The wrapper of butter crinkled as he opened is and cut some off to spread it on the pan, looking over at the door to make sure you hadn't come out yet.

The Italian stopped the mixer and poured it onto the pan, his eyes focused.

Kimi covered it and watched it.

You walked out the room quietly, Kim's hoodie on with sweatpants that weren't dirty. You saw your boyfriend cooking and smiled tiredly. Walking over, your hands slid around his torso as you hugged him from behind.

He jumped a bit, but once he felt your head resting on his shoulder he smiled and relaxed.

“Morning, Amore.” Kimi whispered.

In response you mumbled, “Morning, Drea.”

After a few moments he took the lid off the pan and grabbed a plate without moving his feet so you wouldn't have to walk around. He took a spatula and took the frittata off and plated it.

“Come on, Amore, I made breakfast.” He said, tugging your hands toward the couch.

Once he sat down, he pulled you into his lap.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still shitty, but a bit better because a certain little pizza boy made me food.” You smirked. He chuckled.

And all started to feel okay again.

[yuta-nakamots]

Buck Off - B.Barnes

Pairing - TFATWS Bucky x C.I.A. Agent!Female Reader

Genre - Fluff, Action

Warnings - featuring Sharon Carter and Sam Wilson, canon typical violence, John Walker negativity, slight canon divergence (i haven’t fully watched TFATWS) 

Summary - When you follow Sharon Carter into the shadows of Madripoor, you break every rule you were trained to follow. You’re not a soldier, not a spy, but somehow you end up standing beside them anyway, navigating secrets, snark, and the slow-burn of gravity towards Bucky Barnes.

Word Count - 3.5k

Author’s Note - I can’t believe I wrote all of this just because I wanted to tell Bucky to buck off. Here's to my longest work for Bucky yet

Now Playing: Love At First Fight - LANY

You used to work in a glass building with clean desks, badge scanners, and coffee that tastes like burnt-out optimism. Now? You work in Madripoor, where the streets never sleep and the air smells like sweat, sea salt, and secrets. 

Your official title is ‘Logistics Consultant’, but unofficially, your role is to do whatever Sharon Carter needs you to do without asking too many questions. That was the unspoken rule around here. Don’t ask, don’t look, don’t get involved. 

But lately, Sharon’s been disappearing for hours, sometimes days on end, coming back looking like hell and brushing it off with lines like, “you should see the other guy.”

You try not to worry. You try to stay in your lane. But it’s hard not the notice the bruises hidden under the collar of her trench coat, or the blood she wipes off her knuckles before coming into briefings, or the way she sometimes stares off in the middle of a conversation, like she’s calculating five ways to kill someone using only the cup of coffee going cold in her hands.

It’s even harder when she won’t tell you anything. So you do what you probably shouldn’t. You snoop. Not in a spy thriller way. No hacking into mainframes or dramatic rooftop chases, just checking her badge scans, watching her body language, tracking the patterns in her absences. And when the pieces start clicking together, when you see the same coordinates pop up again and again, something shifts in your gut. Because wherever she’s going…it’s not about trade. 

You follow her one night. Just once. Just to make sure she’s safe. But that’s the night everything went sideways. There was gunfire and shouting. Meanwhile, you’re hiding behind an overturned crate, praying you don’t die because you didn’t listen to the one rule: don’t get involved. 

That’s the night you met him. James Buchanan Barnes. He doesn’t introduce himself, obviously–he’s a little busy tossing a Flag Smasher into a stack of shipping containers like he’s playing dodgeball with human beings. You only recognize him from photos and footage. The vibranium arm kind of gives him away. Also, the glaring. So much glaring.

You’re frozen behind a crate, heart pounding, too terrified to move, too stupid to run, which is exactly why one of the Flag Smashers spots you. You duck, but it’s too late. He’s sprinting toward you, and you’re trying to remember anything from that one self-defense course you were forced to take at the beginning of your time in the C.I.A., when someone grabs the back of your jacket and yanks you backwards like a sack of groceries. 

“Stay down,” a voice growls–gritty, low, and very, very pissed. 

You look up into sharp blue eyes and a scowl carved out of years of trauma. “What–”

Before you had the chance to piece words together, Bucky Barnes is already gone again, charging into the fray like a human wrecking ball. You’re left sprawled behind a wall, heart hammering in your chest, adrenaline buzzing in your fingertips. 

That was how it felt to break every rule in your career in one night.

When the dust settles, Sharon finds you. She’s bleeding from her shoulder and furious in that quiet, clipped way she gets when she’s too tired to yell but too mad not to say something. “You followed me.”

“Technically, I saved you.”

Sharon scoffs, eyes flicking over you like she’s deciding whether or not to punch you. “You saved me?”

“I distracted the guy. He almost took Bucky’s head off.”

She pauses. “You know who that was?”

You roll your eyes at the question. “I’m not an idiot. Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers, the arm, the serum. I connect dots for a living.”

Sharon crosses her arms. “You can’t tell anyone what you saw tonight.”

You cross yours right back. “I want in.”

Which is how you end up, two days later, standing awkwardly near a coffee machine in a makeshift safe house, wondering how you got roped into the most dysfunctional after-action report on Earth. Sam is talking with his hands. Sharon is pacing. Bucky is slouched in a chair in the corner, glaring into his cup like the liquid inside it personally insulted him.

You’re trying to mind your business. Really, you are. But something about Bucky Barnes’ silence is loud. It’s not just the brooding, it’s the judgment. You can feel it across the room, pointed directly at you like a sniper scope. 

Eventually, he speaks, voice flat and cold. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He finally looks up, expression unreadable but sharp around the edges. “You followed someone into an active op without backup, weapons, or training. You think that’s brave? It’s reckless…and stupid.”

His words hang in the air like smoke. Sharon sighs but doesn’t intervene. You set your coffee down. “I didn’t exactly have time to enroll in Avengers Academy before the bullets started flying.”

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place,” he insists. 

“I was trying to help.”

Bucky scoffs, muttering, “yeah, well, next time try helping from behind a desk.”

The burn hits. Hard. It shouldn’t, but it does. Because maybe you don’t have combat experience, or a vibranium arm, or a legacy that spans over seventy years like he does, but you do have instincts. And heart. And you’re sick of people treating you like you’re fragile just because you’re not wearing tactical gear. 

So before you can stop yourself, you cross your arms and fire back. “Oh, Buck off, will you?”

The room goes still. Bucky lowers his cup slowly, his brow furrowed like he’s not sure he heard right. “Did you just–”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “Buck. Off.”

He stares at you for a long moment, jaw working like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed or impressed. Then, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and gives you a look so unamused it might be classified as a war crime against humor. “Really? That’s what we’re doing now?”

You shrug. “You walked right into it, Buck.” 

He lets out the longest, most exhausted sigh known to man, shaking his head. “I fought in a way, survived HYDRA, got blipped out of existence, and somehow, this is what I get for surviving it all.”

Sam bursts into laughter. Sharon tries to hide her smirk behind her hand. And you? You take a long, satisfied sip of your coffee. Later, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, you catch Bucky half-smiling into his cup like he’s almost forgiven you for existing. 

The shift is subtle at first. You’re still technically the outsider, no super serum, no wings, no shady government past, but after a week of close quarters and several heated strategy debates, you find your rhythm. Sam calls it chaos with purpose, Sharon calls it tolerable, Bucky doesn’t call it anything, but he stops flinching every time you walk into the room, so you’ll count that as progress. 

One morning over rationed protein bars and stale coffee, Sam nudges Bucky with his elbow and grins. “Still can’t believe you let her call you ‘Buck.’” Bucky’s chewing, slow and silent, but you don’t miss the way his eye twitches. Sam presses on. “I call you ‘Buck,’ you threaten to break my fingers. She calls you ‘Buck,’ and you smirk like she invented sarcasm.”

“I did not smirk,” Bucky says flatly. 

You raise an eyebrow. “You kinda did.” 

Sam slaps the table. “Exactly! And I’ve known this guy for years. Years!”

By the second week, you’re tagging along on recon runs. Your Madripoor connections come in handy. Grease-stained club owners, quiet couriers, shady tech dealers who trust your face more than they do a man with a metal arm. You translate coded whispers and identify subtle shifts in loyalty long before the others catch on. You’re not a soldier, but you are something else. Useful. 

Bucky pretends to be annoyed. “You’re loud,” he says one afternoon, watching you bribe a bouncer for intel. 

You cringe. “You’re broody.” He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t argue either. 

The real turning point comes during a supply drop gone wrong. Three ambushers. Close quarters. Sam is airborne, Sharon is pinned, you and Bucky are on the ground. One attacker comes up behind him. You don’t hesitate, you pull the knife from your boot that Sharon insisted you carry just in case, and bury it in the guy’s side. Bucky spins, catching the body before it hits the ground. His eyes meet yours, wide, surprised, grateful. 

“You okay?” you ask, panting.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You barely make it back to the safe house before the arguing starts. Sam hits the ground, keeping stride with his wings still folding down as he rounds on Bucky. “You wanna explain what that was?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer. He just peels off his jacket like it’s the most important task in the world. 

“I saw the footage,” Sam continues, gesturing toward Redwing, who’s docked in a corner like a smug little drone. “You were this close–this close–to getting stabbed. And who bailed you out? Not me. Not Sharon. Her.”

You try to fade into the background. You’ve mastered this particular tactic. Blend into the walls, sip your water, pretend not to exist. It doesn’t work this time, though.

Sharon tosses her jacket on a crate and levels you with a look. “You carry that knife like you’ve done it before.”

You blink. “I mean, you said to keep it on me.” 

“Yeah, for self-defense. Not for saving the goddamn Winter Soldier.”

“She didn’t even hesitate,” Sam adds, eyes darting between the two of you. “Like she knew he wouldn’t be watching his six.”

Bucky finally speaks, voice low. “She did well.” You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

Sharon notices, of course, she does. “Oh no,” she says under her breath, grabbing a first aid kit but not breaking eye contact with you. “Absolutely not.”

You frown. “What?”

“That,” she says, pointing vaguely between you and Bucky. “Whatever that is.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sharon hums, snapping on gloves. 

Bucky sits on the edge of a crate, adjusting the bandage on his shoulder, pretending he’s above it all, but his ears are pink. 

Sam snorts. “So let me get this straight, I call him ‘Buck,’ and it’s a federal offense. She stabs a guy once, and suddenly he’s a poet about her instincts?”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Sam continues. “You grumbled for three days straight because of the one time she almost got herself killed following Sharon, but when she almost got herself killed saving your ass, you’re all ‘she did good’ like it’s a line from a war diary.”

“I bet he still has his war diary,” you quip.

“Not the point!” Sam interjects. “The point is, if you die, I have to deal with grumpy Barnes again, and no offense, but I like the current level of grumpy just fine.” You can’t help but smile. And so does Bucky, just barely, but you see it.

Later, when the teasing dies down and Sharon is disinfecting a graze on your arm, she says under her breath, “you like him.”

You sigh. “No.” She raises an eyebrow while dousing your wound with a little more disinfectant than necessary. “Okay, maybe,” you manage to get out while grimacing. 

She doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ She just grins smugly, knowingly. And that’s worse. 

It starts with a call that cuts out mid-transmission. Sharon’s tracker goes dark fifteen minutes into a solo lead she insisted on taking. The safe house goes quiet, too quiet, as Sam scrubs Redwing’s last feed frame by frame. 

“She’s gone,” he states finally, jaw tight. “They planned this.”

You and Bucky exchange a look. You’re already moving before anyone gives the order. 

Madripoor is darker tonight. Meaner. You navigate back alleys and coded passphrases while Bucky stalks behind you like a shadow, silent but coiled. You know the look in his eyes. It’s the same one he wore the night you met, only sharper now, more brittle. 

You’re halfway through interrogating a guard when it happens. The crowd parts just enough for you to see who’s on the opposite end of the street, flanked by two other operatives and wearing that god-awful knockoff of a symbol you no longer trust. 

John Walker.

You feel Bucky freeze beside you. His breath comes out hard, his shoulders square. Every muscle in his body locks up like a loaded weapon. “Bucky,” you whisper. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late. Walker sees him and smirks. That was the match to the flame. Bucky lunges.

It takes everything you have to catch up, to push through the crowd, shouting his name, shoving yourself between his body and Walker’s like a human buffer. Walker steps back, smug and satisfied, letting the chaos erupt around him like some twisted sport. 

“Bucky!” you snap, grabbing his left arm. He shoves you off without thinking, sending you flying into a wall. His eyes are wild, frantic. You take a breath, bracing against the pain in your shoulder where you hit the wall, then step back into his space again. “Buck,” you say, louder this time. Nothing. 

So you do something rash, something stupid. You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart, and press. “Hey,” you say, firm but not unkind. “It’s me. I need you to come back to me. Now, Buck.”

He blinks a few times, and his jaw unclenches. The seconds drag, but finally his fists loosen and Bucky Barnes returns to himself, though Walker is already long gone. 

You find Sharon two hours later, bruised but alive, in a shipping container turned holding cell. She gives you a once-over when you cut the lock and heave the door open without help from the super soldier watching your six. 

“What took you so long?”

You glance back at Bucky, who’s watching you like you hung the stars. “Got a little sidetracked.”

Back at the safe house, Sam and Sharon disappear into a conversation about John Walker’s relation to the Flag Smashers, but Bucky lingers outside the doorway, like he’s debating something. You find him leaning on the wall with the kind of heaviness that doesn’t just come from battle. You join him without a word, and that’s when he speaks first. 

“I saw red.”

You nod. “I know.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” he admits. “Not until…It was almost like…”

“Until you heard me,” you finish.

Bucky nodded, going silent for a beat. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” he says quietly. 

“I didn’t do anything special,” you reply. 

He turns his head, just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah, you did.” The wind shifts. Somewhere beyond, Madripoor simmers, but here, it’s just the two of you and a truth too fragile to break. “I don’t know what I’m doing most days,” he shares. “Feels like I’m just…waiting for something to go wrong so I can blame myself for it.” Your heart aches at the honesty in his voice, at how small it sounds coming from someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like…possibility.”

You don’t say anything right away. You simply reach out, tentative yet steady, and let your fingers brush his. He doesn’t pull away. 

It didn't take long until the moment was ruined. Sam slams the door to the safehouse shut and turns on Bucky, eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?” Bucky doesn’t answer. “Don’t make me say it twice,” Sam growls. “You lost it. In public. In front of Walker. You know what that looks like?”

Your stomach knots. You try to step in. “Sam, he just–”

“I’m not talking to you,” Sam cuts in sharply, not mean but not soft either. “You’re a civilian asset. You don’t get to be a part of this conversation. That’s half the problem.” Bucky’s jaw clenches. 

Sam doesn’t let up. “You’re already skating on thin ice with the U.S. government, and now you've got footage showing you lunging at a government-assigned, albeit a knockoff, Captain America while endangering a civilian on foreign soil. You think they’re gonna look at the context?”

Bucky finally speaks. “He was baiting me.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. He was. And you bit.” There was a long pause. Sam exhales. “I’m not saying you were wrong, but this thing we’re trying to build? It only works if we’re not giving them excuses to shut us down.” He looks at you then. “And you, you’re valuable. But if something happened to you tonight, it wouldn’t just be a loss. It’d be a scandal. You get that right?” You swallow hard, guilt settling in. You do get it, all of it. 

The next day. Sharon pulls you aside. “This isn’t personal,” she starts, which is how you know it absolutely is. 

You’re still bruised, exhausted, and blood dried under your nails from the ambush. “You’re benching me?”

“I’m pulling you out of the front lines. For your sake, and ours.” Her tone is clipped. Final. “You’re being reassigned. You’ll get a new ID and a new post in D.C.”

“You’re exiling me.”

“I’m protecting you.” Her eyes soften, just slightly. “And maybe giving a certain super soldier with a staring problem some time to realize what he’s losing out on.”

You freeze. “What?” Sharon just smirks. “No. Absolutely not,” you mutter. But you’re already packing and shipping out two days later. 

D.C. is cold in a sterile kind of way. The office is quieter, the suits blander, and the coffee weaker. You file reports, write threat analyses, and review flagged footage from Madripoor like it’s someone else’s war. 

Every once in a while, you catch yourself wondering where they are. If Sam’s suit still squeaks when he moves. If Sharon finally cleaned that one knife she always uses. If Bucky…is still pretending not to brood. 

You’re in the middle of one such thought, halfway through a boring intel summary, when someone knocks on the glass wall of your office. You glance up and your jaw nearly drops. 

“Hey,” Bucky greets, hands in his pockets, smiling sheepishly while leaning against the doorframe.

“What the hell are you doing in a C.I.A. office?”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d stop by. You missed out on all the action.”

You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “And?”

“And…” he steps inside, voice softening. “Maybe I was wrong. About you being behind a desk. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look good behind it. Very intimidating. But…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. For before. For snapping at you. For not trusting you sooner. You saved my life, and I treated you like you were just some liability. That was unfair.”

You sit forward, resting your forearms on the surface of your desk. “You feeling okay?”

Bucky chuckles, looking away from you. “Don’t make me regret this.” When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You helped me. More than I probably deserved. So, thanks.”

You look at him for a long moment, then grin. “Are you going to cry in my office?”

“Oh, Buck off,” he mutters. You burst out laughing. “You want to get dinner?” Bucky asks, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just blow into your little office like a hurricane and drop apologies and thanks like landmines. 

You stare him down, trying to figure out if this is some sick joke he’s playing. “Like…dinner dinner?”

He shrugs again, hands still in his pockets. “Yeah. You know, food, sitting, maybe fewer life-threatening situations this time.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “You do realize I work for the C.I.A., right?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky hums. 

“And you’re still technically an unstable asset who goes rogue more often than he follows protocol.”

“I’m improving,” he states. 

“Barely. You’re still on half a dozen watchlists.”

“Only the interesting ones.”

You tilt your head. “Buck.”

“What?”

“You’re a walking liability.”

His lips pull into a sly grin. “And you’re still considering it.”

You sigh, dramatically. “Maybe I’ll get dinner with you when you’re not a threat to national security and my employment.”

He leans forward, resting his palms on the edge of your desk. “So…I’m hearing I’ve got time to prep then.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “Charming.”

“I meant it,” he says. “You make things feel less like punishment.”

You study him for a long moment. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my office.”

He starts backing away, pausing at the door. “Soon, though. Dinner.”

“Only if you promise not to bring Sharon or Sam.”

He smirks. “Only if you promise not to stab anyone this time.” And with that, he’s gone. Footsteps fading down the hall, tension lingering like static in the air. 

Maybe this desk job wasn’t so bad after all.

Autoplay: If you like this, you may also like [2:39pm] Bucket - B.Barnes

[zablife]

Good Company

Carmen Berzatto x reader

Summary: You've injured yourself on the line and though you try to hide the pain, Carm's there to console you.

A/N: It's been a minute since I wrote for Carm, but this was requested by a lovely anon and I couldn't resist writing it first out of all my new requests. Prompt: "Sit down, you're looking very pale."

Warnings: mention of blood

Carm slouched forward, his aching shoulders rolling forward in repose as he took a long drag. Instantly comforted by the warm smoke filling his lungs, he closed his eyes for a moment, forgetting where he was. The bustling atmosphere of the kitchen could wait, he told himself, forgetting the chaos on the line for a minute of peace.

That is until he heard the heavy metal door slam shut behind him, alerting him to someone likely bearing news of a new crisis. Exhaling a stream of smoke into the starless sky, he crushed his unfinished smoke beneath the toe of his boot and pushed himself up off the ground. "What the fuck is it now?" he spat.

The toss of his head and roll of his eyes caused you to gulp and cautioned you to keep your problems to yourself. Suddenly realizing how insignificant it seemed, you did your best to hide the issue from him.

Just then Carm registered your ashen face in profile. It might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, your features partially hidden in shadow, but Carm noticed everything about you. Since you'd begun working for him two months ago, he'd become so enamored of you, he couldn't help but watch your every movement.

"Wait a second," he blurted, the words barely pushing past his lips. He deeply regretted his bad tempered response, the sharp reply meant for Ritchie had kept you from confiding in him and that wasn't what he wanted. "You...um,...you, okay, Y/n?" he asked, knowing you weren't.

"I'm fine," you mumbled, hand throbbing even as you spoke. You tried to conceal the evidence of your injury in the folds of your apron, but Carm spotted your movement with hawk like precision.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, craning his neck to see the mess you'd tried to hide.

"It's just a cut, chef. I can handle it," you promised, a dulcet tone belying the fear clutching your heart as you grew woozy. Legs buckling slightly beneath you, Carm rushed to hold you up.

"Sit down, you're looking very pale," he informed you, the gentle tone of his voice soothing you. His strong arms encased you before you fell head first into the bins and he gently guided you to sit on the overturned milk crates. The empathetic expression radiating from his blue eyes told you all would be well, but your disquieted mind refused to accept it.

Carm only needed a single glance at your unfocused eyes to realize you could be going into shock. He sprung into action, fumbling for your arm until the trickles of blood ran over his hands in silent admission. "M gonna get you to a doctor, okay? This needs stitches," he informed you with as much calm as he could muster. "Is that okay?"

You nodded, but didn't speak as he worked to compress the wound.

"Whatsa matter? Never seen a little blood before?" he joked with a lopsided grin.

"Never cut myself," you confessed, biting your lip anxiously.

"Not through school or nothin'?" Carm asked incredulously.

"Guess I've been lucky," you answered, returning his warmth with a weak smile.

"This shit happens all the time," he assured you, holding up his left hand to reveal a long scar carved into his palm. "Welcome to the club," he chuckled.

"Then I'm in good company," you agreed, leaning against his broad shoulder as he ushered you to his car.

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

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[heyitspapayaontop]

Oh, Amore...

Request: 🌺 (But Kimi version!)

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x WEC Driver!reader

Themes: Minor angst with fluff (againnn!!)

Warnings: Ferrari winning Le Mans <3 (CADILLAC PLEASE WIN THIS YEAR.)

Summary: Losing Le Mans wasn't supposed to happen. So Kimi cuts his weekend short to go help you.

A/N: imma move this up here. Kimi looks so cute in the first pic

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

The night air in Le Mans tasted like disappointment.

You didn’t even make it past the garage. Still half-zipped out of your fireproofs, knees pulled to your chest while you sat on an overturned pit box crate. The Cadillac crew tiptoed around you, eyes low. You could still hear the roar of Ferrari’s champagne-soaked celebration from the podium.

But you didn’t make the call until later. Until you were alone. Until the ache in your chest cracked wide open and spilled down your cheeks.

It rang once.

Then twice.

And then Kimi answered.

He sounded tired—post-quali tired—but the second he heard you sniffle, the edge in his voice softened instantly.

“Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong, amore?”

“I lost,” you whispered. “They passed us in the last ten minutes. Ferrari. They won.”

Kimi didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed gently into the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you said, so quiet he almost missed it.

“No. Don’t do that.” His voice was firmer now, protective. “You drove Le Mans. You led Le Mans. You don’t get to say sorry for being brilliant.”

You wiped at your cheeks. “And it’s not fair.”

“It never is,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t change what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Mine,” he said simply. “And the best damn driver in that field.”

That’s when your voice cracked fully, and Kimi knew. He knew you didn’t just need his voice. You needed him.

So he made a few calls. Told Toto he wasn’t missing a thing. Took the overnight flight from Montreal and didn’t even stop at the hotel. Straight to the track, still in his team hoodie, eyes rimmed red from no sleep.

When you saw him, you didn’t even move. You just stared, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“…Kimi?”

He nodded once. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

You stood slowly, unsure if you were dreaming.

Then you crashed into him like the checkered flag itself.

He held you close, hands spread wide across your back, his chin tucked into your hair like he’d been waiting for this all day.

You sniffled. “You missed your race weekend.”

“You needed me,” he said. “And I needed to see you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still shiny. “You always know.”

“I know you,” he said softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

He pressed his lips to yours. Not hungry with desire, but gentle.

Against your lips he whispered, “Come on, Amore. Let's go to the hotel, okay?”

You were too tired to tell him no. Not like you would have. So you nodded and he took your hand as he led you to the car.

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

The next morning, he slipped out the room carefully. He walked to the kitchen of the fancy hotel room and thought for a moment.

Finally, he looked over at you and smiled sadly. He grabbed his keys, threw on his shoes and walked out the door.

: - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - : - :

An hour later, he came home with a paper bag of groceries.

He set it down before closing the room door so you wouldn't wake up.

After, went back to the kitchen and took out a knife and a wooden cutting board as he chopped the basil. He threw it in a bowl with eggs, whipping cream, salt, and pepper. He turned on the mixer and left it while he turned to the stove with a pan.

The wrapper of butter crinkled as he opened is and cut some off to spread it on the pan, looking over at the door to make sure you hadn't come out yet.

The Italian stopped the mixer and poured it onto the pan, his eyes focused.

Kimi covered it and watched it.

You walked out the room quietly, Kim's hoodie on with sweatpants that weren't dirty. You saw your boyfriend cooking and smiled tiredly. Walking over, your hands slid around his torso as you hugged him from behind.

He jumped a bit, but once he felt your head resting on his shoulder he smiled and relaxed.

“Morning, Amore.” Kimi whispered.

In response you mumbled, “Morning, Drea.”

After a few moments he took the lid off the pan and grabbed a plate without moving his feet so you wouldn't have to walk around. He took a spatula and took the frittata off and plated it.

“Come on, Amore, I made breakfast.” He said, tugging your hands toward the couch.

Once he sat down, he pulled you into his lap.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still shitty, but a bit better because a certain little pizza boy made me food.” You smirked. He chuckled.

And all started to feel okay again.

[lanalosty0uu]

⋆.˚ chapter iii: west end girls; east end boys ᝰ.ᐟ

previously on: 🕰️ BACK TO THE FUTURE 🕰️ He glanced at the customers next to you before turning back his attention to you.

“Go to the back, Robin’s there, just tell her I told you to get inside.” He simply said before fully turning his attention back to the customers.

⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.⊹₊ˎˊ˗

main masterlist | general masterlist

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.⊹₊ˎˊ˗ ⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.⊹₊ˎˊ˗ ⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊

The backroom of Scoops Ahoy was cramped and cluttered, boxes of waffle cones and tubs of ice cream stacked against the walls. You paced back and forth, clutching the pocket watch that you figured still stayed on your pocket like it was your lifeline. Steve and Robin sat on overturned crates, watching her warily.

“I don’t know how to explain this,” You began, yourvoice shaky. “I was in my room... y'know, my normal, 21st-century room, and then, suddenly, I woke up here. Still in Hawkins, but in 1985.”

Steve snorted, crossing his arms. “Right. Time travel. Totally believable.”

Robin leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. “So… you’re saying this watch did it? What, it just zapped you here?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed, holding up the vintage pocket watch. It gleamed faintly under the dim light, its intricate engravings catching their eyes. “I don’t know how it works, but it glowed, it vibrated—and then I was here. It’s not normal.”

Robin took the watch, turning it over in her hands. “It’s definitely old, I’ll give you that. But time travel? Come on.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m gonna go with ‘she hit her head and dreamed all this up.’”

You glared at him, your frustration mounting. “I’m not crazy! This thing brought me here, and I need to figure out how to get back.” You reached for the watch, your fingers trembling. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

But when you tried to demonstrate, the watch did nothing. It lay dormant in your hands, its glow gone. Robin sighed, her skepticism returning, while Steve muttered something about wasted time.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆. 𐙚 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆. 𐙚 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪₊‧ 𐙚 ⋅⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆. 𐙚 

Back in the main area of Scoops Ahoy, you sat in a corner booth, defeated. You rested your head in your hands, watching as Robin and Steve whispered behind the counter. Their skepticism stung, but you couldn’t blame them. Your story sounded insane, even to them.

Determined to prove herself, you began listening to conversations around her, chiming in with tidbits about the future. You overheard two girls debating whether Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was his best work.

“You know he’s gonna release ‘Bad’ in a few years, right?” You blurted out.

The girls gave you a confused look before walking away. Robin and Steve exchanged glances, clearly noticing.

“Or how about this?” You continued, her voice growing louder. “The Berlin Wall? That’s coming down before the ’90s. And don’t even get me started on the internet.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s…specific. How would you know that?”

Steve shrugged, leaning on the counter. “Lucky guess. Doesn’t mean she’s from the future.”

You sighed, slumping in your seat. You stared at the pocket watch, your fingers brushing over the engravings. “Why won’t you work?” you whispered, as if it would hear you and take you home.

The door to Scoops Ahoy swung open with a bang, making you jumped out of your chair. A curly haired boy wearing a hat blasted inside the room, a grin on his face and a walkie-talkie in his hand. “Steve! Robin! You won’t believe what Suzie just told me-” He froze mid-sentence, noticing you sitting in the booth.

“Uh, who’s that?” Dustin asked, pointing at her.

You felt like staring to that boy for a little bit too long. You didn't know was it just you, or his face actually seemed familiar.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Meet y/n. She thinks she’s from the future.”

Dustin’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Wait, future? Like, time travel?”

Robin smirked. “Yep. Crazy, right?”

"Hello? Earth to Ms. Future?" Steve waved his hand in front of your face, making you snap back to reality, just the right time when you finally recognize the curly haired boy completely.

"Are you... Dustin Henderson?"

Your question made Robin and Steve gave you a confused look, while Dustin just stared at you in shock.

"You... know my name?"

"Yeah... I recognize you!"

You began telling him that he's a well known scientist from the US, his name spreading out through the social medias. Not many people invented much great things in 2025 and just publish it regularly like Dustin does. You told him about one of his inventions that actually caught your eye, despite on you didn't even study about any science-y things back in school since you're picked all the social subjects.

“Okay, that’s freaky. How’d you know about that? I only sketched that out in my notebook last week!”

This revelation catches Steve’s attention. Though still skeptical, he begins to consider the possibility that you might be telling the truth. Robin remains doubtful but agrees to let you stay and explain herself further.

Ignoring them, Dustin walked over to you, pulling out a chair. “Alright, let’s hear it. What’s your story, future girl?”

You hesitated before launching into her explanation again. This time, Dustin listened intently, nodding along as you spoke. Well, at least someone's listening, you thought.

The air in the backroom grew heavy as the pocket watch began to glow faintly, its vibrations growing stronger. Y/N gasped, clutching it tightly as the glow intensified.

“It’s happening again,” Y/N said, her voice trembling. “It’s trying to pull me back.”

Dustin scrambled to write down observations, while Robin and Steve exchanged panicked looks.

“What do we do?” Robin asked.

“We figure it out before she disappears,” Dustin said firmly. “If we don’t, she might be gone for good—or worse, something might come through instead.”

Steve placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, his voice softening. “You’re not doing this alone. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆. 𐙚 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆. 𐙚 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪₊‧ 𐙚 ⋅⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆. 𐙚 

As the neon glow of Starcourt Mall dims into the night, you stand uncertainly outside Scoops Ahoy, your grip tightening on the pocket watch as Dustin rambles on about running tests on it. He’s practically bouncing with excitement, clutching his bike handles as he insists on taking it back to his “lab”, or just a cluttered setup in his basement. Robin, still unconvinced of your story, reluctantly agrees to tag along, muttering about needing to keep Dustin from “accidentally inventing a time machine.”

Your stomach felt like twisting itself. The 80s feel overwhelming, with its unfamiliar clothes, slang, and technology, and the skeptical looks Robin keeps shooting you isn't really helping. Steve notices your hesitation and offers a lopsided grin, shrugging off his Scoops Ahoy jacket to drape it over her shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” he says with an easy confidence. “We’ll figure this out. But first, let’s make sure you don’t look like you’re from outer space.”

note: hey my loves! it's been days since my last update... this one is a pretty slow chapter, but i promise the next chapters will be more exciting since that's when the adventure's gonna start for real! anyways, enjoy this chapter and i'll update more in probs 4-5 days so i hope you'll look forward to it <3

taglist: @xprloki @pupwrites @gorlillaglue25 @lovestrucklyuniverse @keerysfolklore @www-interludeshadow-com @pleasantsoulcolor @mochminnie @steviespookie @damon-loves-pie @imjustdreamingig @starkleila @2602moon @negomi123 @currentresidentinhell @ucannotcompare if there's anyone who wants to be tag as well, feel free to ask <3

[jessesluvr]

any thoughts on getting high with Jesse?

smoke break | jesse x reader

author's note : hi ! take care of yourselves guys !! drink water and eat well ! love you all bunches ! <3

summary : you and jesse sneak off after patrol to get high in an old shed, sharing laughs, smoke, and quiet confessions under the stars. what starts as a harmless escape turns into something tender, as jesse admits he feels safest with you—and kisses you like he means it.

word count : 1k

the wind’s died down by the time you reach the old shed behind the greenhouse. it’s not exactly hidden, but no one really uses it anymore—not since the garden team got that new storage hut closer to the fence. you figured it’d be a good spot. jesse had agreed.

the sky above jackson is a haze of pink and navy, stars just starting to peek through, and your breath clouds faintly in the air. you shove your hands deeper into your jacket pockets and glance over your shoulder.

jesse trails behind you with that lazy, crooked grin of his, the kind that usually gets him out of trouble. “you sure no one saw us?”

you shrug. “you’re the one who said we should be sneaky about it.”

“i said quiet, not full-on ‘ocean’s eleven’,” he teases, pushing the shed door open with a rusty creak. “you practically ducked behind a crate.”

“i didn’t want to get caught with the town’s golden boy and a joint. maria would have my ass.”

he snorts. “you think i’m the golden one? sweetheart, i’ve been suspended from patrol more times than i can count.”

you raise an eyebrow, but follow him inside. it smells like old soil, dust, and cedarwood. you flop onto an overturned bucket while jesse digs into his backpack and pulls out a weathered tin. inside are several carefully rolled joints, neatly arranged.

“jesus,” you murmur. “planning a party?”

he smirks. “i like to be prepared.”

“you’re a damn boy scout.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment.”

he lights one, the flame briefly illuminating his face—sharp jaw, soft mouth, the curve of his lashes. you try not to stare. it’s hard not to. jesse’s always been easy to look at. easy to listen to. easy to like.

he holds the joint between two fingers and offers it to you first. you hesitate for a beat before taking it, brushing your fingers against his. the warmth of his skin lingers.

you take a slow drag. it burns a little, then warms you from the inside out. you exhale softly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

“this is nice,” you say, voice lighter.

jesse sits down beside you, legs stretched out, body relaxed. “better than patrol?”

you glance at him. “a million times.”

“better than kitchen duty?”

“absolutely.”

“better than… any moment that doesn’t involve you?”

your eyes flick to his, but he’s looking away now, playing it off. still—his words buzz under your skin more than the weed does.

he takes the joint back from you and leans against the wall. “you ever think about how weird this is?”

“getting high in a random shed?”

he laughs. “no, i mean… just existing. here. in this world. and somehow still doing normal shit.”

you think about it. “weird. but also kind of… comforting? like the world hasn’t taken everything from us.”

he hums. “yeah. like it’s okay to breathe for a sec.”

you don’t say anything for a while. the silence between you is soft—not heavy, not awkward. just easy.

jesse offers the joint again and your fingers touch. his linger this time.

you meet his gaze. “you’re real quiet all of a sudden.”

he shrugs, looking thoughtful. “i think i like you high. you let your guard down a little.”

you blink, heart skipping. “i wasn’t aware my guard was that up.”

“oh, it’s up, alright,” he says, amused. “but i don’t mind climbing over it.”

you laugh, cheeks flushing.

then, “why’d you ask me to come tonight?” you ask.

he glances at you, a little startled. “you wanna know the honest answer?”

“always.”

he licks his lips, then exhales slowly. “because when i was thinking about who i wanted to share this with… who i’d feel safe around, and who might actually enjoy it instead of pretending not to… your face came to mind. and didn’t leave.”

you blink. that buzz under your skin returns, full force.

“i’m not always the easiest person to read,” you admit. “but you make me feel safe, too.”

he smiles, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “that’s good. i wanna keep being that person for you.”

you pass the joint back, but this time your hand rests beside his on the floor. neither of you move away.

“you’re high,” you murmur. “and a little sappy.”

“i’m always sappy when i’m with you,” he admits, unbothered.

your heart stutters. “then kiss me.”

he pauses, eyes widening just a little—like he wasn’t expecting you to say it. but he doesn’t ask again. doesn’t check twice. he leans in.

the kiss is soft. warmer than you expected. it tastes like smoke, mint gum, and something unmistakably him. you melt into it, letting your fingers curl in the fabric of his sleeve, and jesse’s hand comes up to cradle the side of your face.

when you pull away, your eyes remain closed for a second longer than necessary.

“still high?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

you hum. “yeah. but i’d want to kiss you even if i wasn’t.”

that gets a grin. “good to know.”

he shifts, wrapping an arm behind your back and pulling you closer until your head’s against his shoulder. the shed is quiet. cozy. safe.

“stay here with me for a bit?” he asks.

“thought you’d never ask.”

and so you do. you stay until the stars are bright and the cold creeps in through the cracks in the wood, both of you too blissed out to care. jesse's hoodie is warm around your shoulders. his fingers trace lazy shapes over your knee. you don’t say much after that—words aren’t really needed.

for once, there’s nothing to run from. no alarms. no infected. just the steady rhythm of his breath next to yours, and the knowledge that, yeah, the world’s still broken—but this moment isn’t.

[400badrequest]

CHAPT FIVE: no crying in the walk-in | Mikey Berazatto x F!Reader

SUMMARY: The meat guy is a fucking asshole. Mikey picks you over the high of winning a fight.

CW: age gap. Canon typical anger

WORD COUNT: 857

A/N: i know i know it's sort. The next one is NOTABLY younger. This is more of a character reflection. Also! I've mentally nicknamed reader as "Spice" - yknow, because of Sugar? Anyway, if anyone wants to come yell at me abt it, that's her name :3

The fight happens fast.

You’re not a yeller. You’re not like Richie - don’t bark or flail or puff up when shit goes sideways. But you’re sharp. Precise. Like a scalpel instead of a bat. And today? You’re all fucking edges.

The meat guy - Tony, or Tommy, or one of those greasy T names - thought he could slide in some bullshit chuck cuts and skirt steak into the order, label it as sirloin, and pocket the difference. Maybe it would’ve worked with someone else. But not with you. Not after Mikey taught you how to look - really look - at the grain, the fat cap, the marbling. Not after he made you touch it, feel the difference between muscle and sinew with your fingers, because that shit mattered if you were gonna run point on purchasing.

You’d hated it, back then. Claimed it was gross. Still grimaced when things were too raw. But you’d learned.

And today, when the delivery came in, you took one look at the vac-sealed tray and fucking snapped.

"You’re charging me sirloin rates for off-cut garbage,” you’d said, voice low and dangerous. “Are you high or just hoping I’m stupid?”

The guy laughed. Wrong move.

Mikey only caught the end of it - enough to hear you say, flat and furious, “You try and cheat us again, I’ll call every other restaurant you deliver to and tell them you’re moving dead product. You’ll be selling street meat off a food truck by Thursday.”

The meat guy left white-faced and humiliated.

Mikey beamed.

But when he went looking for you to do the victory lap, you weren’t in the office. Or the prep line. Or even the bathroom.

He finds you in the walk-in.

You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, hood up. Not crying. Just... still. Breathing in short, controlled bursts like your own pulse is trying to shake you out of yout body.

“Hey,” he says, soft, stepping in and pulling the door shut behind him. “You freezing your tits off for fun or...?”

You don't look at him. “Cold calms me down.”

He watches you for a second. The slight tremble in your fingers. The faint pink on your nose. How small you look in here, huddled up like you’re waiting out a storm. He’s pretty sure you’re lying.

You don't do calm. You do containment.

“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it. “You know this thing’s kept at, like, thirty-eight degrees, right? This isn’t a spa.”

You shrug. “Better than yelling. I wanted to hit him.”

“You should���ve hit him,” he grins. “Goddamn. I was ready to throw you a parade. That was savage.”

You finally glances at him. “He was trying to rip us off.”

“Yeah. And you nailed him to the fuckin’ wall. It was beautiful.”

You huff, fringe fluttering. “I didn’t like feeling that angry.”

Mikey leans against the shelves across from you, arms crossed. Watches you like he’s trying to solve a riddle written on your skin.

“Y’know,” he says slowly, “you’re allowed to get pissed off when someone fucks with you.”

“I don’t like what I do when I get pissed off,” you mutter.

That lands heavier than he expects.

And he gets it. Christ, does he get it.

That’s the thing about rage - it feels good until it doesn’t. Until you’re shaking in a walk-in fridge because you didn’t trust yourself not to go too far.

He doesn’t push. Just shifts closer, squats down beside you so he’s not looming.

“You did good,” he says, quiet now. “You protected the place. Protected us. That’s your job. You did it.”

You nod, but it’s tight. Like you’re holding something down with both hands.

He remembers this one summer - one of the ones when his dad was still around, when Carmy was still toddling about with floaties and he was a year or so out from getting fuzz on his top lip. He’d held a boogie board underwater with both his hands, just to see if he could - it slipped out, because of course it had, and it had clocked him right in the face. His blood had turned the water rust coloured when he cried and his ma had driven him to the ER with a cigarette in her mouth and a scowl on her face. 

He wonders if this’ll come back out to hit you. If he’ll be the one with the cigarette in his mouth by your side.

He won’t scowl, at least.

He watches a moment longer. Then peels off his hoodie and drops it over your shoulders without comment. You startle a little, but don't hand it back. Just tug it tighter around yourself like you’re not ready to leave the cold yet but maybe don't mind the warmth.

They sit in silence for a while.

Eventually, you say, “You’re not gonna make a joke?”

“Not everything’s a bit.”

“You say that, but...”

He smiles. “You’re scary when you’re mad.”

“I know,” you whisper. Like it’s a bad thing.

He shakes his head, hearing the unsaid. “It’s not.”

He means it.

And maybe - maybe you believe him.

[aurossaga]

We Were Nothing the Wind Couldn't Catch

Venti x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff, Rivals with repressed feelings

Word count: ~ 1.5k

Warnings: None!

Summary: You are an aspiring bard in Mondstadt, trying to get your morning practice in when your greatest rival and constant thorn in your side, Venti, decides to drop by to listen.

The humid morning breeze coming in from Mondstadt’s side gate sent the faintest shiver down your spine, carrying with it the cool scent of Cider Lake. Your leg tapped against the cobblestone in rhythm with the soft, albeit uneven notes of your lyre. You were sat on one of the overturned crates, the ones near where Guy and Hertha is usually stationed, brows furrowed in deep concentration and lips mouthing quiet rhymes as your fingers plucked at the instrument’s unruly strings.

A sour note clanged like nails on a chalkboard.

“You’re flat on the third again,” spoke that annoyingly familiar voice from above you, smooth, casual, and infuriatingly amused. Your fingers stilled as your eye twitched.

“It’s as if you wake up every day with the goal of being more annoying than the last,” you muttered, not even bothering to look up at him. You could tell by the tone of his voice exactly what expression he was wearing anyways. You heard him chuckle.

“Not quite every day,” Venti said, pushing off the stone wall and treading down the adjacent stairs with an even, calm gait. “Sometimes I wake up thinking, how are you going to go about brutalizing a G chord before breakfast?”

You fought back the urge to groan. As per usual, no matter where you set up shop to practice in the morning, the famous bard would find you and would make you want to invent a new insult just for him. “I don’t recall inviting an audience,” you grumbled, voice flat and unreadable.

“Oh, my mistake.” Venti gave a theatrical, over-exaggerated bow, his hand over his heart in a gesture that would have seemed heartfelt if you hadn’t known him as well as you did. “I thought the music was an open invitation, my ears wandered in on their own.”

“Such a shame your ears work so much better than your manners.” You returned your attention to your lyre before he had the chance to retort and further distract you. You let out a short sigh, something almost more akin to growl considering the circumstances, as you began playing again. This time, slower, every last note more crisp and deliberate than earlier. From the corner of your eyes you could see him leaning against the wall next to you, eyeing your hands as you played, gaze occasionally drifting up to your focused expression. His lips parted as he was about to say something, but you cut him off before he had the chance.

“I don’t need your critique.” He laughed a bit in response.

“You do need it,” Venti replied. “You just don’t want it from me.

You arched an eyebrow as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Why are you even here then?”

Venti shrugged, a casual motion to most, but you had started to get the feeling he cared more than he let on. Call it… intuition. “Can’t a fellow bard take an early morning stroll and be tragically assaulted by a poor performace?”

“You followed me.”

“Perhaps I did. Maybe I like the way you play when you think no one’s listening.”

You’re not sure why that startled you. Did he mean for that to come out the way it did…? For the first time since these encounters began, he looked almost serious. But the moment passed like a fleeting breeze. “I mean, there’s a lot of wincing, but it’s very... earnest.”

You stood abruptly, lyre in hand, an uncomfortable red blooming on your cheeks. Definitely from frustration, nothing else. You turned sharply to face him, eyes narrowing as you took in his smug expression. “If you’re going to insult me, at least do it normally and stop dragging it out.”

Venti cocked his head to the side, his eyes softening just a little bit. “I wasn’t insulting you,” he defended, taking a tentative step closer. “You’re close. You’re just… not hearing the shape of the chord.”

You frowned. “The shape? What are you on about?”

Venti moved deliberately, offering you a hand. “May I?”

You hesitated, eyeing the bard warily… but you didn’t move away. And he took it as permission. Slowly, Venti stepped behind you, and you swore you caught the scent of cecilias clinging to his clothes. His hands reached around, delicate fingers faintly brushing yours as he gently repositioned them on the strings of your lyre.

“Your middle finger’s stiff. Relax it,” Venti murmured, his voice much quieter now with how close he was… and how focused he sounded as he calmly guided you. “Press here, and soften the ring finger.”

You didn’t say a word, barely drawing breath as you focused entirely on the gentle pressure of Venti’s hand adjusting yours, the soft warmth of his fingers, and the steadiness of his voice. His thumb ghosted across your wrist as he shifted your position. “Now, play.”

You almost flinched as you were brought back to the moment, your mind forcing itself to ignore the subtle warmth of his chest nearly pressed against your back or the sound of his voice just inches from your ear. You focus up, plucking the strings with surprising clarity. The chord rang out true, clean, bright, and resonant.

“…There,” Venti said softly. “That’s the one.” But he didn’t move away just yet.

Your hands were now frozen, fingers hovering over the strings, trying to commit to memory what he had just taught you. “You’ve never… helped me before.”

“With the way you usually scowl at me? That’s an act of self-preservation.” Venti said, voice low, almost humorous. But not mocking as usual.

You turned your head slightly, meeting Venti’s gaze over your shoulder. There was something unreadable in his expression, something neither of you were completely ready to draw attention to yet.

“I’m not used to you being… sincere.” You admitted, unsure why exactly you were speaking so earnestly to your long-time rival.

The bard let out a sigh, feigning offense. “You wound me. I’m always sincere, you know?”

“...No you’re not.”

“...Alright, perhaps not always.”

You sat there in the tense silence for a moment too many, unable to concentrate on anything but the feel of his gaze on you, not your instrument.

Finally, you very suddenly pulled your hands back out of his loose grip, taking a step forward to put a little distance between you. You ignore the shiver running down your spine.

“I still don’t like you.”

“You don’t have to like me,” Venti said, watching you as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You just have to play that chord right again. And perhaps admit I was right, if the mood strikes.”

You didn’t respond immediately, just eyed your lyre for a second. Your gaze unwillingly drifted back to him, and he was staring right back at you, his eyes softer than usual as he gave you an encouraging nod. You quickly looked back down at your lyre before the warmth rising to your cheeks could take over, positioning your hands just like he instructed earlier. This time, the chord was perfect.

Venti smiled. Not smug, not teasing. Just quiet satisfaction.

“See? You can learn.”

You didn’t look up as you retorted. “I liked you better when you were insulting me.”

“No you didn’t.”

Another chord. Resonant and clear, carried along the breeze. The sound echoed off the stone brick walls, soft yet powerful. Neither of you moved an inch. Venti still stood behind you, gaze intense enough that you could feel it even without looking to check.

“You’re staring,” You accused plainly, but not quite managing to sound as annoyed as you intended. Venti blinked slowly, the usual smirk replaced with something quieter, more subtle. “I’m listening.”

“To what?”

“You,” He said.

That did it. You looked away, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to look at me like that after spending three weeks calling my arpeggios ‘limp.’”

You weren’t quite irritated, even. Not the way you usually are after spending any amount of time around him. You couldn’t quite name this frustrating feeling, or why it made you want to grit your teeth and throw an insult his way. Venti chuckled under his breath. “That was a compliment, in context.”

You turned to look at him, sharp eyes narrowing. “You always do this..! Mock, hover, push just far enough to make me question if I actually hate you or-”

The words caught in your throat. The air changed.

Venti didn’t step forward, but… he didn’t step back either. “Or?” He asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Not with the suffocating silence stretching between you, taut and buzzing like a plucked string. You had clearly slipped, said just a few words more than you intended. More than you expected.

Then, with a quiet groan and a huff, you turned on your heel away from him. “I have to get to the square,” you excused, tightening your grip on the lyre, the sturdy wood of the instrument the only thing grounding you at the moment.

Venti nodded slowly. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to distract you from your work.”

You shot him an incredulous look. As if he hadn’t been doing that all morning… Then, you turned and walked off, back straight, pace brisk as the fall of your steps echoed on the cobblestone paths.

Venti waited until you were gone, then exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. Fingers twitched at his side, like he was still playing an unfinished melody.

“...You play like you mean it. Pity you never speak the same way.”

[evilminji]

I Ponder The Humble Blob Ghost!

You think they are what happens when you ALMOST but not quite A Ghost(tm)? Like, you have the ectoplasm and the will to continue... but you didn't really have A Thing in life? No Final Crystalizing Thought that brings focus? Just "ow! Ah! I'm scared. Don't wanna die!" And theeeeen.... *poof!*

Why am I Orb? Am squish? No bones.

Like? Remove any one piece of the Critical Formula and you get Blob instead of Ghost? Different KINDS, mind you, but blobs none the less.

Like Skulker! Not enough Ectoplasm. Ended up Blob. He CLEARLY had the Will, the Obsession, the gory end and unfinished business... buuuut? No green goo to power the creation of a full body. He clearly knows what he's supposed to LOOK like? But it's not something FIXABLE? Even with his now unlimited access to Ectoplasm.

Like in utero damage that permanently stunted his growth. HE is fine. All his facilities are on-line and checking in as they should, for the level of sentience expected of a ghost of his people. He just... smol. Same strength, intelligence, and power as he would have always HAD...

He just got handed a really, REALLY crap "customize your eternal meatsuit" option screen. Like for real guys. Basicly NO options. His salt is eternal and entirely justified. He could have had his tattoos. He paid a LOT of credits for those! Sat for DAYS! Had to track down this One(1) artist on this SHITTY little trading hub, that BARELY QUALIFIED as one, to sit in on uncomfortable overturned crate... IN A GAS MASK because the AIR SUPPORT KEPT KICKING IT... for hoooours!

It was a WORK OF ART. You would have CRIED.

This is BULLSHIT.

But wait, I hear you say, staring at the Blob ghost chewing on a lamp post. The one that has wii music playing behind the eyes. No thoughts, head jello, one might say. What about THEM?

Good point! Remember that formula?

LOT of Ecto! But THAT... might be either an animal or a fungus. We'd have to check. ANYTHING can and DOES die. If it's alive? It can die and potentially leave a ghost. But! Consider the noble Ghost Rabbit! *holds up squirming rabbit that is ABSOLUTELY trying to both bite me and kick me in the face* A noble and friendly creature!

THIS is what happens when an animal: has sufficient Ectoplasm at the death site, a reason to continue living (fairly common. It's usually their offspring, escape, the instinctual drive to survive itself or other understandable base drives. Like love, loyalty, or hunger.), and that all important High Emotions End.

Miss any of these? You get Blobbertson over there! He's clearly a hungry boy! But! Not very DRIVEN is he? Just floating along, chewing on whatever seems interesting, looking for a snack. He's food motivated. But not MOTIVATED motivated.

Blobbertson over there? A peaceful death. Too much Ectoplasm too leave, too food motivated in life NOT to carry over, but? No DRIVE. To DEFINE and DEMAND the Ectoplasm in his little body become sharp and active. No highly emotional state to stir it into action.

Is Blobbertson INCAPABLE of higher emotions? No. He is every bit as capable as the Ghost Rabbit that has savaged my hands and escaped while you were reading. It was, in fact, NOT as friendly as originally assumed. I may be bleeding. Unimportant. Blobbertson is PERFECTLY capable of getting attached. Being trained.

Whatever level of intelligence Blobbertson had in life, still remains. And WITH that? Comes the ability to improve and grow in death! IF (and this is the big one) he ever finds MOTIVATION to do so.

Because you see, Blobbertson is quite happy. No thoughts, brain jello. Drifting along in a happy green ocean like a jellyfish. Only concerned about his next snack. It's comforting. His food obsession filled, his tiny motivation barely enough to move him place to place.

He would GLADLY sit in one place and eat for the rest of eternity. Head blissfully silent.

And that's OKAY! It truly, honestly, is. Not everyone has to be conquers and kings, crafters and cosmonauts. Sometimes you just want to spend the rest of time playing in the sand. Resting on a sunshine-y hill. Not EVERY soul is a loud one.

This is the INFINITE Realms.

And there are places like Amity Park out there. THICK as cold honey with Ectoplasm in the air, gently infusing all the life that grows there with greater and greater chance of Ghost-hood. Even the peaceful blinking awake after that final rest to look down and... little nubby green paws.

Congratulations on becoming a Blob, grandma! Yes, I imagine you ARE furious it is inordinately difficult to knit like this. No, I don't think complaining to the king will help, MeMa.

That said? I can not tell you if Blob Ghost all belong to the same Family or the same Order, but they are NOT the same species! The WAY in which you fuck up that ever vital Fomula results in WILDLY different Blobs! Was it an animal? A sentient species? A sentient PLANET? A complexe interlocking colony of fungi? What was the EXACT Ectoplasm concentration at the death site? Was that the historical levels or the At Death levels? Was the individual under sedation?

Yes! All of this IS in fact, VERY relevant!

And you think it ends THERE? HA! The SKIES are FILLED with Fighty Mother Fuckers! Ghosts LOVE to fight! It's built into their social dynamics and hierarchy! Good ol brawls to get the Ecto pumping!

......Local Blob Farmer would like to take this moment to say "GET OF HIS GHOST PEONIES, YOU HEATHENS."

No they would NOT like to join your 24/7 thunder dome in the sky, THANKS! Martha here is trying to compose some Atlantian Shell Poetry. Blobby Jr of Blobbington and Blobbington Incorporated is TRYING to study! You've DESTROYED THE COMMUNAL ZEN GARDEN!!

Get! GET!!! *swings broom*

And THEN you look not even a mile east? And it's the floating island of Blobs. They LIKE that rock. It's just an ever shifting, accidentally rolling off the edge, falling slightly, making an offended squeek, and floating back to the top of the pile to repeate the process, MOOSH of thousands of blobs. No one's certain if they used to be seals or some sort of cat.

Apparently THAT island is Warm(tm).

So there they sit. Making contented noises, chirping and shoving for the best spots. They never leave. You can literally just... float up and sit on them. It's amazing. You gotta be careful not to get buried, but it's So Soft and bouncy? And they are ALL making that soft happy Blob vibrate noise. It's like a giant, island sized, warm and almost fuzzy but not, water bed that massages you.

Just DON'T start anything there! Holy SHIT are they territorial. You Will Die. They SWARM.

And THATS not even getting into the Blobs that are? Literally brainless. Some people eat those. Which? I guess? They ARE basicly Ectoplasm jello. But SOME of them are NOT? Like... it's a debate. Hot button issue, ya know?

Some fungus turns into Ecto Jello with negative IQ and delicious insides. Is this food? But OTHER fungus was SENTIENT in life and become a whole RANGE of Fungus ghosts, from Blob right on up to complexe dryad like ghosts! Clearly NOT food unless you are a MONSTER. But THEY argue the FIRST group are ALSO not food?

Plant Ghosts have strong opinions and are willing to Gruesome Violence about it.

Which brings us back to the Humble Blob Ghost! Check before you pet! That might be grandma! Or planning to eat your hand! Just as Mammal tells you little to nothing about what animal you are looking at, so too does Blob and Ghost! Stay safe out there! And if anyone sees a glowing green rabbit? I want my blood back! That's supposed to be in MY body! Rude!

This has been, the daily ghost!

@hdgnj @stealingyourbones