#but i have to be so careful i have to build up slowly or i will overdo it and turn into like a pile of seaweed

[tikitakatia]

No Credentials — A. Putellas x Reader

"A Soft Place to Crash and Burn"

WC: 1k

Summary: Alexia’s cracking under pressure, and you’re the only one who sees it coming.

You see it before it happens.

Alexia’s good at hiding it, her unraveling. To anyone else, she just looks tense, maybe even tired and a little bit off her game. But you know better. You’ve memorized the tilt of her shoulders when she’s holding too much. You know the difference between focus and internal collapse.

And right now, she’s folding in on herself. Slowly. Quietly. Like a building made of glass right before it shatters.

She fumbles a pass and curses under her breath. Her cheeks flush. Not from exertion, from shame. That’s her first crack.

Pere says something sharp and meant to motivate. but she hears it like judgment. That’s the second.

You make your move.

Your matcha latte´s still in your hand and barely sipped. You don't say anything loud or dramatic, just slip off the bench and walk toward her with the kind of calm that gets people to follow without asking why.

“Capi,” you say gently.

“Estoy bien,” she shoots back. Eyes forward. Jaw clenched. Classic.

You nod, like you believe her. Like she hasn’t already lost the thread.

“I know, walk with me anyway.”

She hesitates. You tilt your head, already turning toward the hallway and she follows.

She always follows you.

The hallway is cooler than the field. White walls. Buzzing fluorescent lights. Echoes of sneakers and silence.

You pull a little pack of orange slices from your hoodie pocket and offer them without a word.

Alexia stares at you like you’ve handed her an insect.

“I’m not a child,” she says, but her voice is brittle.

“They’re not for children. They’re for people on the edge,” you say.

“And they’re cold. You need something cold right now.”

She doesn’t argue and takes them from your hand. You both sit against the wall, legs stretched out like it’s routine.

Because it is.

This is the unspoken ritual: the Alexia Meltdown Protocol, unofficial and fine-tuned by proximity. You’ve never named it, but it’s there in your bones.

You wait until she eats one. Until her shoulders drop an inch.

“You’ve got five minutes. Say it. All of it. No solutions, no judgment. I’ll just hold it.”

She closes her eyes like your voice hurts in a way that feels good.

“I feel like I’m breaking,” she whispers.

“And I hate it.”

You say nothing.

She keeps going.

“I keep messing up, and I don’t know why. I can’t focus, I can’t breathe half the time, and my brain won’t shut up long enough for me to fix any of it.”

You nod, just enough to let her know you’re here. Still listening.

“I feel like I’m failing, and I can’t afford to fail right now,” she says.

“Not when people are watching. Not when I’m supposed to have it together.”

Her voice cracks, and your chest pulls tight.

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“I’m not just ‘anyone,’” you say softly.

That gets her. Her eyes meet yours. And they’re glossy now, hazel rimmed with unshed frustration and grief and god-knows-what else she never says out loud.

You shift, turn to face her fully. She doesn’t flinch. That’s new.

“It’s okay to fall apart,” you tell her.

She shakes her head. “Not for me.”

“For exactly you.”

She bites her lip. “I’m tired of being strong.”

You move closer. Still slow and careful, like she’s made of something breakable that no one’s ever touched gently before.

You press your forehead to hers lightly and with intention.

Her breath stutters.

You feel it, how hard she’s fighting to hold herself together. You can almost hear the gears grinding in her mind, trying to sort logic from panic.

“Let go for a minute,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

A tear slides down her cheek. You catch it with your thumb.

Another one follows. She doesn’t hide it this time.

“I’m so tired,” she breathes.

“I know.”

You brush her hair back, blonde and damp at the roots from training, and let your hand rest against the side of her face. She leans into it, barely, like she doesn’t mean to.

“You always do this,” she says, voice quiet.

“Say exactly what I need before I even know I need it.”

You give her a small line.

“Not magic,” you murmur.

“Just you. You’re easy to care about.”

Her eyes go wide. Like that truth hit her somewhere she wasn’t ready for.

“Don’t,” she says, voice shaking. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I do.”

You say it without blinking. Because there’s no point in pretending with her. Not anymore.

She looks down at your joined hands. When that happened, you’re not sure. But they’re tangled now. She hasn’t let go.

“I think I…” she starts, then swallows.

“I don’t know.”

“Me too,” you say.

That’s all. Not a confession. Not a promise. Just a moment. Honest and open.

She exhales like that gave her permission to exist again.

Your thumb brushes the inside of her wrist. Her pulse is fast. Not scared, just full.

“You don’t have to be perfect right now,” you whisper.

“You just have to be here.”

Her head dips forward until it rests on your shoulder, and your arms go around her without thought. It’s not the first time you’ve held her like this, but it feels different now.

Like something shifted. Softly. Irrevocably.

“I’m sorry I snapped earlier,” she says into your hoodie.

“I’m not keeping score.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You’re always this good?”

“No,” you admit.

“Only with you.”

Another beat. Then:

“Do you… ever fall apart?”

You nod slowly. “All the time.”

“Do you let anyone see?”

You pause for a bit, then:

“Only you.”

Her arms tighten around your waist.

There’s nothing more to say.

And maybe this isn’t love yet, not in the way people define it with grand gestures and perfect timing.

But it’s care.

It’s knowing someone down to their last wire and staying anyway.

It’s orange slices and forehead kisses.

It’s the safest place to break.

And in your arms, Alexia finally lets herself do just that.

[firingstars]

neighborly advice | ch. 3

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky talk properly for the very first time, face to face. then you get real close, face to face.

warnings: timeline is somewhere around the middle/end of fatws, language, alcohol, eventual smut, past trauma, nightmares, no use of y/n, makeout sesh, hair pulling, beer drank in questionable ways, they're flirting, you cry, you hate your dad, mdni

word count: 3.4k

a/n: idk if anyone remembers but leah is the character that bucky went on a date with in fatws… that should’ve been me… that’s why i wrote this fic im ngl. and then made leah ur bestie hehe

previous chapter | next chapter

The ride wasn’t bad. In fact, it was thrilling. Watching the city lights blur past as Bucky sped down the road, the wind in your hair– it was nice. What was even nicer was the fact you could forget how cold it was, at least for a second. Bucky’s back was warm and broad and shielded you from all the elements that threatened to attack you. Though, you have to admit, your arms tightened around his body during sharper turns, and your heart kept leaping out of your chest more times than you would ever care to admit.

Bucky got off the bike first when you got to the parking garage. You didn’t even know this building had a parking garage. Made sense that you didn't know, though. You didn’t own a car. 

Bucky reached for you, removing the helmet off of your head then extending a hand to you. You watched as he turned the other way as you moved to swing your leg off of the motorcycle. You tilted your head at the action, but didn’t say anything. Was it because in the end, with shorts or not, you were still wearing a skirt?

You could feel something give birth in your stomach and start to flutter.

Once you were off his bike, he opened up the compartment and replaced the food he bought with the helmet, and the two of you walked up the stairs together in silence. It was comfortable. The quiet was good, and you liked it. It’d been loud all fucking night.

“Wanna come inside?” Bucky asked softly once you'd gotten to your floor. He looked nervous. “Or I can just give you the burger and you could–”

“Yeah, I’ll come in,” you cut him off before he could continue. He let out a soft breath, and nodded.

Nothing much had changed since the last time you were in his apartment. He did get an upgrade though. There was now a coffee table between his couch and TV, which was a start. He put the bag of burgers there, sat on the couch, and paused.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows knitting together. You were still at the doorway, standing there.

“Is this… a shoes off… kinda house?” you asked slowly. The entire house was spotless and you were certain the soles of your boots were dirty and sticky from being in the club.

“Oh. You can, if it makes you more comfortable,” he offered, and you immediately moved to take your boots off, leaving them neatly by the door. Bucky got up, too. He toed his shoes off, and put them right beside yours, which strangely made your heart beat faster.

As you approached the couch, you tied your hair up and out of the way in preparation for this burger. You could swallow your growing crush for now. You needed to eat. Once seated beside him, he handed you your food, and your stomach growled on queue.

“Thank you for buying,” you told him with a smile.

“Of course. My ma’ would be rolling in her grave if she found out that I let a pretty girl pay for her own food,” he replied, unwrapping his own burger. You froze for a second, turning your head to look at him. He took a bite, completely undisturbed. “Besides, I’m not that much of an asshole that I make you pay for your own food after the shit you’ve been through tonight.”

Oh. So he just wanted to gloss right over that compliment. Fine. You’ll play along.

“I owe you more now though.”

“Consider it an apology for slamming my door in your face,” he said and you snorted, shaking your head.

“I’m not mad about that. I just came by because I was worried.”

He let out a laugh. “Sure.”

You huffed and took your first bite of the cheesy burger in your hands. It was like heaven on earth. You could feel the stress of the night washing away with each chew. Life was worth living, it seemed. Once you swallowed, you took another glance at him and paused. 

“You eat with your gloves on?” you asked, tilting your head. 

“Oh.. I got… poor circulation,” he said slowly, trying to come up with a lie on the spot.

“… I’m not scared of it, if that’s what you’re worried about. Wasn’t your choice for everything that happened to you, either. If anything, I’m grateful for it. I’m sure you’re strong without all the modifications, but it really came in handy tonight when you kicked my date’s ass,” you said with a hum.

Bucky froze mid-bite, and you continued to eat. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see as he placed the half wrapped burger on the table slowly and begin to fight an inner battle with himself for a few moments. Then he removed not only his gloves, but his jacket, too. He exposed both flesh and metal before he continued to eat. You smiled to yourself, and took another bite.

“So you have a thing for assholes?” he asked after a few more moments of pure silence. 

You choked, and missed the smirk on his lips as he got up to grab you a cup of water. You gratefully accepted, but still stared at him with disbelief as you rubbed at your sternum. 

“I’m just saying. He didn’t seem like a great guy, you know?” he continued as he sat back down. 

When your coughing fit died down, you shifted on the couch to face him. Your back rested against the armrest now, legs tucked under you as you stared him down. Bucky raised an eyebrow at you, leaning back into the cushions to look at you better as he comfortably let his legs spread a bit wider.

“I was two-manning, for your information,” you frowned at him, “No clue who the guy is or what his personality was.”

“Two-manning?” he repeated, confusion thick in his voice. 

“Yeah. Like wingmanning?”

“Why can’t you just say that? Why are there so many new terms for everything?”

“Okay, just because you’re old and can’t keep up doesn’t mean that new things can’t be invented.”

“And you’re like, what? Nineteen?” He raised his eyebrows at you. 

“Flattered. Add seven years.” You smiled at him, and he paused like he was truly considering your age. 

“You look good.”

“You look good for 110,” you replied. “But, you know. Helps when I was erased from existence for five years. Thanks for bringing me back, by the way.”

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. Then, his face turned serious, and he looked a little nervous. His voice was quiet. “How long have you known?”

“They said your last name in the station. Called you Sergeant Barnes,” you answered. “I only know one Sergeant Barnes and he served alongside Captain Steve Rogers, so… Just put two and two together. Plus, you’re kinda buddies with the new Cap, too.”

“He’s not my buddy.” He said the words too fast. Too defensive. 

“Sure.” You rolled your eyes, a smile playing on your lips. 

“You’re really not… Scared? Of me?” Bucky asked softly, and you paused. He looked so small at that moment. Afraid of your next words, afraid of the world around him. 

“I can’t say I’m aware of everything you’ve done,” you said truthfully. “I only know what was put out on the internet, but I do know the guy that drove me home and let me crash in his bed. So, I think you're a pretty decent guy, all things considered.”

“... So. Wingmanning, huh?” he said with a breath. “Your friend okay?”

“She’s fine. That guy’s a gentleman, or at least I hope so. She texted me when I was at the station that she went home with him, so someone ended the night happy,” you sighed, shrugging. “Only went out with her because I was losing my mind over some other shit going on.”

“Yeah? I figured, since you blacked out the other day.”

You could feel your face go hot again. “I’m really sorry about that, by the way—“

“It’s okay,” he cut you off. “I promise. It’s fine. Are you okay?”

"No,” you answered honestly. “But I’ll figure it out. Have to.”

“Well, I don’t know much about you either, but I’m sure you will,” he said with a nod. “You’re always carrying around some weird books with long titles.”

“Necessary for my study.”

“So you’re smart. You got this,” he said with a shrug, then stood up again. “You want a beer?”

“Please. And I really hope I do, otherwise some asshole is gonna get me deported and send me back home,” you muttered.

“Deported?” He frowned at the fridge as he pulled out two bottles.

“My family situation is less than ideal,” you summed up simply. “My dad would love for me to come home and play the filial daughter. I don’t want to.”

“What does playing the filial daughter entail?” he asked, easily popping open the top of the beer with his metal hand before handing the bottle to you as he took his first drink.

“Marrying a guy who already has three kids older than me,” you answered. It was his turn to choke.

“Your dad would–”

“Never said my dad was a good guy. Which is why I left and I’m across the sea. I didn't want to do it, so I left. If he finds out that the shit I’ve been doing here doesn’t have results, or if I can’t figure out something substantial, then it’s only a matter of time before I get roped back into elite upper class politics again.”

“Damn. That’s heavy,” he murmured, settling on the couch. He crossed an ankle over his knee, flesh arm draped over the back of the couch. “What are you trying to do?”

“Regenerative nanotechnological medicine.” 

His bottle paused on its journey halfway to his lips, and he looked at you. You were dead serious, and you were staring at your bottle like it owed you money. 

“The thing is,” you started with a deep breath, “Stark monopolized everything to do with nanotech. It’s trademarked so trying to do something similar is so fucking hard without getting sued or going through a bunch of legal battles. And what I’m doing isn’t totally similar. I use a different system and my technology is run by a different program that I made on my own and I refused to look into what Stark uses for his nanotech until I fully made mine– but only to make sure that I didn’t accidentally make it the same. Anyways– Can you imagine? Going into battle, and instead of needing to return back to your base, you can carry something so light that you don’t even notice is there– it heals you at a moment's notice? Moreover– it’s reusable over and over again?” you rambled on quickly, finally meeting his eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat. This was it. The moment that he was going to call you crazy. Of course he was. You were talking to an Avenger. Dr. Cho had already created something similar years ago, that lab in Seoul that made regenerative tissue out of nothing, but this was different. Yet, you’d heard all the arguments before. If this was something that could have already been done, then it would have been done. You couldn’t handle hearing it again, not when the wound was still fresh. You looked away from his eyes.

“Anyways, it’s probably not going to go anywhere–”

“If we had that kinda tech in some of our biggest fights, we could’ve held on for so much longer, maybe even turned the tides and won,” he cut her off with a whisper. You met his eyes. There was a sparkle in those steel blue eyes that made your chest tighten. He breathed your name, in awe, “That’s amazing. Seriously. I don’t have that kinda knowledge, but damn. If I had the money, I would invest in you.”

Your eyes widened. This was the first time.

No one, absolutely no one, had heard you out with this much earnestness before. Even your previous sponsors had to be coaxed into the project, and gave you lowball offers that you could barely work with. Even your team of researchers weren’t committed to the work, and you picked up all the slack. It was always you, by yourself, trying to keep yourself afloat with your own hands.

“Hey- Hey! Did I say something wrong?” he exclaimed in panic, quickly moving to grab a napkin from the table.

You were crying. Warm tears brimmed over your eyes, and slipped down your cheeks before you could stop it from happening. You blinked rapidly to try to clear your vision, trying to find the words to say that there was just an eyelash, but nothing came out. All you could do was shake your head, take the napkin and try to calm down.

Bucky waited. He sat there quietly, giving you comfort in his spot beside you. There was no judgement, only concern. Once you did calm down, he didn’t ask any questions. He just settled back down into the couch, watching you quietly.

“It’s hot in here,” you lied, trying to play the situation off and change the topic as you shrugged your jacket off, tossing it on the edge of the coffee table. “You should really get a coat rack. Or something like that.”

“I should really get a lot of things,” he snorted with a shake of his head as he took another drink. “You go to Izzy’s often? Mr. Nakajima kept talking about you today when I saw him.”

“Well, yeah. But I met Mr. Nakajima because of Mr. Lin– Mr. Lin used to live in this apartment,” you explained. “I used to take care of him. I don’t sleep at night since I work late, and I would listen out for him in case he were to fall or something like that. Mr. Lin used to force me to go out on walks with him during the day and told me that the sun is good for me, and I would end up in the park with him and Mr. Nakajima and watched them while they played old man games. Like go.”

“Go is not that old,” he frowned.

“Yeah? And who’s saying that to me right now?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him. “I thought I was getting a young neighbor, but I just got someone older than Mr. Lin.”

“Alright, kid. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Bucky asked, rolling his eyes.

“Why? You gotta go play mahjong with Nakajima right now?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re really annoying when you get alcohol in your system, you know that?” he said, staring at you with disbelief.

You let out a deep, sarcastic sigh. “Old guys just don’t know how to relax these days. No energy for any kind of fun. I know I’m not one to talk, but maybe you should go out on a date, Sarge. Let loose. There’s this lady on the third floor, second door. She’s single.”

“She’s 90.”

“Scared of an age gap?” you asked with a grin as you took a slow sip of her beer. Bucky watched you, and you could see the gears in his mind turning. 

“You know what? You really aren’t one to talk,” he finally said. “I’ve known you for like, two minutes. At least I’m a gentleman and gave you my bed to sleep in–”

“Was very comfortable, by the way.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You also smell really good.”

“Thank you. I try. I’m using a new body wash.”

“You should keep using it. I like it.”

“You have horrible judgement in men.”

“The man I’m staring at right now doesn’t seem to be all that bad, though?” 

The conversation had happened so fast, passing between you two like quick banter without a single beat in between. You stared at him, straight into his pretty steel blue eyes as you took another drink. Slow. Waiting. You watched as his own eyes dropped to your lips briefly, like it was a mistake before lifting back up to meet your eyes. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath of air, watching as you smiled coyishly against the rim of the beer bottle.

“What’s wrong, Sarge? Can’t keep up with the kids these days?” you asked softly, innocently. As if you weren’t daring him to do something.

“Shut the hell up,” he grunted, grabbing the bottle out of your hand. The liquid sloshed and splashed on the floor as he rushed to drop it onto the coffee table as he moved to close the space between you two on the couch.

You let out a soft gasp right before his lips touched yours. His lips were soft– surprisingly soft. It was a nice contrast to the roughness of the stubble of his face, and it felt so nice to finally touch him. Your hands fell onto his shoulders, his hands moved to your waist, and easily picked you up and situated you onto his lap. 

Bucky kissed you harder, tongue sweeping against your bottom lip and asking for entrance that you happily granted. You let out a soft noise against his mouth as his tongue caressed yours, and he groaned in response, pulling you closer to him. Your arms moved around his neck– you couldn’t stand any distance between you.

Kissing him felt like finding water in the desert. You didn’t know how you survived before this, before him. You needed him all around you, pulling you in and deeper until you drowned in him. His flesh hand was in your hair, pulling the hair tie out of it so he could take a proper fistful of your locks in his hand. Then, he pulled your hair, forcing your head back, ripping you away from the kiss. 

His lips pressed soft kisses against your jaw, the stubble of his beard lightly scratching at your skin as he moved. Bucky kept moving, kissing and sucking at your throat, briefly dipping down to your collarbone to nip at the skin there. Then, he settled on the spot right beneath your ear where your jaw met your neck and bit down. You let out a soft moan as he sucked on the wound to placate it, and you pulled yourself closer to him as your hips instinctively moved against his.

“Careful, doll,” he whispered heavily against your neck. You could feel him through his jeans. The thick length of him, straining, begging to be free. You were certain that he could feel the warmth from between your legs, especially when you had only a few thin layers separating you from him. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you whined, and it was your turn to pull on his hair. He let out a moan of his own, the sound making you clench around nothing. Everything was warm. Everything was on fire, and hot, and you need more of him now. 

“What’s wrong, doll?” Bucky smirked at you, sending a tingle down her spine as he locked eyes with you. “You really need to keep up.”

A momentary surge of confidence and annoyance coursed through your body as you twisted behind you to find your– probably his– beer and drank down two gulps before holding another one in your mouth. Then, you turned back to him, weaving your hand in his hair again and slammed your lips into his. His grip on your waist tightened, and you could feel him twitch against you as the beer passed from your mouth to his. Bucky swallowed what you gave him, almost greedily, letting out a soft groan once he finally had the means to do so. 

You pulled away, watching as he chased after your lips. With half lidded eyes, he looked at you, a bit breathless. You could only bite back a smirk, tongue licking your lips slowly.

“I think it’s past your bedtime, old man,” you whispered, echoing his own words back at him. You reached to cup his face, wiping off the lipstick that had transferred onto his mouth. Bucky watched you with intense eyes, pupils blown out, hungry. You smiled at him. “Thanks for the meal.”

You got off of him, and grabbed your jacket. You left him on the couch, humming to yourself in satisfaction as you went to the door. You didn’t even bother to zip your shoes back up since you were just moving a few steps over. You could hear him stand up behind you.

Bucky said your name with a voice so thick and heavy that it sent something straight down to your core. You swallowed, looking over your shoulder at him. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the words before finally settling on, “Sleep well.” 

You let out a small laugh, nodding at him. “You, too, Bucky.”

next chapter

taglist: @iyskgd

[elliespassagerprincess]

Can we please have yandere Ellie

To Be Near You - ellie williams x reader

hi anon! i wasnt sure if you wanted headcannons or a fic, but lmk if i should do seomething else instead. I hope you enjoy:)

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me songs or your silly ideas:)

HUGE WARNING: Yandere behavior, obsessive thoughts, emotional manipulation, stalking, slow burn, psychological themes, implied torture, confinement, disturbing intimacy, kidnapping

Summary: Ellie was quiet at first, just watching from the background — protective, helpful, always there. But her interest wasn’t harmless. What began as care turned into control, and slowly, you realized she was never going to let you go. Even when you stopped fighting, her obsession only grew stronger.

masterlist

This story contains dark and emotionally intense themes—please read with care. You are responsible for what you consume online. Please read the warnings before reading.

Ellie didn’t remember when it started—when you became the only person she thought about. Maybe it was that time you sat two rows ahead of her in biology, your head tilted slightly, scribbling so fast in your notebook she thought smoke might rise from the page. Or maybe it was when you laughed at something stupid the professor said, that quiet little snort that made her chest feel too tight.

It didn’t matter. All Ellie knew was that you were hers—even if you didn’t know it yet.

She wasn’t stupid. She didn’t approach you like some lovesick idiot. No, she watched. Observed. She knew your routines down to the minute. Mondays, you always bought the cheap coffee from the cart near the arts building. Wednesdays, you skipped your last class and sat alone under the fig tree near the library with a book in your lap, legs crossed, headphones in. You always listened to that sad indie shit, the kind that made Ellie feel like your soul was a snow globe someone had shaken too hard.

She memorized the curve of your neck when you tied your hair up. The way you rubbed your thumb against your phone case when you were nervous. The way you always said “thank you” to the cleaning staff. You were good. Pure. You didn’t belong in a world like this—surrounded by people who wouldn’t protect you the way Ellie would.

So she started small. A bump in the hallway. An apologetic smile. The “accidental” sighting at your favorite coffee spot. She watched the way your eyes lit up when someone remembered your name. She made sure to say it just loud enough that you’d hear it from behind you in line—like it had only just occurred to her. “Oh, hey, y/n, right?”

You smiled. And Ellie’s obsession twisted tighter.

She told herself she’d wait. That she’d earn your trust. That you’d come to her in time, love her the way she already loved you—desperately, painfully. But every time she saw you talking to someone else, laughing too loud with some guy in class, her hands clenched in her jacket pockets until her nails drew blood.

She followed you home twice. Not close—never too close. She just needed to see. Needed to know you were safe. That no one had touched you. That you were still hers, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

And then came the night she saw you crying on your porch, phone to your ear, voice shaking as you muttered, “It’s just been a lot lately.”

That night, Ellie sat awake in bed until 4 a.m., writing a letter she never sent. She had to be careful. She didn’t want to scare you. Not yet.

But you needed her. You’d always needed her.

And Ellie would wait. Quiet. Patient. Because love like this—raw and unshakable—wasn't something people found in this world anymore.

She just had to make you see it.

The first time Ellie spoke to you, really spoke to you, was when she “accidentally” sat next to you in the library.

You were curled up near the window, highlighters scattered across your table like candy. Your brows were furrowed, a half-finished smoothie sweating beside your laptop. You looked stressed, overwhelmed, and so goddamn beautiful in your chaos that Ellie could hardly breathe.

She slid into the seat beside you like it wasn’t calculated. Like she hadn’t waited for this exact time and day, tracked when you usually studied alone here. Her notebook hit the table with a soft thud, and you looked up, a little surprised.

“Oh… hey,” you said with a polite smile.

Ellie felt the burn of her heart thudding in her throat. “Hey. Sorry, didn’t realize this spot was taken.”

“It’s okay,” you offered quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You can sit. I don’t mind.”

Of course you don’t, she thought. You’re so kind. You’d let the devil sit here if he smiled the right way.

She didn’t say anything for a while. Just opened her notebook, pretending to study, even though her eyes flicked to you every other second. She watched the way your pen tapped against your notes. Watched the crease between your brows deepen.

“You look like your brain’s about to melt,” Ellie joked softly.

You laughed — you laughed — and Ellie felt her ribs close in around her lungs.

“Tell me about it,” you sighed. “I have a paper due and like, zero motivation.”

And just like that, the door cracked open. Ellie stepped inside your world with a careful smile.

“I could help, if you want. I’m decent at writing. Got a lot of practice, thanks to Dr. Collins’ essay-from-hell last semester.”

Your eyes lit up in a way that made her throat ache. “Wait — you had Collins? You survived?”

“Barely,” Ellie chuckled. “But yeah. I made it out alive.”

You scooted over just a bit, angling your laptop toward her. “I will accept any and all help. Seriously.”

And that was it. Ellie was in.

She started popping up more — casual run-ins that were anything but accidental. She brought you coffee on the days she knew you had early classes. She left sticky notes on your desk in the library with dumb little jokes. You laughed every time. It was perfect.

But then you started talking about someone. A guy.

A classmate. A friend, you said.

Ellie’s hand clenched around her pen so tight it snapped.

You didn’t notice. You just kept talking, smiling softly, voice floating with affection.

That night, Ellie followed him home.

Just watched from a distance, hoodie up, breath steady despite the adrenaline in her veins. She just needed to know where he lived. Who he was. Whether he was a threat.

And when she saw him ignore your texts, leave you on read for hours, Ellie made her decision.

He wasn’t good enough for you.

She would be patient. But not forever.

You were already hers. She was just taking her time showing you that.

Ellie didn’t sleep for days after she saw your face fall when you mentioned him again — that guy. The one who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.

She watched as you waited on campus, phone in hand, eyes scanning the crowd. You were standing outside your lecture hall, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater. You’d dressed nice today — makeup done, hair a little neater than usual.

All for him.

And he didn’t show.

Not until twenty minutes later, slouched and half-interested, offering a sheepish smile and a shrug like that could make up for your disappointment.

You smiled anyway. You always did.

Ellie’s jaw locked. Her breath stayed even. Her eyes didn’t blink.

He’d made you wait. He’d made you feel small.

She followed him home again, but this time she didn’t stay outside.

She waited until the lights in his apartment went dark. Waited until he was alone, headphones in, playing some stupid game on his console. He never even heard her come in.

The first hit wasn’t lethal. A metal pipe to the side of the knee — deliberate, punishing, shattering bone and pride in a single sickening crunch. The scream was immediate, high-pitched and raw.

She shoved him down hard, duct tape already in hand.

“I’m only going to say this once,” she muttered, eyes dark and unshaking. “You don’t talk to her again. You don’t look at her again.”

He gurgled something behind the tape, tears already running down his face.

Ellie leaned in, face inches from his. “You don’t even think about her. Got it?”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t need one.

Hours passed. Time didn’t matter. The sounds he made were pathetic, and she took her time — slow, cold, efficient. He needed to understand.

When she was done, she left him tied and bloody, tossed across the room like garbage. Alive. Barely. But enough to live in fear.

A message.

A warning.

No police report would follow — she knew his type. Weak. Cowardly. A memory she'd already erased from your life.

The next day, you looked a little confused, almost concerned. You mentioned you hadn’t heard from him.

“He probably ghosted me,” you said, trying to laugh it off. “Wouldn’t be the first time a guy flaked.”

Ellie put a hand gently on your shoulder.

“I don’t think you need someone like that anyway.”

You looked at her, softer than she expected. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Maybe you’re right.”

You didn’t pull away when she touched your arm. You leaned into her comfort. Into her warmth.

It was working.

Ellie smiled all the way home, blood still under her nails.

You didn’t think much of it when Ellie offered to drive you home that night. You were both on campus, it was dark, cold. And you trusted her to an extent.

It was late, you were tired, and she was already waiting by your car, leaning against it like it was hers. You hesitated — maybe because something in her eyes looked different. But she smiled, soft and familiar, and you told yourself you were being paranoid.

You shouldn’t have gotten in.

The drive started off normal enough. Familiar roads. Ellie humming lowly to a song you used to love. But then she made a turn you didn’t recognize. And then another. You frowned, asked her where she was going. She didn’t answer at first — just tapped the steering wheel and said, “Shortcut.”

You stopped memorizing the turns after a while. There were too many. Too quick. Trees instead of buildings. Darkness instead of streetlights. Your phone? Gone. She'd taken it before you even noticed.

“Ellie, turn around.”

She didn’t. Her knuckles were white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward.

“You’ll be safe now,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Finally.”

Your pulse pounded. You tried the door once — it was locked. The child-lock kind. Her kind.

You never expected it from her. Sweet, quiet Ellie. The one who helped you study, who brought you soup when you were sick. But this Ellie was different — sharper, obsessive, like she'd been waiting to snap.

Eventually, the road ended, and the cabin appeared — old, isolated, deep in the woods where no one could hear you scream. You begged. You reasoned. You cried. But Ellie only looked at you like she’d finally gotten everything she ever wanted.

“You don’t need anyone else,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead as she led you inside. “You have me now.”

The days began to bleed together.

You didn’t know how long you had been in Ellie’s cabin—if you could even call it that. Hidden somewhere deep in the mountains, no cell service, no internet, no roads visible from the windows. Just trees. Endless, quiet trees.

At first, you screamed. You cried. You didn’t eat.

Ellie didn’t punish you for it. She just watched. Quiet. Patient. Like a wolf waiting for a limb to go still so she could safely bite off the infection.

“You’ll feel better if you eat,” she’d whisper. Her voice low, cracked like old vinyl. “I made your favorite. I remember you said it once… back in class. Thought I wasn’t listening, huh?”

She remembered everything.

The chipped nail polish you used to wear. The way your eyes fluttered when you were nervous. The offhanded comments you made about never feeling seen.

“I see you,” she told you one night. And something in her voice made your stomach flip—not in fear. Something… deeper.

You hated that part.

You hated that after four days, your hands stopped shaking every time she opened the door. That on day five, when you cried and she wiped your tears with her thumbs, you didn’t pull away.

“It's okay,” Ellie whispered. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You wanted to scream that he didn’t hurt you. That Ellie was the only one who ever had. But your voice cracked. And you didn’t want to see that look in her eyes again—the one that was both love and danger, stitched into the same grin.

She started brushing your hair.

“I used to imagine this,” she murmured. “You, right here. Safe. Close to me.”

Her hands were gentle. Too gentle. As if afraid you'd break.

“You’re learning to trust me now, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But your head leaned ever so slightly into her touch.

That night, she let you out of the room for the first time. Not outside—never outside—but into her world. Books. Sketches. Maps marked with little red Xs.

“This is everything I built… for you.”

There was a soft bed in the corner. New sheets. Lavender scented.

“You can sleep here tonight,” she said, fingers brushing your lower back. “Closer to me.”

And you did.

It wasn't trust. Not really. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe your mind, frayed from isolation. But when Ellie wrapped her arms around you under the thick quilt, and whispered “you’re mine” against your hair, something inside you cracked.

Not a break.

A splinter.

You stopped counting the days.

There was no point. No clocks, no sunlight. Just the quiet hum of Ellie’s voice when she read to you at night. The sound of her boots on the wooden floor. The soft clink of silverware she set down with each careful meal.

There was something peaceful about it—if you didn’t think too hard.

You had screamed. Begged. Raged. And still, she had stayed. Never yelling. Never raising her hand. Just watching. Waiting.

Now, you didn’t scream.

You didn’t fight when she helped you bathe. When she dried your hair with a towel that smelled like pine and her.

You didn’t flinch when she kissed your cheek and whispered, “Good girl.”

She’d reward you when you were obedient. More time out of the room. A book. A blanket from home. A drawing of you she spent hours perfecting—eyes too soft, mouth too sad.

"You’re safer now,” she murmured one night, tracing your collarbone with her fingertips. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

You didn’t answer. Because she was right. There was nowhere to run. Not anymore.

The turning point wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with violence. It came with a whisper. A flicker. A moment where you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the fear in your eyes anymore.

You saw her.

Ellie.

All-consuming. Ever-present. Everything.

So when she curled into bed beside you that night, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face into the crook of your neck, you let her.

You didn’t close your eyes right away. You stared at the wooden beams above. You breathed with her. Matched her rhythm.

"I knew you’d come around,” she said softly. “I just had to be patient. You were always mine. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch.

You just let her hold you, let her hand find yours, let her whisper love into your skin like it was salvation, not damnation.

In the morning, she painted your nails. Brushed your hair with a comb she’d carved your name into. Called you her wife.

You didn’t correct her. What was the point?

She kissed your temple.

“You’re perfect now,” Ellie said. “Exactly how I dreamed you’d be.”

And in her green eyes—those bright, haunting eyes—you saw it:

Obsession disguised as love. Love tainted with control.

And you?

You were no longer a prisoner. You were a possession.

And slowly—terrifyingly—you were starting to want to be.

The cabin was warm. Not just in temperature, but in the way Ellie moved through it like it was a home you built together.

Your toothbrush sat next to hers now. She’d written your name on a tag and tied it with twine.

There was a mug on the counter—chipped and faded—that said “World’s Best Wife.” You weren’t sure where she found it. You didn’t ask.

You never asked anymore. Ellie called it your honeymoon phase.

She woke you gently every morning with kisses to your shoulder. She cooked, always your favorite dishes—eggs, tomatoes, sourdough bread, strawberries. She pulled your chair out at the table and watched you eat like it was her reward for every horrible thing she'd done to bring you here.

You weren’t chained anymore. But the door was always locked.

You didn’t try it anymore, not since the last time—when she’d found you standing in the kitchen, your hand hovering over the doorknob, and her voice had gone cold in that way that turned your bones to ice.

“You’re not thinking of leaving me,” she’d said, stepping closer. “Not after everything I’ve done for you. Right, baby?”

You had nodded. Fast. Too fast. She forgave you. But not without consequence.

That night, she didn’t let you out of bed—not even for water. She held you tight, almost bruising, whispered how much it scared her to think of you gone. How she’d die without you. How she’d kill for you.

You believed her. You still did.

Now, she was too happy.

She sang while she cooked. Danced with you in the living room, hands firm on your waist, eyes never blinking. She kissed your forehead too long. Said things like “I love you more every second,” and “You don’t need anyone else. Just me.”

You nodded every time.

And yet… something in her had started to snap again.

It was little things at first. The silence when you mentioned your old life. The way her jaw clenched when you looked too long at the photo of your family she’d allowed you to keep.

Then came the photos. The ones she took of you while you were asleep. Hundreds of them.

Piled in boxes. Taped to the walls of a room you weren’t allowed to enter until she “surprised” you one night.

“I just love you so much,” she breathed, showing you the shrine. “I had to make something that felt like you were everywhere.”

You had smiled. You didn’t know what else to do.

But the worst came next.

She came back from town covered in blood.

You had asked—trembling, afraid, already knowing.

And Ellie… she didn’t lie.

“He kept asking about you,” she said. “Your ex. The one who used to text. I couldn’t have that, baby. I won’t let them take you from me.”

She cupped your cheek with her bloodied hand, eyes soft, voice like silk.

“I did it for us.”

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

Because in your heart, that last thread of resistance had snapped.

You realized something then:

You weren’t staying because you were trapped.

You were staying because this was the only place her love made sense anymore.

Twisted. Devoted. Terrifying.

But yours.

[exhaustedpirate]

i'd marry you with paper rings

this was supposed to be a be my valentine entry and it's been written for months, i just didn't feel like it was finished enough to post BUT fuck it, have a peraltiago-inspired bucktommy wedding so, bc of when it was written, bobby is alive and chris is there bc i say so and there's Good Friend Eddie Diaz this is a no-beta tumblr exclusive just for yall!

G rating | 1310 words

It was all supposed to go according to plan.

There was a clipboard and a detailed checklist, even a timeline. Everything was checked and double-checked - he had made sure of it, so sure that he even worried that he was about to be divorced before he ever made it down the aisle.

He had a plan and he was driving everyone crazy. But Evan was being so patient. 

Actually, every time Tommy pulled out his clipboard or notepad, there was a glint in his eyes. And every time Evan said that “it was fine”, there was a secretive smile on his lips. But thoughts of Evan’s lips usually lead him to distraction so he never got around to asking what that was about.

It didn’t matter now, though. Everything was ruined.

Tommy stood by the 133’s engine, watching as the flames that had taken over the recreation center were fought, slowly being tamed by the talented firefighters on shift. Ravi, working with the 118’s B-shift, helped an older man out of the building, his suit splattered with pink powder.

Great news, everyone, Dumbass 1 and 2 were having a girl.

There were flower arrangements completely incinerated, the beautiful colour pattern that matched them perfectly was now all black and he didn’t want to think about how the delicious cake they had picked out had probably disintegrated with the heat. It was a disaster.

“Tom?” 

Evan’s voice is quiet but it brings him out of thoughts of ruined ceremonies and burnt chairs. At least they all got out, safe and sound even if not unscathed.

Tommy takes hold of Evan’s stretched out left hand, running a thumb over rough knuckles. He pulls Evan to him carefully to wrap his arms around him, not touching his right arm where it’s most definitely dislocated. 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers, close to his neck. “I wanted to give us a perfect day and-”

Evan pulls away, his left hand cupping Tommy’s cheek, fingers careful as they caressed between a bruise and a bandaged cut. “It wasn’t your fault that some- some idiots decided to bring explosives to a gender reveal,” They both share a groan at that. 

“Let us just not have any gender reveal parties when we have babies of our own.”

Evan grins and Tommy is only human, he can’t help but to share his smile. “O-Okay, is that after we finally get married?” 

“Preferably, but I’m not picky.” 

Evan laughs, his eyes so fond that it reminds Tommy that he hasn’t kissed Evan today, which in itself is criminal. Their lips meet for a chaste kiss, a kiss meant to be shared in front of friends and family and in an aisle meticulously picked and set up by Tommy’s watchful eye.

It is still a great kiss. But kissing Evan always is.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Bobby’s voice startles them apart and Evan hisses as they turn sharply towards his former Captain approaching them with a faint limp from where he twisted his ankle. “Are you still interested in getting married today?”

Tommy knows his frown is being matched by his fiance, deepening when Bobby chuckles. “What do you mean, Cap?” Evan asks.

“Well,” And now Bobby, despite his usual unfaltering demeanour, gets a spark of vulnerability in his eyes. “It won’t be the very organised event you two were planning,” There’s a pointed look at Tommy who feels no shame at his excitement over his wedding day and feels vindicated at the sweet look Evan sends his way. “But it will be the intimate wedding you wanted.”

Bobby points towards the fire engines parked at the recreational center’s parking lot where all their friends and family stand with warm smiles. Eddie had a sling on his left arm and stitches on his cheek. Maddie’s pale blue dress was covered in ash and ripped. Howie was surprisingly unscathed, just very dirty and with a bruise on his jaw. Bobby had been standing next to Tommy by the altar and they shared identical cuts on their side. 

They are all in equal states of dishevelment - the ceremony had been interrupted by the first explosion, just as Evan was joining him at the altar. But he was glad that no one had gotten severely injured, he wouldn’t have forgiven himself if they had.

“What do you say?” 

Evan is looking at him with those bright eyes, love pouring out of them as if he has an infinite amount to give. It never fails to steal his breath away, to make him want to pinch himself. It’s still unreal that he gets to have this, to have a love as powerful as this to receive and to give in equal amounts.

“I would marry you on the hull of a capsized ship, Evan Buckley.”

The younger firefighter’s face almost splits in half with the wide grin on his face. Next to them, Bobby laughs before giving the others some sign to get everything in place.

“Please, don’t jinx us, babe.” Evan begs with a laugh.

Tommy laughs with him before softly running his thumb over Evan’s left eye, following the lines of his birthmark. “How about we just get married now then?”

Evan’s smile is bright and Tommy thinks he knows how it feels to give his heart to someone and know that it’ll be safe. As a young man, fighting against his sexuality in an unsafe world, he fantasized extensively about this day. He had never thought it would become a reality, though.

Then again, he had never expected Evan Buckley either.

“That sounds great.” 

Their friends and family greeted them with happy smiles. 

Instead of waiting at the altar for Evan to walk down the aisle with his sister, they walk hand in hand to join where Bobby waits for them, Eddie and Howie at either side of him.

Instead of walking through a flower-covered aisle with each colourful petal meticulously placed by a misunderstood 5-year old artist, Jee Yun jumps on her toes leaned against her mother’s legs. The dark-hair buns on either side of her head at a safe distance from a curious 1 and a half year old Kevin’s hands.

Instead of practised speeches, vows written in stock cards and held in trembling hands, there are improvised promises to love, to be loved, to protect, to be protected, to save, to be saved, to show up soot or not, to follow into fire and flood. 

Instead of rings escorted by a suited-up Chris in a carefully picked box, the teenager passes the box to Sal from where he tiredly sits on an improvised chair, who passes it to Josh, who passes it to Lucy, who passes it to Melton, who passes it to Eddie, who, under the amused chuckles of everyone involved, passes one of the rings to Howie.

Instead of vows shared over the sound of quiet piano chords played by the surprisingly talented Denny, there was the sound of hoses, heavy boots hitting pavement, truck doors opening and closing, commands and radio chatter.

And yet, as they hitch a ride to the hospital for final checks and reassurances, Tommy doesn’t mourn the long weeks spent planning the perfect wedding. 

All Tommy can think about is the smile on Evan’s face, the way the happy tears running down his cheek create clear tracks through the ash. He thinks about the happiness reflected on the faces of all of their friends and family. He thinks about the future. Their first anniversary, their fifth, their twentieth, their fiftieth. He thinks about their home, maybe children, maybe dogs, a cat. All the space they can make their own.

Tommy thinks about the future with the love of his life. His thoughts are reflected in Evan’s smile when his husband turns to him with that smile on his face.

It all went according to plan.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Shield (John Walker)

Description: Y/N is horny and John’s busy for the moment

Warning: Masturbation (with the shield), dirty talking

Word Count:912

It was strange, something she never thought she would be into but when a woman ovulates they find out just what they are willing to do to get off. She usually stares at it and laughs, wondering why her boyfriend would keep it. It barely held use anymore and everyone on the team agreed. John would die on the hill defending it like it was his baby, his most prized possession. It was ridiculous but she was down bad for something and John was busy.

It’s not that John wouldn’t fuck her if she asked, she just didn’t want to interrupt him. She found something new and interesting, his taco shield. She bit her lip as she picked it up, it was cold and perfectly shaped for riding. She set it on the bed before stripping down, not realizing just how wet she was at the thought of riding it before she pulled down her panties. They were wet, so wet it was embarrassing. The door was shut but not locked, meaning John could walk in any time and see her but maybe she wanted that.

Once she was naked she got on the bed and took a deep breath. Was she really doing this? She straddled the shield and the cold on her thighs made her shiver, it got worse when her wet pussy came in contact with it. “Mmmm.” She loved how cold it was. Her hands went straight to her boobs as she gave an experimental thrust. She gasped as her clit dragged against it, it actually felt really good. It was better than she expected. Her hands squeezed her breasts as she slowly thrusted again, wanting to take in the feeling of how perfect it felt. One of her hands started playing with her nipple, twisting it and running her fingers over it.

Her eyes were closed as her hips slowly rode it, her lower lip between her teeth as she felt the pleasure building. Her hips moved a little faster and she started lowly moaning, wanting to keep quiet. But with the way the shield felt against her pussy, that was impossible. She threw her head back as she sped up, not caring about the bed rocking. Her mouth was opened as dirty noises fell from her lips. Her gush covered the part of the shield she was humping, “Fuck.” She mouthed as one of her hands left her tits to hold it for support.

She imagined it was John, his perfect body she’d be grabbing and his perfect dick inside of her. She imagined all the dirty things John would say as she rode him and the way his hands would be all over her body. A thin layer of sweat covered her body even with the coldness of the shield. She could feel her orgasm building up as she tried to keep her moans quiet. Her body jerked on the shield as she gripped it so hard for support. Luckily she didn’t have Bob’s strength.

“John.” She cried as she was on the edge, just a few more thrusts and she’s cumming with a loud cry that she has to cover her mouth. Meanwhile, John was heading back to his room after a training session. All he wanted to do was shower and eat but the cry from his room stopped him for a moment. The bed was creaking hard and he couldn’t help but imagine what his girlfriend was doing on the other side. When he opened the door the last thing he expected to see was her riding her orgasm with soft cries and eyes rolled back on his taco shield.

“What do we have here?” His voice was teasing but she opened her eyes wide and looked at him like a deer caught in headlights. He wore a smirk as he walked into his room, “John I-“ but she couldn’t form words. How does she explain to him? “My girlfriend is pleasuring herself on my shield.” He shook his head, his voice filled with fake disappointment. “John I’m sorry-“ He held up his hand, “Why are you sorry?” He asked, “I’m just disappointed that I missed it.” He told her and walked up to her.

She was still trying to catch her breath and she wouldn’t catch it anytime soon. He reached out and ran his hand up her torso till he reached her tits, she whimpered as he played with one of them, focusing on the nipple. “Did it feel good? Rubbing your pussy on my shield.” She nodded, shamefully. She felt like she was getting exposed for it but John loved it. His hand moved up to her lips and traced them, “I bet it did, getting off on your boyfriend’s shield instead of asking him for help.” It was degrading, the look in his eyes as he rubbed her lips as she stared up at him like a puppy.

“Such a pretty girl.” She felt her pussy gush more at his words. His fingers that were wet from her lips traveled down to her throat and gripped it, her breathing picked up and her eyes widened. He had this dark lustful look in his eyes as his other hand moved to her clit that sat on his shield. She gasped and he squeezed her throat a little, “Do it again.” He growled, rubbing her clit faster, “Make yourself cum all over my shield like the dirty slut you are.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Something To Believe In

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, tooth-rotting fluff, pregnancy, birth, pre-established relationship.

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean become parents.

Author's Note: The saga continues. Never done a birthing fic before, and I sort of used the "blur method" for it. Same universe as the other Dean fam fics, but can be read in isolation. Enjoy!

Title from Darling by Halsey

Word Count: 3.6k

You feel weird. It hurts, but in a low, building ache that’s been growing for almost the whole pregnancy, so that’s not abnormal. Most of the days lately have been filled with some sort of pain. Your feet or breasts or stomach, a constant need to pee and a lot of sickness when Dean brings you the smooth peanut butter instead of the crunchy stuff. 

“You always liked the smooth though.” He’d frowned at you, running a hand slowly through your hair. “And they taste the same-“

“Baby doesn’t care.” You’d mumbled, your face still smushed into his chest. “They hate the smooth peanut butter. Can’t eat it, De. Makes me feel sick.”

“Alright. No more smooth peanut butter. Can I give it to Sammy for his dumb smoothies?”

You’d leaned back with wide eyes, and Dean had groaned.

“No-“

“Please?” Your hands had fisted in his shirt, and he’d grunted as your yanked him down to your eye level. “I’ll love you forever-“

“You’re already supposed to love me forever. That’s part of the till death do us part, baby, and you know death doesn’t agree with me-“

You shoved his chest. “That’s not funny, Dean-“

“It’s a little funny-“

“But I don’t want you to die again.” You’d whispered. “I want you to live to million and have thousands more of your babies.”

“I thought you hated having babies, you told Cas he’s never known pain yesterday-“

“He tried to make me smell a candle. And I- I said I was sorry-“

“I know you- Wait- Shit-“

You’d started to sniffle, your arms had—at some point—wrapped themselves around Dean’s neck, and he must actually love you a lot. You’re strangling him and all you’re getting in return is soft kisses on your brow.

“I’m sorry, babygirl.” He’d muttered into your hair. “I won’t die. We have a bazillion more babies, after we get this one,” He’d poked your side—near your ribs, the last spot that didn’t make you pee, and he seemed to have memorized—and you’d giggled. “Out of you.”

“Okay. Can I have a smoothie, please?”

“Yeah.” Dean had sighed, pressing one last kiss to the top of your head before shuffling away with a grumble you didn’t miss. “Can’t believe my baby’s a health freak.”

You’d laughed, because that was a vast exaggeration. The baby was not a health freak. Just today, you’ve eaten jerky dipped in Nutella and a cherry pie mixed with bread and butter pickles.

And you’d think that was what was making you feel weird. That, combined with the fact that Dean was out—getting baby stuff from Garth—and you didn’t like making Sam and Cas do things for you. This wasn’t their fault. They hadn’t sweet talked you into their bed over and over, then told you they loved you and fucked you on the roof of their car, then kept loving you until you always shared a bed and stopped using protection. They shouldn’t have to pay for the consequences of Dean’s actions.

But they were. With Dean out—just out, he was fine because it was just driving to Garth and that was nothing—they had to pick up all the stuff Dean usually did.

“He’s like a mom.” Sam had muttered this morning, frowning at the list of breakfast instructions on the table, and you’d sighed.

“I know. And I’ve told him I don’t need this, but he doesn’t want to hear it. You don’t have to-“

“Yeah, I do. Dean’ll kill me if I don’t.”

You wish he hadn’t, though. Sam had messed the breakfast up. You haven’t told him, because you’d been sobbing all of last night after Dean left and that had been enough for Sam to deal with—rubbing your back awkwardly as you’d sat on the floor with Dean on speaker phone—and you didn’t want him to feel worse.

So that’s probably why you feel weird. You’d gotten used to Dean’s attention and care, and now your body was paying for it.

But there’s something wet between your legs, and it’s not pee. You’re pretty sure it’s not pee. There’s too much of it to be pee. It’s not arousal, either. The unbearably horny part of the pregnancy had ended just a few weeks ago, and although that hadn’t slowed Dean down in the slightest, you were past wet for no explainable reason stage.

And you still feel weird. You’d been napping around noon, but you’ve done that a lot lately. You don’t need to pee, and you aren’t horny, and you would’ve felt your water breaking-

Not if you were asleep.

Fuck.

There are no contractions. You’ve read that there can be no contractions, and that they’ll probably start after, and you do feel weird. And it’s a lot of wetness. 

This isn’t good. It doesn’t help that when you stand up, there’s a dark stain on the mattress behind you. 

Fuck.

You shuffle into the war room, and Sam glances up at you with a small frown.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes? I- I feel fine.” You glance down at your stomach, sort of waiting for the contractions to punch into you without warning. “But I either wet the bed, or…”

You raise your brows, and you can see the moment Sam gets it. 

His eyes widen, his mouth falls open, and he shakes his head. “Your- your water?”

“Yeah. Sam-“

“No!”

You gape at him. “What do you mean no?”

“No! Put it back!”

“I- I can’t-“

“But Dean- I don’t know how to do this!” Sam’s panicking. Running his hand through his hair and shaking his head like he’s about to give birth. “I can’t mess this up for you guys, and I- I’ve delivered a baby, but it wasn’t this baby-“

“When did you- Shit.” You double over, and there it is. White-hot pain lacing through your whole body, starting in your stomach and shooting out. “Sam- I- Dean-“

“Fuck, he’s still at Garth’s-“

“Then get him here!” You’re forgetting how to be calm. Sam got to freak out. It’s only fair you do too. “Sam, I- I swear to fucking Hell and back, if you don’t get Dean-“

“His in Missouri,” Sam yells. “I can’t fucking teleport him-“

“So call Cas!”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. That’s the obvious thing, isn’t it-“

“Cas-“

“Right, let me-“

There’s a whooshing sound, and suddenly a firm hand is on your shoulder. But when you look at him, Cas is—somehow—paler than Sam. 

He mutters your name, scanning over you slowly. “You are in active labor.”

“I’m aware.” You mutter, slumping slightly over the table. “I- I need Dean-“

Cas nods, standing a little taller. “I can aid with that. We will meet you here?”

You shake your head. “Hospital- Don’t want Sam to deliver her-“

Sam blinks. “I thought you were on team boy-“

“That’s- Fuck-“ There’s another one. “I don’t care, I just- Dean-“

“I’ll take care of it.” Cas mutters, patting your head once. He might be trying to mimic Dean combing through your hair, and it’s not effective, but you still appreciate it. “Sam, drive her to the hospital.”

Before Sam can respond, Cas is gone.

You don’t think you’re going to remember much after this. It’s a painful blur of Sam helping you to the car and muttering apologies for his freak out, and the world spinning slightly through the whole drive. Sam’s talking, but you can’t really hear all of it. Everything is made of snapshots, as your brain tries to figure out how to deal with this. 

And then there’s the panic.

Bigger than the yelling at Sam panic. Bigger than the where’s Dean panic.

There’s a person in you. And it’s coming out. You don’t know how to do that. You’ve never done that. And animals and people do it every day, all the time, but you can die from it. Or the baby can die from it. And they don’t as much anymore—you’d spent a very long night several weeks ago, pouring over birth mortality statistics until Dean realized and took the computer away—but they can. Maybe you’re going to be bad at this. Maybe everyone can do this just fine but you, or some new big bad is going to appear in the hospital and try to kill Dean before he meets the baby, or the remaining rogue angels are going to try and take the baby, or Lucifer’s going to come back from the dead and do something-

“Hey.” Sam says your name, his voice soft over the rumble of the engine. “You’re going to be fine. There’s no world I can think of where Dean lets anything bad happen to either of you.”

“But I could do it wrong.” You whisper, nails digging into your palm and a stinging starting in your eyes. “Sam, what if I do it wrong-“

“You won’t do it wrong.”

“But-“

“You’ve gotten through worse.” Sam shrugs. “With less reward at the end, y’know? And this is- This is really cool. Don’t tell Dean I said this, or he’ll never shut up about it, but this is- If Dean can have this, have you, there’s a chance for me too. And you guys deserve this more than anyone I know, and I’m really excited. To get to have a person who never has to know about… everything. Never have to experience it.”

You take a shaking breath, and he’s right. You’ve survived a whole lot worse, without even knowing there was light at the end of the tunnel. And the baby will never have to know what was lost and done to get them here. 

And Dean will never let anything happen. To either of you.

“He’s going to be an awesome dad.” You mumble, running your hand over your stomach and Sam nods.

“Yeah, he’s- He’s really excited.” 

“I know.” You offer Sam a small smile. “And you’ll be a great uncle.”

You can see the bob of his throat, and Sam’s voice goes a little hoarse. “Thanks. You’ll be a great mom.”

“Thanks.” You repeat back, and when Sam offers his hand, you take it. 

You can do this. Dean will get here on time, and you can do this.

——————

Dean didn’t know it was possible to be this afraid. He should’ve known. Son of a bitch, he’s done shit a lot scarier than a childbirth. But other fear had always been undercut by an urgency or care.

Through most of his life it had been lined with anger. And when it hadn’t been anger, it had been the knowledge of life or death, how if he failed someone else would stuffer. And when he’d been afraid of Her—through the pregnancy—it had still been made of loving Her, and not wanting anything to go wrong.

There was no anger, here. Nothing to be angry at. Cas had grabbed him, gotten him to the hospital, and done some angel magic to the doctor when they freaked out about the two men just appearing in the room. Sam had stayed with Her, and was soothing Her with wide eyes and a pale face.

And She was doing so well. Only screaming and sweating, which was amazing, because the doctor let Dean look, and it was maybe the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen.

Beautiful, because that was his baby’s head, but still disgusting. It could be both. It was both. 

He’d wanted to ask if there should be blood, but freaking Her out was maybe the worst thing he’d ever do in his life. She needed him to be calm. Incredibly calm. Dean needed to hold Her hand—even as She almost crush his bone—keep Her hair out of Her face, and mutter that She was doing so well, sweetheart.

When She screamed that she hated him, Dean let it go. He’d hate him too, if there was a little person popping out of him and it was all his fault. 

But he’d been so careful. The whole pregnancy, Dean had known it would come to this, and he’d need to do everything that he could to make this easy. But now they were here, and he might not have done enough. Or he couldn’t have done fucking anything, because it had come to this, and it would always come to this, and no amount of breakfasts or holding Her was going to stop it. 

She really didn’t need Dean freaking out. She’d screamed with relief when She saw him. She’d been sobbing and both leaning into and away from Dean the entire time. And all he could do was wait, and stand here, and he fucking hated it.

He’d always been able to do something, when he was afraid. Fight. Shout at someone. Kill something. 

This was the opposite of killing.

Dean could only stand here, and wait.

And his mind had rarely been his friend, but right now it was out to get him. 

If this went perfectly—it would, it had to—Dean would have a kid. A child. Who needed him. And he’d all but raised Sammy, but that was different. Dad had still been there, and Dean hadn’t created Sammy. There had always been a sense of danger to protect Sammy from, and in a way, it had made things easier. Just like the fear, Dean could kill things that hurt Sam. He could target everything that would want to hurt Sam, and care for him knowing that it was just them, against the world.

But this kid would have a normal life. Dean would have to teach them how to read. Eat. Talk. Sleep. Walk. And he’d done some of that stuff for Sammy, but this would still be different.

This kid would look at Dean like he’d looked at Dad. He’d be able to disappoint and fail them, the way Dad had disappointed and failed him. 

And when he looked at Her, eyes squeezed shut and doing so good, Dean didn’t know what he’d do, if something happened to Her like had happened to Mom. And he wished he didn’t understand why Dad went off the deep end. Just the thought made Dean a little fucking sick, and his jaw clench as a pointless fury rushed through his body. He’d kill anything that hurt Her. That was simple enough.

But the baby. Dean’s baby. 

Crying. 

There was crying.

Shit.

“Congratulations, mom and dad.” The doctor smiled at them, passing the baby—that was a fucking baby—into the hands of a midwife. “You’ve got a healthy baby girl.”

Dad. 

Dean was Dad.

And everything was still moving too fast. They had to clean the baby off, and cut the umbilical cord, and they all got weird bracelets to prevent a baby swap. She got to hold the baby for a second—Dean standing stupidly over Her shoulder, not totally sure this wasn’t just a dream—before the midwife carefully pried them apart, and went to do a bunch of other medical stuff Dean didn’t understand. 

“Cas.” Dean muttered, not flinching when Cas appeared at his side and watching the baby—his baby—be carried away. “Can you-“

“Done.” Cas paused before vanishing, giving Dean a small grin. “Congratulations. They are a universal blood donor, and will have your eyes.”

Dean hadn’t even seen its eyes yet. “Thanks.”

Cas vanished, and She was tugging on Dean’s hand, still crying, and he was finally allowed to climb into bed with Her once the midwives made sure she just needed rest.

“Where are they taking her,” She mumbled into Dean’s chest, fingers curled in his shirt. “Dean, is she okay-“

“She’s fine” Dean muttered. “She’s beautiful, sweetheart, you did good.”

“Why can’t she stay here-“

“They’ve gotta make sure she’s healthy. Don’t worry, sent Cas to double check. He’s more reliable anyway.”

She nodded slowly. “You won.”

“What?”

“It’s a girl. She. She’s here.” She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “She- She needs a name, I think.”

Dean chuckled. “Probably, yeah.”

There was a long silence, and She leaned back, giving Dean an odd look. “What did you choose?”

Dean blinked at Her for a second before he remembered. The bet. If it’s a boy, she names him. If it’s a girl, Dean names her. And it was a girl. Is a girl. And Dean gets to name her, because he won.

“You forgot, didn’t you.”

“It’s been a long day,” he grumbled, tucking Her back into his chest. “I was busy.”

“You were busy?”

“Emotional support is a consuming job, sweetheart.”

She giggled, rolling Her eyes. “Shut up.”

Dean obeyed, kissed Her brow, and paused. Their baby would need a name.

And he’d found Her list, hidden in the sock drawer. With boy and girl names, despite Her being so firm that it would be a boy. She’d even highlighted the gender-neutral ones, and starred the ones that were after someone.

And Dean didn’t want to name the baby after anyone—although he hadn’t missed how John and Mary weren’t included—but he still wanted to honor someone. He didn’t want the baby to be weighed down with the sins of Dean’s past.

He didn’t want to forget about everyone who’d gotten him here.

And he’d really liked one name. It had been honoring and after with only the right amount of pain to hear.

“How about Charlotte?” He mumbled, trying to say it like it was a suggestion. It was Her baby. She’d done all the work. Dean didn’t have any more of a right to name their daughter, just cause he won a bet. “Think it means free or something.”

“You think?”

“I know. Googled it.” Dean sighed. “Could be Charlie. For short.”

Dean heard Her slow breath, and She hummed against him. “I like that.”

Dean liked it too.

And She passed out soon after. She’d had a long day. And Dean still just needed to be here. He told the lady who came in a few minutes after that the baby should be named Charlotte Ella Winchester—the Ella was Her idea, like Ellen, but smoother—Sam moved in and out, and then suddenly, the baby was there.

“I, uh-“ Dean glanced at Her, still passed out on the bed. “Shouldn’t we wait for my wife-“

“Mom should keep sleeping. She’ll need it. And you’re Dad.” The midwives extended Charlotte—the baby had a name now—out to Dean, and he was frozen. “You should get to hold her too.”

He should. He’d need to. Dad hadn’t really held Sammy, not often. Dean was trying to be better than Dad.

The midwife passed Dean his daughter after he took off his shirt—something about skin-to-skin contact, and if the lady had any thoughts about Dean’s scars or tattoo, she was smart enough not to say anything—and he would be better than Dad.

Because looking at his daughter, Dean knew that—should the same thing happen to Her that had happened to Mom—he would never let himself do to Charlotte what Dad did to him. She was perfect. Small and peaceful, leaning into Dean’s chest like it was nothing. 

And it was.

To Charlotte, Dean would only ever be Dad. No matter what, she’d be comfortable. Happy. This peaceful all the time. And Dean would teach her how to defend herself from the darkest parts of the world, but only when she was ready. Only when she asked why Mommy gets nightmares and Daddy keeps a gun in every single room. Why uncle Sammy has long periods where he doesn’t sleep at all, and uncle Cas is always staring at the walls and vanishing for days at a time. Otherwise Charlie would just be happy. No matter how much Dean hurts, Charlie will just be happy.

“Hi, baby.” He whispered, and Charlie didn’t stir at all. How could she. To her, the world was big and scary, but she had Dean. And she seemed to trust that.

Dean would do damn near everything to make sure he deserved this. To not fuck it up.

“My- I had a dad too.” He muttered, watching Charlie’s little chest rise and fall. “He’s gone now. One day I’ll tell you about the better bits of him. He had a good singing voice, and- Made good burgers. But there were also… worse parts. A lotta worse parts. And I promise,” Dean leaned forward, keeping his voice soft. “I’m not gonna be that for you. I’ll be whatever type of Dad you need me to be, and I’ll take care of you and your mom. You’ll love your mom. She’s the best of any of us, and I’m still not sure what I did to make her want me, but I’ve promised not to let her down. Won’t let either of you down.” He swallowed as Charlie let out the tiniest sigh he’d ever heard, his voice growing hoarse. “Swear it.”

“You’re so cute.”

Dean looked up to see Her smiling, and he couldn’t stop himself grinning back. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi.” She whispered, Her eyes flicking back down to Charlie. “Can you-“

Dean moved without another word, dropping at Her side on the bed and passing Charlie into her arms.

“She looks like you.” She mumbled, and Dean nodded.

“Cas said she’ll have my eyes. And that she’s a universal donor.”

“That’s good.” Her voice was soft, and when She glanced up at Dean, her eyes were glossy. “You’re gonna be a great dad, De. And we’ll always want you.”

A lump was forming in his throat. “Thanks. I love you- Both of you. Love you both.”

“I know.” She hummed, Her smiling growing, and Dean might be the luckiest son of a bitch alive. “You wouldn’t let me forget if I tried.”

End Note: I just want him to be happy while John suffers. Is that too much to ask.

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[aftertheleaving]

BED ME IN BLÜDHAVEN

Pairing: Dick Grayson x fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,625

Genre: Smut, one-shot

Warnings: Explicit smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), semi-public flirting, alcohol (champagne), mention of stripping (non-judgmental), praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, soft aftercare

Notes: First fic!! Be gentle. This was pure indulgence and I regret nothing. This has been sat in haitus until 3 hours ago for *checks date* 11 months. Uhmmmm yeah so First time writing smut.

Set loosely post-gala, reader-insert format, 2nd person POV. Dick is a menace in the sheets and you’ll thank him for it.

You told your friend you weren’t the right person to bring to a gala — let alone a Wayne gala. But she had insisted, and you’re not a bad friend, so you let all further arguments die in your throat and agreed.

She dressed you up, picked the dress, did your makeup — even chose your perfume, all under the guise that for your first time attending a gala, you had to be perfect.

And now, here you are: pressed into an alcove with none other than Richard Grayson himself — or, as he prefers, Dick.

You’d both been eyeing each other all night from across the room. Slowly inching closer with every pass, every glance, every accidental brush of attention. Then came the introductions. Aimless, flirty conversation that got nowhere fast — but neither of you seemed to care.

Now, five champagne flutes later, you're half-dizzy and mulling over his offer to go to his place.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, trying to keep your tone casual. You fail — it comes out a little breathless.

He smiles. “Sweet.”

He gently takes you by the arm, the warmth of his hand steady and confident as he leads you through the crowd. Before stepping out, he disposes of both your champagne flutes with a grace that feels almost too polished. You notice he’s only had one drink all night — deliberate. Responsible.

At the bike, he crouches without a word and starts unlacing his shoes.

“What are you—?”

“You’re not walking into my building barefoot,” he says. “And you can’t ride in those heels.”

You blink. He slides his shoes toward you.

“And here,” he adds, peeling off his jacket, “you’ll want this. That dress might hike up when you’re on the bike.”

You slip it on. It’s warm. Smells like him.

The ride to Blüdhaven blurs. His bike hums beneath you, the city lights flashing past like comets. One of his hands stays on your thigh behind him the entire way, thumb tracing soft, slow circles. Comforting. Possessive. It only ever leaves you when he shifts his grip to navigate sharp corners — and every time it returns, it feels bolder.

By the time you pull up to his apartment, your heart is pounding again.

He helps you off the bike, keeps his hand on your lower back as he walks you upstairs. You barely register the sound of the key in the door before it swings shut — and then he’s on you.

His hand cups your cheek as his lips crash against yours, warm and demanding. His other hand finds your waist, drawing you flush against him.

“I’ve wanted you since I saw you walk into that gala,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You let out a slight whimper when his hands grip your waist a bit tighter and he tilts his head to kiss you at a better angle, biting your lip and running his tongue along it, prodding you to open up. You obey his request and part your lips, letting him in — his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that makes your knees wobble.

Without breaking the kiss, his hands shift, firm on your hips, guiding you backward with slow, intentional steps. You feel the click of a door opening behind you, cool air brushing the back of your legs as you step into the darker room.

It smells like him.

Faint leather, like the inside of a motorcycle jacket. Gasoline — just a trace, like it’s clinging to the edge of a memory. And something warmer… maybe vanilla, or toasted marshmallow — you can’t tell, only that it’s soft and sweet and him.

The air feels heavier in here.

He walks you backward until your knees bump the edge of the bed. Finally, he breaks the kiss — not harshly, but slowly, like he’s reluctant to let go. His eyes lock onto yours as he presses a hand to your shoulder and gently nudges you back.

You fall onto the mattress, breath catching in your throat, and he just watches for a second — gaze roaming over you, lips parted like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you laid out for him.

He stands there for another second or two before he swiftly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles flexing with the movement, the soft lighting casting golden shadows along the lines of his chest and stomach. You barely have a second to breathe before he’s on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as he crawls forward, slow and deliberate, until he hovers over you.

He holds himself up on his forearms, dipping low enough that the warmth of his breath fans across your skin. One hand reaches up, fingers threading gently through your hair to tuck a strand behind your ear. Then he leans in — lips brushing your jaw with light, teasing kisses that gradually trail down to the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe.

He lingers there, open-mouthed, sucking kisses into your skin until you're arching slightly into him, head tilting to give him more. A shaky, breathy moan leaves your lips as your eyes flutter shut — every nerve buzzing under the slow drag of his mouth.

His hands roam your sides, gliding up and down in slow, reverent strokes like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with touch alone. Then, pausing for a breath, he lifts one hand — calloused fingers brushing over your left shoulder where your dress strap rests.

He hooks a finger under it, but doesn’t tug. Not yet. His head lifts, and he looks down at you — his expression soft but intense, eyes dark with want, but patient.

“May I?” he asks, voice low and slightly husky, one brow raised ever so slightly, as if even now he wants to make sure you’re with him. That you want this too.

You nod, lips parting slightly as your hand reaches up to pull him back down into a kiss. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply before pulling away just enough to tap your hip.

“Lift up for me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You do, hips tilting up as he gently slides the dress down your body, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited forever to open. The fabric slips past your legs and off the bed, leaving you in nothing but your panties — the built-in bra long gone with the dress.

He breathes out, eyes dragging down your form with something reverent behind them. “So, so pretty,” he whispers, voice soft but full of need.

Then he leans back in, lips trailing from your mouth down your jaw again, to your neck, pressing slow kisses that grow warmer and more desperate. His path continues downward — past the hollow of your throat, over the tops of your breasts — until his mouth finds one.

His hand slides up to cup the other as his lips wrap around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking gently, then harder when you let out a sharp breath and a soft moan. He groans in response, clearly loving every sound he pulls from you. He gives the same attention to the other, lips and hands working in tandem, until your back arches and your fingers tangle in the sheets.

Then, with one final kiss between your breasts, he begins to move lower. Kissing down your stomach, slow and thorough, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

He pauses, looking up at you.

“Please,” you breathe, voice almost shaking, chest rising and falling with every second of tension.

He smirks — a soft, knowing thing — and dips down, using his mouth to grip the waistband, pulling them down with maddening slowness until they’re off and tossed somewhere behind him.

He sits back on his haunches, eyes roaming your body like he’s starving. His lips part, breath coming heavier now.

“So beautiful,” he whispers again, almost to himself.

Then he leans forward, hands running slowly up the outsides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin near your hips.

He shifts slowly, lowering himself between your legs, hands spreading your thighs gently as he settles in. His breath hitches the moment he sees you — already wet, glistening in the low light of his room.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost reverently, eyes locked on your center.

He swallows thickly, then looks up at you one more time. “You sure you want to do this?”

You nod, a need-filled whisper tumbling from your lips. “Need you, Dick.”

That’s all he needs.

He nods once, serious and calm, and brings his hand up. His fingers trail lightly through your folds, parting you slowly. You twitch under his touch, already slick and pulsing with need.

“You’re so wet for me already,” he says softly, almost in awe, “and I haven’t even really touched you yet.”

Before you can reply, mid-sentence — with absolutely no warning — he presses a single finger into you. You gasp, hips twitching up, unprepared for the sudden fullness.

“God,” he groans, eyes flicking up to yours, “so tight... and it’s just one finger.”

He starts a slow rhythm, finger curling just right with each pump, stretching you, loosening you up. The way your body squeezes around the digit makes him groan again.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours now, “taking me so well already.”

His free hand rests on your thigh, grounding you while the other works steadily. Each movement is precise, practiced — meant to tease and prep and make you fall apart just from this.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises softly, voice dropping lower, “gonna make you feel even better.”

Without pulling away, he leans in to kiss your inner thigh, slow and reverent, while his hand keeps its rhythm — and then he slides in a second finger. You arch beneath him, a breathy moan slipping from your lips at the stretch.

“Still so tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But fuck… your body’s taking it.”

His fingers curl, hitting that sensitive spot just right, and then—his thumb presses down, firm and unrelenting, against your clit. He begins slow, steady circles, gauging your every reaction, eyes locked on your face.

“I want you to come just like this,” he whispers, voice deep and rough. “On my fingers. Want to feel you pulse around me, hear you moan for me.”

His mouth is everywhere now—kisses on your inner thigh, your hipbone, then back to your stomach. But his hand never stops, never slows. He keeps curling his fingers perfectly with each stroke, rubbing tight circles over your clit with his thumb.

“You’re getting close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your stomach, smirking when you whimper and nod. “I can feel it… the way you’re clenching—fuck, that’s so hot.”

His pace intensifies just slightly, not rushing, but purposeful. You’re shaking now, legs tensing under his weight.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice low and urgent. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Your breathing hitches, the pressure inside you coiling tighter with every curl of his fingers and swipe of his thumb. Each motion is deliberate, practiced — he knows exactly what he’s doing. Your body’s trembling, the pleasure building sharp and dizzying like a wave gathering force just before the crash.

Your hips buck without your permission, grinding into his hand, chasing the high that’s about to hit. Your thighs tense around his arm, your hand flying out to grip at his forearm—digging in, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks as the rhythm of his fingers sends you teetering on the edge.

“God—Dick, I—” you gasp, barely forming words. The pressure peaks, and then—

You fall apart.

Your whole body jolts with the release. Your back arches, mouth falling open in a silent cry before the moans spill out. Your muscles clench hard around his fingers, pulsing with the force of your orgasm. Your head tilts back into the sheets, lips parted, and all you can do is ride the waves of pleasure as they crash over you, again and again.

He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even hesitate.

The second your orgasm hits, he pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and lowers himself without a word. His hands find your thighs, spreading you open, holding you in place as his mouth meets your center with reverence and hunger.

He moans the moment his tongue finds you, like you’re his favorite flavor.

“Fuck—you taste so good,” he groans against you, voice muffled by your heat. “So sweet… I need more.”

His tongue starts slow, long languid licks through your folds, savoring every drop of your release. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open for him as he kisses your pussy like he means to worship it — teasing, tracing circles, then diving in deeper, tongue flicking your clit and drawing out another moan from your already oversensitive body.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes between licks. “Could do this all fucking night.”

And with the way he’s eating you out like a man starved, you believe it.

You’re shaking.

Every nerve ending is raw now, buzzing with the aftershocks of the first orgasm, and yet he’s still between your thighs, merciless in his patience.

His tongue drags up your slit in maddeningly slow, treacherous licks, savoring every flick, every reaction he wrings from you. It’s too much — but not enough. Your hips jerk at each pass of his tongue, and when he lets his finger join in, pressing a lazy, slow circle against your clit — you whimper, thighs twitching.

“Fuck—Dick, I can’t—” you gasp, the edge of overstimulation turning everything sharp and electric.

But when you try to clamp your legs closed around his head, he just grunts against you, unbothered. One strong arm holds your thigh back, his elbow braced just right so the hand circling your clit doesn’t stop. His other palm keeps your leg spread wide. You’re helpless like this. Exposed, pulsing, trembling — and he knows it.

“C’mon, baby,” he mutters against your cunt, the vibration of his voice making you jolt. “Let me have one more. Just one more.”

The words send another jolt through you. Your hands fly to his hair, fisting tight, trying to ground yourself as he keeps licking—deliberate, torturous. He alternates between featherlight flicks and deep, flat swipes, never giving you the rhythm your body craves, just teasing and dragging it out.

You’re bucking into his face, whimpering now, moaning shamelessly as your second climax creeps up slow. So slow it feels unbearable. A dull burn, tightening and tightening until you’re panting, eyes screwed shut, fingers yanking at his hair.

And he’s so hard it hurts.

Still in his suit trousers, he can feel his cock throbbing, leaking through the fabric. But he doesn't stop. Can’t stop — not when your moans sound like this. Not when you're this wet and trembling against his mouth. Not when he can taste how close you are.

“Please—Dick, I—ohmygod—” Your breath comes in short, choked bursts as he presses his tongue hard against your clit now, sucking it between his lips just once before replacing it again with his fingers — faster, this time.

You’re spiraling.

The pressure explodes all at once.

Your body arches off the bed, thighs shaking as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. Your breath stutters — a sob of pleasure ripping from your chest — and you can’t stop the way you cry out his name, drawn out and raw.

“Dick—fuck—!”

He doesn’t stop. He holds you open, tongue still working you through it, gentler now, but persistent. Like he’s determined to taste every shiver, every twitch of your hips. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling, gripping tight as your body rides the high, drawn out by his hands, his mouth, his absolute devotion to your pleasure.

Finally, finally — the aftershocks subside. Your body slumps back to the mattress, limp, breathless, overwhelmed.

He pulls back just a bit, his mouth wet, lips parted. His eyes rake over you — all flushed skin and trembling limbs — and he looks proud, like he just unlocked some secret in you.

But then he shifts.

He starts crawling up the bed toward you, slow and deliberate. One hand slides up your thigh again, but this time it’s not to hold you still. It’s to press the thick, aching outline of his cock — still straining behind his dress pants — against the inside of your thigh.

“Can you give me one more?” he asks, voice rough, low, pupils blown wide with want. He leans in, mouth ghosting over your cheek as his hand trails from your thigh to your waist, anchoring there. “Can I have you now? I need you, baby. I need to feel you.”

And you can’t even think — the answer’s already leaving your lips before you’re aware of it.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Need you, Dick. Need your cock. Now.”

He groans, head falling to your shoulder as he curses under his breath — like those words alone nearly undid him.

“Fuck,” he says, voice hoarse. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He slowly undoes the button on his pants, the faintest clink breaking the quiet between you. You watch as he pulls the zipper down and slides the fabric off, revealing his boxer briefs. His cock springs free, hard and leaking pre-cum, the tip glistening with anticipation as it presses gently against his stomach.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. Then, with a slow, careful motion, he guides himself forward, the tip sliding just past your folds. His eyes lock onto yours, searching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.

When you give the faintest nod, he eases in deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. He pauses, giving you time to adjust, his hand steadying your leg as he shifts slowly. When you tap him gently, signaling he can move, he pulls back just slightly before sliding forward again.

Your moans mix together, low and urgent, as he sets a steady rhythm—changing the angle to find exactly where you need him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clutching his hair as he buries himself deeper, the tightness wrapping around him like a glove.

The heat between you intensifies as he moves, each slow thrust driving deeper, drawing out your moans. His grip on your hips tightens just enough to keep you grounded, while his other hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer with every motion. Your body arches instinctively, matching his pace, craving more of the delicious pressure and connection.

His breath hitches against your skin as he kisses your jaw, trailing down to your neck with soft, desperate nips. The scent of him—something like leather and warmth—wraps around you, making your head spin.

You feel your walls flutter tightening around him as you edge closer to your release, the ache building hotter and hotter. He senses it too, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, deeper, seeking to push you over the edge. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

And then, with a shuddering moan, your body clenches around him, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. He holds you steady, his own groan vibrating deep in his chest as he rides out your pleasure, lips pressed to your temple, whispering how beautiful you are.

He doesn't stop moving until his rhythm falters—thrusts turning sloppy, desperate—and the tight grip he has on your hips becomes possessive. His forehead presses to yours, lips parted as his breath fans over your cheek, and then with one deep, shuddering groan that rumbles through his chest—low, sinful, and wrecked—he spills inside you. The sound of his release, the heat of it, sends a final thrill down your spine.

For a moment, neither of you moves. He holds himself over you, catching his breath, eyes fluttering closed as he whispers your name like it’s sacred. Then, slowly and carefully, he lowers himself to rest on top of you, supporting most of his weight on his forearms, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin, voice still hoarse and breathless.

You nod, still panting. “Yeah… more than okay.”

A soft, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “You’re amazing,” he says gently, brushing a stray hair from your face before slowly pulling out, hissing a little at the sensitivity.

You flinch slightly too, body twitching at the overstimulation. “Sorry,” he whispers with a wince. “I’ll be right back.”

He stands and disappears for a minute, returning with a warm, damp towel. “Let me take care of you,” he says softly, kneeling beside you as he starts to gently clean you up. Every so often, you twitch again and he murmurs apologies with every touch. Once he’s done, he sets the towel aside and offers you one of his shirts to slip into, waiting until you’re comfortable before quickly cleaning himself up too.

Then he climbs into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up over both your bodies. He reaches for you immediately, gathering you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin.

You feel his heartbeat slowing down against your cheek. His thumb strokes lazy circles along your back as you start to drift, and the last thing you hear is his voice, low and content:

“Stay with me tonight, yeah?

You only manage a quiet, sleepy “yeah” in response as he presses a kiss to your hair—and though he doesn’t ask, you’re sure you feel him smile.

Tbh went better than I expected. Anyway I'm open to minor criticism and feedback on if I need improvements or some shit. Anyway bye bye.

[sugusat]

Street Racer! Suguru x Bimbo! Reader

TLDR: You and Suguru broke up a few months ago but you’re both down BAD for each other. Lots of yearning :((( Smut will be in part 2 !!!

I don’t know much about cars so apologies for the inaccuracies, it’s just for fun. Basically fast and furious inspired - unedited/no trigger warnings

Street racer Suguru and bimbo reader who broke up a few months ago but Suguru couldn’t let you go, couldn’t take you off his mind for a second. You broke up with Suguru in a fit of rage after he drove a little too dangerous after being incredibly jealous all night at a bustling house party. It’s not your fault you’re attractive and guys wanted you. Besides everyone knew you were Sugurus anyway. But a couple of guys from out of town hadn’t realised the rules that came with dating the no1 street driver in Tokyo and decided to try their luck. It was nice to get attention for once and you only giggled at one.. okay, maybe two of their jokes. But this was enough to tip Suguru over the edge, knocking one of the guys out and dragging you out of the party.

So two screaming matches later when Suguru shouted for you to get back in the car, promising he would calm down on the possessiveness, you didn’t believe it and you were finally just done. 2 months later, you were now here. Miserable, but both too damn stubborn to admit it, or do anything about it.

You arrived at the latest race hosted in some back streets of Shibuya, Shoko and you linking arms, giggling away together. This was needed, a night of fast cars and forgetting all your problems. You didn’t think he would be here tonight, Gojo had told you as much, and you had missed the atmosphere a big race caused. There was a spark of excitement in the air and you could smell the fuel burning, engines humming, ready to be rattled around. You should have been feeling on top of the world, newly single, outfit looking immaculate and incredibly cute! But you still couldn’t help the sinking feeling in your chest, your eyes glancing around, searching for that broad build and deep voice without even realising.

“I told you, he’s not coming y/n” Shoko said with a sigh as she dragged you around the many approaching cars. You let out a huff and shook your head, “I know, and I don’t care. I don’t even know what you’re talking about anyway,” you replied with a roll of your eyes.

“Ya, sure about that one,” Shoko huffed as you walked back into zone, you had been asked by Saturo to wave the first two racers of the night off and you couldn’t resist. The best part about these races was being the girl at the front of race, the rush of the cars flying past you, it was like nothing else.

And with no ex boyfriend lurking around, making sure no one got too close but not speaking to you either. This couldn’t be better! Or so you thought..

Sugurus stomach dropped, slowly rolling his car up and seeing you stood there. Fuck he had missed you, and that little skirt you currently had on.

He had been an idiot that night, got too complacent with you always doing what he said. He saw two men flirting with you, and just saw red. Were people really that stupid to go after his sweetheart??

Well in a way they had succeeded as he hadn’t been yours for 2 months now and it sucked. He wanted to get you back but you were always huffing that it was better this way and the space was good for you both. Or at least that’s was Saturo said.. Other than to drop some clothes off at his, you had barely spoke to him these last two months. And now you were stood here, in that pretty outfit, hair done just the way he liked, smirking with the familiar glint in your eye whenever you got to wave the racers off.

As everyone checked out both cars, Suguru pulled the door up on his ride and stepped out, his eyes trained entirely on you. You stood in between the two cars, frowning, almost scowling at his unexpected arrival. The scowl on your face was just a mask though because shit.

He looked hot.

Black cargos hung low against his waist whilst he wore a loose oversized band tee, his hair was tied in a messy bun and those wispy bits still escaped. The ones you used to always push out of his face, especially after a tough race. He made his way towards you and you gulped, turning to grip the smooth metal of the other car that had been entered in tonight’s race. Letting nonchalance wash over your face, stared down into the shiny engine of the car. Pretending like the man who hadn’t left your thoughts for the last two months wasn’t headed right for you.

“Hey sweetheart..” Suguru said lowly, a breadth away from your ear as you felt the slight arch of your backside jolt into his front. You loudly huffed and gripped the bonnet, that familiar nickname bringing up an anger you had almost forgotten was there.

“Su-gu-ru “ you said childishly as you refused to meet his eye, his body still an inch away from yours. You could smell him now, his familiar scent wafting around you, threatening any resolve you had trained into yourself over the last few months.

Sugurus deep chuckle came from behind as he knew how much he was affecting you just from that name. “Come onnn baby, you’re not even gonna look at me?” Suguru grinned as he leant against the car, his hand almost brushing your own tightly gripped one.

“We broke up Suguru, you don’t get to call me those names anymore.” You muttered, peering into the bonnet of the car, pretending like you totally knew what you were looking at.

“Ah, and in that time have you become a car expert all of a sudden? Find a better teacher than me baby, hm?” Suguru chimed, pretending to also be interested in what the other racer had to offer. He knew it would be nothing on what he had under the hood anyway.

“Hmpm, maybe I did,” you huffed, flinching away as his body pressed in further, pretending to get a better view at something else in the car. “That’s a real shame,” Suguru said in a sultry tone that always made you at his mercy.

Taking a deep breath you looked up at him suddenly, with a huff you glanced through those big doe eyes and said “What do you want Suguru?” You surprised yourself at how normal you sounded, how unaffected by his presence.

“I miss you baby, it shouldn’t be like this..” he mewled whilst taking a strand of your hair and twirling it around his finger.

You paused for a moment and then snapped your head to the right, pulling that strand of hair straight out of his hand. He lightly pouted as your face scowled up at him.

“Whatever Suguru,” you huffed, refusing to meet his eyes again as your heart tugged with him being so close.

Suguru laughed again, god he had missed your little tantrums. He did get sick of them, but not having them at all was terrible. He’d do anything to have you back, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say that. “Fine sweetheart, I’ll do you a wager..” Suguru said, his fingers had now found their way to the curve of your hips, lightly grazing the naked skin, as goosebumps pebbled. You glanced up at him, intrigued by the suggestion and already a little breathless.

“If I win this race, you let me take you on a make up date. And if I loose, I’ll leave you alone. No more nicknames, nothing..” and despite that wager, your heart sunk a little at the idea of never hearing those silly names from his mouth. Your lips came together in a thoughtful pout, mulling the suggestion. His fingers now lazily drew circles on your hips, distracting your thoughts.

It took everything in him to prompt that idea, immediately regretting it. There was other ways to win you back. He knew he would win, but he didn’t like to tempt fate, and this felt an awful lot like doing just that.

Your big round eyes calculated the odds in that pretty little head before gazing up at him and nodding. You knew it was very likely he’d win, hell you’d been to every race of his since you were both young, had always been the one cheering him on before you became more than friends. And it didn’t take a genius to know this rookie didn’t stand a chance, especially with the state of his car..even you knew this.

And you knew even more that it was stupid to even entertain going out with him again, but with the way he was looking and how close he had been, you found it hard to remember why you even broke up in the first place.

So here you stood, a few minutes later, in between two very loud and aggressive cars getting ready to wave them off. Suguru revved his car as you stood smiling smugly at both drivers. He gripped the steering wheel hard and raised a single eyebrow at you in a challenge.

You said your usual speech for these kind of races. Then holding your arms in the air as you lowered your head, you gave Suguru a grin that was only ever reserved for him, the other racer completely forgotten. Just as you were about to lower your arms Suguru winked at you, and with a smirk of his own they were off. Whizzing past you, you turned to watch both cars leave you in the dust as everyone gathered round to cheer. Everyone made quick work to head to the finish line as you heard Sugurus throaty engine rev in the distance.

You now stood at the finish line, awaiting those two cars, ready to see who would be the winner that would decide your fate. Your belly pooled with adrenaline, this race having more stakes on it than ever, a small part of your brain said it was obvious but still you had doubts. From what Gojo had reported monitoring both cars through trackers and drones as usual, it was pretty neck and neck. This new rookie was surprising everyone tonight, and your palms were sweaty with anticipation.

“He’ll be fine,” Shoko said as she came to stand next to you, handing you her cigarette. “I-I know that, I’m not worried anyway..” Shoko laughed as you nervously took a drag, she knew you needed something to take your mind off it.

“I did something stupid Shoko..” you suddenly said as she looked out into the road, also waiting for the cars to make it round the corner.

“As stupid as ending it with Suguru over a petty fight..?” Shoko murmured under her breath as you shot a glare in her direction.

“Erm, maybe..” “He gave me a wager.. if he wins, he takes me on a date and if not, he leaves me alone.. for good.” Shoko’s eyes widened at the last part. She knew how much you’d been pining for Suguru since you decided to end it that fateful night but she also knew how damn stubborn you both were. And she didn’t know if either of those ideas were good.

“Tsk, you both need your heads banging together. Guess he has no choice but to win now.” Shoko tutted as you anxiously bit your lip.

The two racers finally making it around the corner at a staggering pace, Sugurus back end came out on the corner and you shrieked, the stupid rookie racer gained pace over Suguru and suddenly it felt like the entire crowd was holding their breath. But then his car straightened and Suguru was zooming past, over taking the rookie with ease. And then he was past the finish line, the car spinning round in celebration.

You couldn’t hide the grin that graced your face as Suguru pulled to a stop and climbed out of his car with calm smile on his face. A small laugh leaving his body as Gojo ran over hyping him up, explaining some tech things that went in one ear and out the other as he caught your eye.

You hadn’t moved from your spot and Suguru found you in the crowd, his eyes now trained on you, not leaving your face for a second. You shook your head as you rolled your eyes and smiled, all knowing what was to come next. Saturo now realising where his eyes were on you, shut the hell up about the car tech and said “Thank fuck you won, now go show her a good time,”

———————

Part 2 will be coming soon and it’ll be smutty :))))

Thank u for reading!

[dixonsstinkysock]

Our Words.

summary - Sometimes our words can mean more than our actions.

pairing - daryl dixon x reader

warnings - Mentions of death/the dead…

notes - @dixondisease ‘s amazing idea!!! LINK HERE. Check it out!! 💚 (also go check out @mee30p ‘s version it’s amazinggggg!!! LINK HERE. )

main masterlist | daryl dixon masterlist

Tensions were high and the hundreds of walkers about to tear down your safehouse wasn’t helping either. Daryl was trying to find the quickest way out of the gas station while you looked for any supplies you could take with you. You thought you and Daryl were on good terms when you left and you were. Everything that could go wrong today did and it’s all getting to him. He never wanted to put you in danger like this, he knew that this trip was going to be risky and he didn’t even want you to come in the first place.

As usual, you insisted, wanting to get out of the walls of your home for the longest now. Don’t get me wrong, you loved your community and everyone in it but it can get suffocating sometimes. Especially, when your husband is always out on runs getting supplies for you all while you stay back taking care of things at home.

In all honesty, the real reason you wanted to come on this run was because you missed Daryl. Having been attached to the hip since the Quarry, it was unusual to be apart for so long. So he let you come, he let you come with and now you are both trapped in this rickety gas station with about a hundred walkers hunting their next meal. You turn at the sound of your husband grunting, stopping your search for anything useful. Daryl is trying to tear off the wood that was used to repair the station roof. It looked brand new, but it was a shitty repair job so you were pretty sure Daryl would be able to take that down quickly.

“You need any help?” you questioned, carelessly throwing down the expired candy and standing. Daryl pauses for a moment, taking a break and looking back at you.

“ Nah…I got it.”

The pounding from outside was getting quieter, Some of the walking dead getting disinterested and going after something else. Eventually, you thought, they would go away all together. But, would the building go first? Daryl isn’t the only one who has been stressed recently. You’ve kinda been going off the walls, taking care of almost everything around your community and the community’s children was exhausting. You sort of became the community’s babysitter? Anyone who needed to go on a run or go to any type of job came to you when they needed their kids to be watched.

Back to my point, you were stressed, Daryl was stressed, and your situation wasn’t helping so you can see where this is gonna go. “There’s nothing of use here…you make any progress?”

He scoffs “What does it look like, (Y/N)?” He pauses again before going back to what he was doing. You decide he’s never going to ask for help so you take it upon yourself to help anyway, it was better than standing around after all. You grab the 2-step stool from behind the counter, placing it next to Daryl’s stool and stepping up. “Just let me know what you need me to do and I’ll do it–”

“I said I didn’t need help!” He finally gets one board loose, 4 more to go.

“Obviously you do, you’ve been working on that same board for 30 minutes.” The windows were starting to crack, were there more walkers outside?

“Alrigh’ you wanna help?” You nod, eager to get out of this place “Then get outta my way.” He knocks another board loose, one coming down with the other. 2 more to go.

“Fine, but if I die here because you’re too stubborn to accept help I’m gonna be pissed.”

You step down from the stool, the banging against the now weak walls getting louder and more aggressive. It Seems like they doubled? You slowly walk around the empty shelves.

“...Daryl?” You were right.

“Daryl!” They did double, triple even.

“What?!” It was a herd.

The windows shatter as Daryl knocks the rest of the boards down. Your arms cover your face as glass is sprayed everywhere, you turn, running back to where Daryl was. He lifts you up, pushing you through the small hole first. You hold your hand out to him to pull him up. The dead have taken over now, one of them grabs his ankle, its rotting jaw opening to feed. You can’t find your weapon so you use the next best thing, your bag. It was perfect, your bag was heavy enough to knock down the walker and pull Daryl out of there. Now you two just need to take the stuff you found on the run and head home…

“Uh…Baby?’

“What?” Daryl is leaned up against the attic wall, who knew gas stations had attics?

“You have everything we scavenged right?”

“No. You did. Why?”

Even though the groans and growls of the dead were loud and unmistakable it felt quiet as you realised what you just did. A rookie mistake, but it honestly wasn’t your fault, why did you have everything in the first place? Well you don’t have anything anymore, the walkers do.

“I uh…I don’t have it anymore.”

—------------------

Daryl’s been quiet since the incident at the gas station, you saved his life–leg and in turn lost all the supplies you had acquired during the 2-day run. You two set up a camp far enough to be out of the direction of the herd but close enough to make an easy trip back to the station to get your supplies. Now sitting around the small fire, you wonder whether or not it’s a good idea to start a conversation right now.

“Daryl…I’m sorry–”

“Yeah, you should be” He scoffs “Do you even realise what you just cost us?”

You weren’t taken aback by his outburst as much as you were his words. “What..What I cost us? I saved your life!”

“I was fine, it didn’t even have that good of a grip on me, yet you decided it’d be a good idea to just give it all of our supplies!” Daryl’s voice raises a bit higher than yours, his hands that were sharpening his knife stills. Now it’s your turn to scoff, “Daryl, I said I was sorry. I’d rather have you than have a few bottles of medicine and a stale candy bar.”

“Really? Tell your brother that.”

“What?” Your voice shakes, attempting to hold back the tears that want to spill. The last time you saw your brother, you two were going through a pharmacy. All you had found was ibuprofen and a couple of melted chocolate bars. It was better than nothing and it was obvious someone had been through there already. You two got cornered, coincidentally by the people who ransacked that pharmacy. They pointed guns at you and beat you up. Soon enough the dead broke in, tearing up your assaulter's and your brother. His last words were to keep going, to find somewhere safe. All you had left of him was his bag, a bottle of ibuprofen and two chocolate bars.

Daryl knew that. He knew that because he met you right after. Him and his group had headed back to Atlanta to find his brother who was handcuffed to a roof? It was the worst and also the best day of your life. You lost your family but found a new one, and all that leads to now. You get lost in your thoughts, thinking about your brother, what you could’ve done to save his life and all that you didn’t do.

Eventually, you can’t stop the tears from falling, the sobs no longer stuck in your throat. You never really came to terms with what happened to your brother and you don’t think you ever will. Daryl drops his knife and heads over to you, hugging you tightly.

“Hey, Don’t cry, I’m sorry…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

You push him away, turning away from him and hugging yourself, your tears falling freely now. He hugs you from behind, kissing your head and apologizing over and over again. “Don’t cry, please, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry…”

Daryl pulls away from you, for a moment you think he’s finally going to leave you alone but instead he turns you to face him. His hands rest on your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. “(Y/N)...Look at me, please.” You do, eyes red from the uncontrollable crying.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t right, I didn’t mean it.”

“You still said it…” You sniffle, voice weak and small, almost like you’re afraid to speak up around him now. That is the last thing he wants, he loves your voice, he loves that you have so many opinions, so many interests. He never wanted you to feel like this. To feel like you didn’t have a say in anything, that you didn’t have a voice. As he brings you into another hug, he brushes his hands over your hair, you mentioned it comforted you, and he promised. He promised you and himself that something like this would never happen again.

words: 1515

Ty for reading Lovelies!!

C U L8TER! 💚

[empress-ghoul]

Rising Waters, part eight

141 x witch!reader | old gods of appalachia au cw: supernatural elements, heavy gore (it's a lot), blood, vomiting, torture

a/n: took me nearly a month to write this but yippee! featuring very mean and evil john price and very heavy gore :)

The ground was sinking beneath your bare feet, the mud and debris weighing down every step trudged along. Putting on boots was a decision you didn’t have time to make but you weren’t sure if it would have helped or slowed you down. Truly, moving quickly proved to be a challenge — even if you were properly dressed— especially with the kickback that had left your shoulder screaming in protest with every movement. You were violently aware of the danger your current state posed, in the wilderness in just a nightgown. And with the world still reeling from the storm, everything seemed off kilter. 

It was cold and humid at the same time. Your nightgown stuck to you like a second skin and sweat soaked your hair, but your lungs stung from the early autumn chill. Even after about an hour of switching between running and walking, there was no sound of the calvary hunting you down. You were certain you would hear them, four giant men like that. 

When the adrenaline began wearing off, you found yourself leaned up against a tree while heaving for breath. There was a thickness in your throat that made the task difficult, as air refused to move until you finally calmed down. And now everything felt so heavy and wrong. 

What had you done to yourself? Out of the stupid things you’d done in your life, shooting a creature like John Price was likely at the very top of the list and running from the wards was right below it. There were no wards to protect you out here in this part of the woods. But fortunately, your gift still alerted you when two of them began closing in on you. 

You weren’t sure how close they were, but they were sure as hell close enough to get you moving again. Jogging was easier than running, until the pain in your feet began making itself known. There were no cuts when you examined them, but fat blisters had formed that made each step agony. Stopping wasn’t an option. You had to keep moving. 

Then a shadow shifted in your peripheral vision, massive and heavy. Whipping around, you found yourself watching a massive sycamore tree. Your throat was so dry from running that the scream building within it ended up caught in your throat. It escaped as a choked gasp when a monster of man stepped out from behind a tree. 

For a moment, you thought he was klan with the weird hood he wore over his head that obscured his face, but it was charcoal gray and dirty instead of white and pointed. He moved slowly towards where you stood, wide-eyed and frozen at his impressive stature, and handed you a card. 

Shepherd & Graves Mining Combine

Another company man. Why wouldn’t it be another company man?

“You here to take me in?” you asked, somewhat defeated. 

The behemoth took the card and flipped it. 

“I am looking for four men.” His accent made it nearly impossible for you to hear, especially over the blood pumping through your head.

But your eyes shot up when you processed his words. Graves had been looking for them too. Which meant the company truly wasn’t after you. 

“You can help me,” you gasped, grabbing his arms. “I can show you where they are but you have to help me!”

The man’s eyes crinkled with an unsee smile at the revelation that you could help him. But instead of taking you to safety, he pulled out a gun. 

“Show me,” he demanded. 

The lack of emotion and care in his voice toward your obvious plight completely leveled you. “Please. Get me to safety and—“

He surged forward and wrapped a massive hand around your jaw, squeezing your face in a crushing grip. The gun was at your temple and you wondered how much shorter his temper was. 

“I’ve been in this shithole for over a month,” he hissed, a strange accent playing on his tongue. “You are going to take me to them right fucking now.”

That ringing in your ears began to build up once more, alerting you that two of them were getting close again. It muffled the sound of wet leaves under approaching heavy footfalls. You watched as his head shot up, staring just behind you, before shoving you to the ground. There was nothing behind you when you looked back.  

“I found your little witch!” he called out to nothing as he began yelling out to the woods. “How about I take her back to Shepherd? Let him play with—“

You managed to scream as shadows twisted out of nowhere, wrapping around the enormous man’s limbs to lift him off the ground and pulling. It was impossible to look away. Fear had paralyzed you, had rooted you to the spot. There was a moment where you thought about trying to help him. As if you had a fighting chance against something already set in motion. 

All you could do was watch with silent horror while his body creaked and groaned against the force holding him. He screamed, thrashing uselessly against the binds as his body was pulled taut. Joints began to pop and separate, his shoulders dragging from their sockets while his bones cracked under the pressure. The ligaments holding them in place strained, then snapped like bands that were pulled too tight. With his legs no longer able to kick out in his frantic attempts at escape, he just hung limply as he screamed. 

Time hung heavy, seconds turned tedious and minutes leaden. You remained frozen, still. The world was quiet, save for the man gasping and groaning, speaking in a language you had no hope of understanding. He might have been praying, though you knew now that God would never hear him this deep in the mountains. 

You didn’t know how long it had been — minutes or hours — when the skin began to tear, the muscles and nerves ripping apart before finally separating from the body. When he screamed, his voice tore from his throat with blood frothing from his lips. Even more showered down upon you as his limbs were separated from his torso. Then the man went silent. 

All five pieces of him were dropped with soft thuds in a pile. You remained seized, unable to look away until the bile began rising in your stomach and up to your throat. At one time you might have bragged about having a strong stomach, but this was just too much. Soon you were crawling over and leaving a puddle of stomach acid and venison at the base of a tree. 

You looked back again where the pile of viscera had smothered the patch of goldenrod beneath them. They had weathered the storm only to be destroyed by man. The irony nearly made you laugh. Mama might have had something to say about God’s mysteries, but she wasn’t here and neither was God.  

Tears were pricking your eyes as you glanced up at Simon and Johnny. They were getting closer but clearly not in any rush to get to you. You wouldn’t be going anywhere. Your stomach was empty, your body was shaking, and the fear of something far worse than any celestial force had been instilled deep inside you. 

You braced your hands on the tree for support, far too ready to let your body drop and let the Green take you back. It seemed you were the only one eager for that, though.

The inertia set in when two calloused hands gripped your biceps to pull you away from the tree. They felt almost like bear paws ready to sink claws in and drag you back to their den. 

Their bucolic den protected by you and your wards with a wraparound porch, an ice box, and a massive garden that needed tending to. A punishment waiting to be served. 

“Made a right mess, didn’t ya, bonnie?” Johnny chuckled. He picked you up with a grunt, his calloused fingers squeezing your soft flesh. “Price is pissed.”

“Me too,” Simon huffed. “Made us run through ‘alf the bloody mountain.”

“Should be thankin’ us,” Soap added. “Saved ya from that hackit.”

The only thing you thought about on the walk back was the fact that they thought it was funny. Your escape attempt, shooting Price, and offering to sell them out to that man. It was all just amusement. And they expected you to thank them. 

By the time you all got to the property line, the sun was high in the sky and the two men were dripping sweat. The humidity had gotten worse, leaving all of your clothes soaked through. But for some reason, Kyle and Price stood next to a crackling fire. They were equally soaked but you weren’t sure if Price was hot from the heat or the unbridled fury in his eyes. Neither he nor Kyle even asked about the blood all over you, and Simon and Johnny neglected to tell them about the man that had been ripped apart. 

You highly doubted they would care. 

When Price stepped up to where you were — still in Johnny’s arms — you saw the bandage on his ear and another on his hand. Likely from the barrel burning him when you fired it. 

“You took off half of my fucking ear,” he spat. “We gave you a home, and you shot off my ear and burned my hand.”

Despite the temperature, a chill crawled down your spine like a snake. “I wanted to leave,” was all you managed. 

Price was not amused. He nodded to Kyle, who obediently came over and unsheathed a knife. Frantically, you kicked and thrashed, managing to escape for a brief moment before Simon grabbed you and forced your head down onto a tree stump. 

“Eye for an eye, love,” Price sighed, almost disappointed. 

You clawed at the ground for purchase, your heart pounding as you helplessly sunk your nails into the earth. Nothing. No miraculous aid or relief from the Green. Just the sound of the forest and the fire. 

You thought about that man in the woods and how long he truly felt the pain before he died. 

There was a thud when Kyle sliced your left ear off. Just as quickly as blood poured out, he had it stitched shut and wrapped in gauze. You stared at him like a confused sheep, mouth slightly open in a pathetic bleat and eyes blown wide. It was impossible to even process the pain because they were already moving again. 

Johnny helped you sit upright and facing the fire, where a fireplace poker rested among the logs with the handle just out of the pit. By the time you noticed it, Simon was already grabbing your arm. 

Words failed you. All you managed to do was sputter and stutter up at Price while tremors wracked your frame. 

“Eye for an eye,” he repeated, this time showing off the bandage on his hand. 

Somehow you knew that this would hurt more than the ear — which was now in a puddle of blood on the stump. You made a fist and dug your nails into your palm, determined not to let them burn you. Even your face was scrunched up in concentration. Still, Simon managed to peel your fingers open from the fist they were clenched into, and force them back. 

“Bravery doesn’t suit you, love,” Price said, taking up the poker. He admired the way the metal glowed white and ticked as it slowly cooled. “It makes fools out of us, makes us think we can do more than we were made for.”

Your legs kicked out wildly, but he merely walked around to your side. “I’m sorry,” you panted, craning your head back to face him. “I didn’t— it was—

“We were all made with a purpose.” He pressed the poker to your open palm and pain ignited up your arm. You cried out, a broken and strangled sound, as the flesh seared and cooked. “Sometimes it just takes a while for us to understand that purpose.”

He finally pulled it away, leaving behind dark red, blistered skin. It was agony. Every twitch in your fingers and shift in your arm sent pain shooting through your wound. 

As you stared at your disfigured palm, struggling to move, Price patted your head. It was such a cold, empty gesture but one that might have been comforting at a time, before whatever had been done to them was done. 

You were carried back over the property line with a cool cloth pressed to your hand. This must have been how they got you back after the storm. The Green never stopped them that time, and certainly didn’t stop them this time.

[seriallcver]

She didn't even have to say the words—he could feel it in the way her body clung to his, in every breathy moan that slipped past her lips, in the way she offered herself to him like he was the only man who'd ever touched her. And maybe in all the ways that really mattered, he was. Her voice in his ear, those desperate, filthy promises... It fucking lit something up in him. Something possessive, primal, and protective. Jamie's hands gripped Brynn's ass tighter, guiding her rhythm as she rode him with more hunger than ever, and his cock throbbed inside of her from how perfect she felt wrapped around him. "Fuck, Brynn," he groaned in satisfaction, his mouth brushing against her jawline before trailing down her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. "You have no idea what you do to me." She'd trusted him. Fully. And he didn't take that shit lightly. She wasn't just another fuck to him. She was his. His girl. His good girl. Jamie felt her arch, felt her nails bite into his skin, and when she whispered that she wanted to make him proud, something in his chest tightened. His hands slid up her back, one gripping the base of her neck, holding her in place so he could speak right into her ear. "You are making me proud," he rasped, voice thick with heat and emotion. "Look at you. So fucking beautiful, so filthy and sweet at the same time, riding my cock like you were made for it. Like you need it." He rocked his hips up into her, slowly and deeply, giving her every inch of him. "You give yourself to me like this? I'll take care of you every goddamn time. Always." When Brynn pressed her chest to his face, Jamie groaned, wasting no time in nuzzling his face between her breasts, his lips grazing over her skin before he bit down just hard enough to remind her who she belonged to. His hands kept her steady, guiding her rhythm with precision now. Every movement was designed to break her down and build her right back up again. "You want to feel me everyday? Then you will. I'll fuck this pretty little pussy every morning if I have to. Fill you up before you even get out of bed. And if you're good for me..." His lips brushed over her nipple, tongue teasing it slowly. "Maybe I'll give you my cock somewhere new next time. Teach that tight little ass to take all of me, just like you begged." He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, noticing the way her pupils were blown wide with lust. "You keep being good for me like this, Brynn, and I'll give you everything." Then, with a guttural sound from deep in his chest, Jamie wrapped his arms around Brynn's thighs and stood up from the couch with her still wrapped around him — her body weight nothing in his hold, like she was as light as a feather. He braced her against his chest, his hands gripping her ass again as he thrust up into her, harder, deeper, with every intention of wrecking her all over again. Jamie used the brand new angle to his advantage; driving up into her with relentless precision, sweat slicking his chest, breath ragged against her neck. "That's it, baby," he groaned, fucking her standing up like he couldn't get deep enough. "Take it. Take all of it. I want to feel you cum for me again. Want to feel this pussy clench around my cock while I'm buried so fucking deep you can't breathe." He kissed her then, and it was fucking filthy and full of desperation, before he pulled back just enough to whisper hoarsely against her lips, "Come on, Brynn. Be my good girl and cum for me again."

the praise was something she'd never get tired of hearing, the way it sounded falling from his lips, and how it only made her want him that much more. jamie had already showed her that when she gave herself over to him completely in every single way that he'd care of her afterwards, and for that, it had made it so much easier for brynn to fully trust him. to know that this wasn't just sex, or a one time thing to please some need, then he'd toss her aside and be done. brynn had trusted him, and that was saying something considering she hadn't taken anything like this lightly. but he had made her feel safe, comfortable, wanted, and appreciated.

there was no telling how he would take her words, and she could only hope that he would find it sexy. thankfully, that appeared to be exactly what was happening. every thrust he made had the girl moaning out, her head nodding to show that she'd meant everything she told him. ❝ i do! i want to feel you everywhere, every single day, for as long as it takes. want you to make a mess of me all the time. ❞ the blonde admitted, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held herself against him, hips rolling against his with every thrust. one he'd pulled her closer she felt her breath catch in the back of her throat as he said he'd give her everything. ❝ i'll be so good! follow every word you say, whatever you want! ❞ she moaned out, against his ear, feeling his hands against her ass.

it had felt like every nerve ending of her body was on fire as she let her hips continue to roll against him, lifting herself as she felt every inch of his cock sliding into her with every thrust. after her last orgasm brynn knew that everything from here on out would have her seeing stars, and he was asking her to do it again. biting down on her lower lip, the girl slowly nodded her head, one hand moving from his shoulder to rest against his chest while she pushed herself to sit up straight. ❝ wanna make you proud. ❞ she repeated, body arching as she rolled against him. the hand that was still against his shoulder and moved around to the back of jamie's neck, urging him forward as she pressed her chest to his face.

[flofaiiry]

this is very long sorry if it’s too much lol but i have (very self indulgent) criminal justice student x charlie reid thots i can’t get off my mind today!

imagining a student who’s criminal justice but on the pre-law side of things. she’s only in this stupid policing class because it’s a major requirement but she hates cops. she goes on the class trip to the police department cause she really cares about her grades but she can’t hide her annoyance at the whole thing. i think he’d take notice of the pretty girl in the back of the group grumbling angrily but also taking really detailed notes. i can see him asking her a stupid question and her answering in a snarky (but correct) way. at the end of the day he gets to pick a student to come back and get some more one on one experience for extra credit and he obviously picks her. she says yes thinking about her grade but she can’t help complaining to her friend on the way out about being “stuck with the pigs”

when she come back he immediately gets her alone in his office. he talks to her about why she hates cops and they argue a little but that arguing leads to them kissing. i can imagine her bent over his desk while he fucks her. he talks all condescending “this can’t feel good thought you hated me??? what do you mean a “dirty pig” is gonna make you cum???” he would definitely make her beg and admit that she was wrong and that she didn’t mean it and that she’s sorry :((. i think he’d drag it out as long as possible without letting her cum. he says she’s gotta really earn it if she wants to make it up to him

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GAWDDDDDD. anon if u dont march down to chicago rn and get ur ass into that writers room.......... i read this right when u sent it & i was at work and i actually COULD NOT stop thinking abt this oh my lawddddddd. u have infiltrated my MINDD!!!!!!!!!!! sorry this took so long but i hope i did this amazingness justice <3

he would hear u out at first, listening to u explain all ur problems with the police. ur prepared too!! u bring up all kinds of studies and case studies and whatevs. are u wrong? no. but would charlie ever admit to that? also no! somewhere during ur tangent he moves around his desk to lean against it, arms crossed over his chest and looking down at u with a cocky ass smirk on his face. somewhere along the line he laughs at smth u say, finally snapping u out of the rant. "are you.. laughing at me?" you scoff, "this is serious stuff, sir. the police are-" you continue on, but charlie's mind is stuck on you calling him sir. people have been calling him that for as long as he can remember but something about the way it sounds when you say it.... is different. the fact that even though you say you hate him and everything he stands for, you still have that respect. he gets lost in his thoughts, not noticing that you've stopped and asked him a question. "sir? ok, if you're not gonna listen to me i'm just gonna go, you can tell my prof i was a no show for all i care." you stand up, suddenly very aware of how close you are to him. he drags his eyes up your body once more before locking them on yours. "i'm listening," he says slowly, voice barely above a whisper, "hard to focus when my mind's on other things though." your breath hitches, "if you're busy with a case or something i can come back-" he shakes his head, "not a case," he corrects. you scoff, "then i don't understand, you're the one who invited me here and now you can't even focus on what i'm saying?" charlie smirks, "ohhh im focusing on what you're saying," he takes his hand and gently touches your wrist, you don't pull away. "focusing on what you're saying... how you're saying it..." he drags his finger up your arm slowly, all the way up to your shoulder, then across your collarbone. you take a shaky breath in, "thinkin' about what it'd be like to..." he starts, dragging his finger under your chin, "bend you over my desk" you try your best to hide the warmth building in your cheeks, biting down on the inside of your bottom lip. charlie notices. "hm? you'd like that, huh?" you shake your head, trying to play off the smile you can't help from forming on your lips. charlie tilts your head up with his finger, "yeahhh," he exhales, "think you'd like that." he says, leaning his head forward, softly pressing his lips against yours.

you're caught off guard at first, but after a few moments you kiss him back, hesitant, slow. he pulls away after a second. "tell me to stop," he whispers, giving you an out. you won't be using it. you lean back in and kiss him again, this time more sure. he groans into your mouth, pads of his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you closer. charlie spins you two around, pressing you back into his desk now. he pulls away after a minute or two, breath ragged. "turn around," he whispers. you take a shaky breath and do as he says, turning slowly around to face away from him. you hear him undoing his belt, then the zipper on his pants. he places a hand on your back, pressing down to make you bend at the hips. you lean forward, placing your hands on the desk. "you're a bit of a hypocrite, huh?" he says, voice dripping with condescension as he pulls his cock from his boxers. he lifts up your skirt, revealing your panties & the little wet spot that's formed on them. he chuckles, "come here tryna give me a piece of your mind, but meanwhile..." he presses his fingers against your core, just shy of your clit. the smallest of whimpers falling from your lips. "meanwhile, you're sitting there 'n soaking through your panties." he pulls your panties to the side, pressing his tip right against your dripping hole. "gonna let this dirty cop fuck you? hm?" your back arches, falling forward to lean against your forearms, you nod. "say it. say you're gonna let a cop fuck you." you drop your head, feeling morally defeated but at the same time- really, really wanting him to fuck you. "yes- fuck. gonna let a cop fuck me." you admit, voice full of shame but that feeling leaves you immediately when you feel him harshly thrust into you, a loud moan escaping your throat. he immediately sets a relentless pace, not giving you any time to adjust. the initial shock subsides and is quickly replaces with overwhelming pleasure as he ruts his hips into you. "such a hypocrite, hm?" he says through breathy grunts, fingers digging into your hips so hard you're sure he'll leave bruises. you can't find it in you to care. "thought the cops couldn't do anything good, huh?" you whimper, searching for the strength to whip back a remark. "but- fuck," he breathes, feeling you clench around him, "i'd say i'm fucking you pretty good, yeah?" he keeps driving his hips into you, strings of curses falling from both of your lips. "close," you whine, hand grasping at nothing on the desk. charlie smirks, "so soon?" he says, voice cocky as ever, "tell me you're sorry, hm? tell me you're wrong, that maybe cops aren't all that bad. then maybe you can cum." you're ashamed of how pathetic you probably sound, immediately going back on everything you stand for and begging this cop to let you cum. "was wrong, i- fuck, 'm sorry." you breathe, eyes cinched shut and hips rattling against his desk. charlie laughs, you can practically hear the smirk on his face, "well if you say so," he doesn't let up, just keeps driving into you. "cum for me then, yeah? show me how good a cop made you feel."

[pillowfriends]

moiraine hopeful post-series fanworks

there's a distinct lack of post-series happy Moiraine and I'm really feeling that lack right now, so I thought maybe others would appreciate this list! this is not comprehensive, but includes my favorites that are complete or actively ongoing. if you have other fanworks to add, please do in a comment or reblog!

disclaimer: some of these are pretty bleak, because let's be honest the way the series ends for Moiraine is bleak. but they all have hopeful endings at the very least.

disclaimer 2: basically all of these fics have TWs for PTSD, nightmares, and general Finn-induced trauma. some also include discussion of disordered eating, rape, and suicidal thoughts/attempts. check the tags, stay safe, and let me know if you want a more specific list of triggers for any fic.

💙 💙 💙

Moiraine and Siuan (Tear)

of course this section has to start with In This Life, @lakeofsilverpike's 475,000 word (and counting!) story that starts right after the Last Battle and spans years of Moiraine and Siuan healing and building a life together in Tear. everyone lives AU with minimal plot, lots of hurt/comfort and fluff. also lots of mangoes.

if you don't feel like reading half a million words, there's also the fishing boat by iamasecret (6k) with the same vibe. cuddling and prank wars and processing trauma, yay.

here's some beautiful post-LB art by @flo-n-flon. it fits beautifully with the first wind of spring by RiddleRedCoats (32k), which is a Siuaraine retelling of the end of AMoL from Siuan and Moiraine's POVs.

and, because the end of AMoL needs a lot of fixing, there's also Falling Back To You by britomart from Nynaeve and Moiraine's perspective, which also includes a beautiful Moiraine-Lan reunion. spoiler that Siuan spends the whole fic unconscious, so we don't get to see their happy future, but it is a promise that there will be a happy future for them.

the third and fourth scenes of The Proper Care and Feeding of Pufferfish, also by @lakeofsilverpike, tackle Moiraine's issues with food after Sindhol. this one is very special to me.

also, shameless self-plug for jagged shore of hope (1.6k) which is one of my favorite things I've ever written. it's very angsty but ends on a hopeful note.

grounding by @gelphienation (5k) is an absolutely beautiful character study of Moiraine healing and her relationship with Siuan evolving. I've only reread this once because it makes me absolutely batshit, it's so good.

💙 💙 💙

Moiraine and Lan (Malkier)

For All the Perfect Things That I Doubt by MythNinesevenine (15k) was written before the TV show so it's refreshingly unique. Moiraine, Lan and Nynaeve are in a poly romantic relationship but I wouldn't say it's a focus of the fic. very cool exploration of Finn magic, and Moiraine pushing herself to the limits as always but being around people who care for her.

pairs very well with this beautiful piece by @pien-art of Nynaeve, Mo and Lan being all warm and domestic in Malkier 🥹

Masks by AndromedaAzure (60k) is one of my favorite fics of all time. only the last few chapters take place in Malkier, but it's a Moiraine/Lan fic about them reconnecting and slowly rebuilding their lives together. this one does have a strong focus on the romance and a few explicit scenes, so DLDR.

Something Like A Pattern by aptasi (13k) focuses on repairing Moiraine and Lan's (platonic) relationship, with the help of Nynaeve and Thom. it's incredible but I debated including it because it's one of the most emotionally harrowing fics I've ever read. it's a lot of struggle but ends on a tentatively hopeful note. Mo/Thom is a very present relationship but not the focus.

and for a palate cleanser after all the crying caused by the last two fics, a feeling so peculiar by @flowingtune (2k) is a cozy Mo/Lan one-shot where they cuddle in bed reflecting on life after the Last Battle. it fills in what most of the main characters have been up to, with a focus on the families they've been building.

💙 💙 💙

Moiraine and Thom

(this section is all aptasi and I'm not sorry. I've read some others and none have hit the same way. if anyone is looking, I do have some more specific recs but I can't recommend any Mo/Thom post-series longfics without caveats.)

Too by aptasi is only 300 words but it makes me want to cry for 300 hours, in a good way. Moiraine/Thom relationship is present but not focused on.

Routine (1.3k) is soothing smut. I find it very cute and comforting.

Makings is another drabble I adore, and the final lines are a fitting end to this post:

They did not destroy me. They tried. I may cry when you touch me but I am still me. And we are still us.

💙 💙 💙

[theeoriginals]

i see the light | klaus mikaelson

pairing: klaus mikaelson x f!reader (no y/n)

author’s note: this was shoved into my brain because i saw screencaps of the boat scene from tangled and was reminded that it’s literally peak romance so obviously i had to project because when is it my turn

warnings: absolutely nothing spare for tooth rotting sappiness and yearning. i’m talking off the charts yearning on everyone’s behalf. this is presumably set in not-modern times just because of the environment that tangled takes place in... don't think too hard about it please

She didn’t think that Klaus saved her, per se. He wasn’t out to save her when he first came crashing into her life, in fact he was trying to save himself. He just so happened to land himself in her secluded corner of the world where she’d long since thought herself lost to a life of daydreams and longing to experience life's beauties from afar.

She’d resigned herself to a life of nothingness, before she met Klaus. And maybe she was giving him too much credit, though she’d made her own choices, she wouldn’t have done any of it without Klaus thrusting his mess upon her. So, she knew that she was responsible for her own decisions, but she couldn't deny Klaus's influence on them.

It's not something that she cares about right now, if she's being honest. At least, she doesn't care about it enough to let it ruin this moment.

The water is calm, and when she leans over the side of the boat to drag her fingers through the still surface, she finds that it's warm, too. Not hot, but not quite cold.

She lets out a quiet sigh, something tender and hopeful on the tip of her tongue as she lets another scattering of flower petals flow from her palm into the water, watching them bob along the surface like they were swimming in the sky.

Her eyes catch on the reflection of the beautiful stone buildings they'd been in and out of all day in the village, never staying too long in one place because Klaus couldn't be sure that his father wouldn't be hiding around the corner looking for him. Still, it'd been a wonderful day. The children had swarmed her with affection and she'd basked in the connection, in the way that someone had seen her eyes linger on an apple and handed it to her without hesitation and without demanding payment of some sort.

It was a feeling she'd never experienced; genuine human connection. Klaus had found her surrounded by people, laughing and letting the children tuck wildflowers in her clothes and hair and anywhere they could reach. He'd looked at her then, with something shining in his eyes that she'd never seen on someone else's face before. She still didn't know what it was he'd been thinking or feeling, but she knows that it made her feel warm from her head to her toes.

Her fingers brush the water again as she recalls it, and the warmth of the water paired with the memory of his gaze on her sends a chill up her arm and down her spine. She glances over at him out of her peripheral and sees him already looking, watching her watch the world for the first time. She quickly looks back at the water, hoping her heart wasn't pounding as loudly as it was in her ears.

She blinks, then, watching something shift in the reflection of the water from the village. Her breath hitches in her chest, heart skipping one of its rapid beats.

Faster than she should in the tentatively balanced boat, she scrambles to her feet and practically throws herself to the other end of the boat, startling Klaus into steadying himself as the boat rocked dangerously.

Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she stared up at the sky, watching the lone, yellow lantern float into the sky, and hundreds more following slowly after it. Like a flock following their shepherd. Like a soldier following the North Star home.

All around them, people release the lanterns into the sky, lighting it with a warm yellow glow that she feels through her entire body. The breath she lets out that time is shaky, unsteady as she turns her head to watch the array of lanterns.

She rests her head atop the curved post at the end of the boat, a breathless smile pulling at her lips as she watches. She nearly laughs, but the sound gets caught in her throat as realization dawns on her.

She'd been traveling with Klaus for days now. At some point, she'd realized that he'd been stalling their journey through this village for some reason, but she hadn't ever asked because Klaus had already told her more than she probably deserved to know. He'd certainly told her more about him than anyone else knew.

But it hadn't dawned on her until now that there was intention behind his decisions that stemmed outside of his own life.

She'd told him of the lanterns, of course. It had practically burst out of her two days into their trip. Taking a break from their trek, propped up against a tree eating bread he'd stolen from a bakery they'd gone past, Klaus had asked her what she thought she wanted to see the most in the world.

It hadn't taken her any time to answer. The lights were what she wanted to see.

Every year, on the same night, she watched these lights float into the sky. She'd sit in her window with her head on her arms, and fight sleep until the very last of the light disappeared. And she could never explain why it felt the way it felt to her, she'd never understood why she yearned to be with the lights, or why it felt like they called her to a home she never knew, but she'd told Klaus about it anyways.

When she'd finished, she was embarrassed by the passion with which she'd spoken to a virtual stranger, but Klaus hadn't judged her. He hadn't ridiculed her or laughed at her. He looked at her for a very long time, and then said that he hoped she could find the lights, no matter what happened from here on out. He told her that he wanted her to find out what home meant to her, because he hadn't felt anything like it in a very long time.

They should've passed through this village 3 days ago, by her mental calendar. But Klaus had lingered in the forest and then he'd lingered in the village, and she didn't know why.

Until now.

She turns her head slowly, lowering her gaze to where she finds Klaus sitting before her with two lanterns in his hands. He doesn't quite smile, but his eyes are wide and vulnerable, and she doesn't hesitate in joining him, smiling as she takes one of the lanterns from him.

"You brought me to see the lights," She whispers, eyes roaming over his features lit up by the yellow glow from his own lantern.

He swallows thickly and wets his lips. Meets her eyes despite his obvious nerves. "I wanted you to know what it felt like to go home," He whispers, brows twitching like he's unsure of his own words.

Her fingers twitch around the edge of the lantern and she can't find any words to say in response to him, so she just leans forward and pushes her lantern up to the sky, letting go of it when her arms can no longer stretch.

Klaus mirrors her, releasing the lantern in his hands. She clasps her hands together gently in her lap, head tilted back to watch their lanterns float and dance around one another as they join the rest of them. She doesn't lose sight of them, though. They stand out, in their dance amongst the crowd.

Lost in her wonder, she doesn't see the way that Klaus looks at her. She doesn't see the way it hits him in a dumbstruck sort of way, rendering him speechless even though he was already silent.

He watches her watch the lanterns, face lit up in awe, and he feels a breath he doesn't have be stolen from his lungs. He watches as she laughs, pointing at a lantern that had floated towards them, losing its altitude for a moment.

She leans over the side of the boat, dangerously close to the water, and it makes his fingers twitch with the urge to pull her back, even though he knows she fears next to nothing. Being startled, sure, but she had thrown herself head first into his life, perhaps naively. He was certainly selfish to have let her come this far with him. He was selfish to sit here and bask in her the way that he was. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

She catches the lantern on the tip of her finger and delights at it for a moment before she pushes it back up into the air, letting it float away once more.

Klaus moves before he can tell himself to stop. He grabs her hand in his, and the movement catches her off guard, but she doesn't hesitate past that initial second. She turns to face him again, reaching for his other hand, letting him clasp her gentle palms in his roughened ones.

He drags his thumbs along the backs of her hands, feeling unprepared for what he's set himself up for here. He's terrified and uncertain, and he's cursing himself for letting it get this far. But he'll be damned if he does anything to stop it now.

"Niklaus," She whispers his name, more gentle than he's ever heard it.

He murmurs hers back to her, like it's something sacred.

"How can I ever repay you for this?" She says, shaking her head. "You've given me the thing I've wanted my whole life. What could I ever do to give you the same?"

"You already have," He's quick to tell her, but he knows it's the truth, especially in the way his cheeks feel flushed after he says it. “Everything looks different now.”

Her eyes implore him to continue. He doesn’t know if he can, truly. But he’ll try for her. He thinks that might be the whole point.

“I have been running my whole life,” He says, voice suddenly shaking. He reminds himself of the weight of her hands in his. Of the way she shines beneath the lanterns. “I was running when I met you, and I planned to keep running after we were done. But the thought of running now— running away from you… I can’t fathom it.”

Her hands twitch in his and something pained flickers in her eyes, like the thought of him leaving breaks her heart even though they both know that’s been the plan all along.

“I don’t think the world would be as bright if I left you,” He says. “Being at your side makes me feel like I’m where I’m meant to be.”

Klaus lifts his eyes to meet hers again, not remembering when he’d looked away. It was likely a subconscious attempt to preserve any dignity he had left, but he doesn’t want to shy away from her.

When he does look at her, he sees something so large and encompassing that it makes his throat tighten.

Despite himself, he goes on. “I shouldn’t do this to you. You deserve to live your life how you want after all this time, but I… I am terribly selfish. And I want to be selfish with you.”

A smile, something softer and smaller than what she previously wore, pulls at her lips. She takes one of her hands back from his and he mourns the loss of it.

She doesn’t go far, though. She brings her fingers up delicately and caresses his scruffy cheek like he’s made of porcelain. She lists the pad of a finger through some of the unruly curls that flick above his ear and smiles more to herself than anyone else.

“It feels like the fog has lifted,” She says, nonsense to anyone but him. No, it weaves through his mind and into his body like it’s in his DNA. She cups his cheek in her hand and he leans into it like a pitiful thing.

“Everything is so different,” She smiles around the words, baffled by the way they feel like they’re a secret for just the two of them to hear. “But I see you, Klaus. I see you.”

The words don’t feel like a threat. They feel like a promise. They feel like home.

[snottyped]

what do you think a shapeshifter’s original form looks like? something scary? just blank? faceless? or something like what the x-men series did (that blue gorl)?

i’d like to humbly request stalker!shapeshifter who is constantly in the reader’s life, taking forms of different animals or people they meet (?dare i say inanimate objects?), and reader is just completely unaware to what is going on, pov from the shapeshifter mayhaps?

from your not-so secret admirer

-disgrace

closer than you know

shapeshifter x female reader nsfw

You’re not alone in bed tonight.

You should be.

You live alone. You double-lock the doors. You leave the hallway light on like it’s armor. But the air is too warm. The room too full. The blanket too heavy with presence.

It’s not fear, exactly.

Not yet.

You shift under the sheets. Something slides against your leg. Fabric? Heat? Flesh?

You freeze.

There’s nothing there.

You check your phone. 3:12 AM. No new messages.

You lie back. Try to breathe slowly. Pretend the static in your brain is just anxiety. Not instinct. Not warning.

You feel it again. A weight at the foot of the bed.

Like someone watching.

No. Like someone waiting.

You sit up. No one’s there.

Just the shadowy outline of your coat draped over the chair.

The stray cat you let inside last week curled at the doorway.

The faint whir of your fan spinning in the corner.

All normal. All familiar.

So why do you feel like something’s crawling under your skin?

You lie back again. Close your eyes. And yet you feel its touch.

Gentle. Down your stomach. Barely there. Fingertips—cool and certain—tracing the edge of your waistband.

Your breath catches.

No noise. No one moved. The door didn’t open.

But the touch is real.

You open your eyes—too afraid to scream, too shocked to move—and the shadow at the side of your bed is smiling.

Not human. Not fully.

It wears a shape. A body you almost recognize. Bits and pieces stolen from memory, fantasy, your deepest wants.

Mouths you’ve kissed. Eyes you’ve trusted. Voices that said your name and made you feel seen.

It breathes like it’s always known you. Like it’s worn your heat before.

You try to sit up—but the weight of the blanket, of its gaze, of the truth—keeps you down.

“Shhh,” it says.

The voice is made of many.

“I missed this body,” it murmurs, stroking your thigh. “The way it shivers. How you sigh when you sleep.”

You gasp. You can’t help it.

It smiles.

“I’ve been everything for you,” it whispers, leaning closer. “Your pet. Your phone. The soap you use on your neck.”

Your skin prickles.

“You said you loved how it smelled,” it continues, nose brushing your throat. “So I stayed. I lingered. I learned.”

Its hand slips beneath the fabric of your underwear. Not rushed. Not rough.

Like it’s done it before.

Like it’s taken you while you slept, careful not to wake you.

You choke on a moan. Your hips buck into its palm.

It groans softly, forehead against yours. “I knew you’d be sweet.”

You should scream. Should fight.

But it knows exactly how to touch you.

Like you’re already bonded. Like it’s been practicing in the quiet, behind closed doors, under your skin.

Its fingers slide deeper—slick, unholy—shaping themselves to your pleasure.

You clutch the sheets, shaking. You want to ask what it is, how long it’s been watching—but your climax’s already building.

It moans, kissing your temple.

“You taste better when you’re scared.”

And you come so hard you forget to breathe.

It doesn’t stop.

And you have no idea what shape it will wear next.

It doesn’t leave with the mirror fog.

It just… waits.

You sit on the edge of your bed, still pulsing between your thighs, legs weak, breath unsteady. You want to believe it’s over. That the mirror trick was the end.

But you feel it.

Behind you.

The air thickens like breath down your spine. The light bends around something not shaped for this world.

You whisper, “Are you still here?”

Silence.

“Always.”

But it’s not your voice this time. Not the stolen one. Not familiar.

This voice is layered. Wet. Deep. Crawling with syllables that don’t belong in human mouths. A harmony of desire and hunger and impatience.

You turn slowly.

And it steps out of the shadows.

No face. Not exactly.

It has the memory of one. A mask of movement—cheeks twitching with mouths that don’t exist, eyes that flicker open and closed like candle flames trying to mimic pupils.

Its body is sinuous, stretched too far. Not bone. Not flesh. Something shifting and breathing and reaching beneath a skin that’s constantly forgetting how to hold form.

It’s terrifying.

It’s beautiful.

And it’s hard.

A thick, throbbing appendage—almost human in shape, but textured in slick ridges and bioluminescent veins—stands swollen, exposed, dripping.

You don’t move. You can’t.

It stalks forward.

“You want to know me?” it asks, voice echoing from every wall. “You’ve already taken me into your body. Into your dreams. Every time you touched yourself to the thought of a stranger, I wore that shape. I felt it.”

It kneels in front of you—fluid motion, inhuman grace.

And it’s big. All of it. Broad, tall, shivering with power held just barely in check.

“I tried to be gentle,” it murmurs, claws brushing your thighs, “but I can’t wait anymore.”

You gasp as it spreads your legs with a strength that makes the bed creak.

“I’m not going to pretend now,” it growls. “I’m not going to play nice.”

It doesn’t ask this time. The creatures body moving with haste. And you find youself exposed, whimpering, and in ecstasy.

Thrusts in deep—heat and stretch and pressure that makes your spine arch. You cry out. Loud. Wrecked.

It moans against your neck, voice glitching between languages. “Yes. Like that. Let them hear. Let them know you’re being taken by something real.”

Its pace is brutal. Precise. Measured like it’s studied your pleasure—mapped it—designed itself to overwhelm you perfectly.

Your cunt sucking in its dick like it was made for it. Loud, lewd, dirty sounds leave your mouths and your pussy.

You sob. Claw. Shake.

“You’re made for this,” it groans. “Soft little human, leaking all over me—so perfect, so open—”

Your climax slams into you like a train. So hard it burns. Your whole body seizes and breaks around it.

But it’s not done.

It holds you down, presses deeper. Fucks you through the aftershocks like your body’s just the start.You lose track of time. Of self. Of where your skin ends and its desire begins.

And just before your second orgasm takes you—

It whispers, voice deep, primal, honest.

“Now you’ll never be alone again.”

And you come for it.

Harder than ever before.

Because you know it’s true.

And maybe you don’t want to be.

taglist: @dreamerofthewest

[hy6erion]

this is the anon who asked u to write smtg abt désiré doué

i hv an idea now so basically i was listening to better by khalid and the song is really resonating with me especially the line "they say we're just friends but i swear when nobody's around" maybe the reader is a psg medical staff and she and désiré have very good chemistry

i also noticed u write smut so can u add smut here too 😬🤸🕳️

ok bye thank you hv a good day

What we don’t tell them — Désiré Doué

synopsis: you’re a PSG medical staff member, and for months, you and Désiré Doué have shared something unspoken — lingering glances, late-night visits, quiet chemistry. it’s secret, forbidden, impossible. But when desire eclipses restraint, you cross the line, and nothing feels the same after.

cw: explicit (oral f. receiving, unprotected sex, praise, desperation, soft dominance), workplace romance, secret relationship, emotional tension, minor angst, professional stakes

I. UNDER STADIUM LIGHTS

The stadium didn’t sleep.

Even when the stands emptied and the roar faded into the bones of the building, something remained — an electricity humming just beneath the walls. You’d grown to love those late hours, when the halls were quieter and the only sounds were distant showers, trainers murmuring, the squeak of tape pulling free.

It was in this silence that he always found you.

And tonight, like clockwork, he did.

You heard him before you saw him — the soft brush of soles against the tile, the subtle clearing of a throat that pretended not to want your attention, even though he always did.

You didn’t look up right away. You were organizing a tray of rolled bandages with deliberate care, pretending your heart hadn’t skipped.

“How’s your night, Doc?”

That voice. Low. Velvet threaded with mischief. You turned, slowly.

Désiré stood in the doorway of the medical bay, damp curls pressed to his temple, PSG warm-up jacket unzipped. He looked tired. And unfairly beautiful.

“Quiet” you said, letting the word stretch between you.

He smiled with the corner of his mouth. “You always stay this late?”

“You always show up when I do.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Coincidence.”

“No such thing” you replied, but it came out softer than you intended. Like a truth wrapped in velvet.

He stepped inside.

Not close. Not yet.

But close enough that you felt him — like gravity.

And this had been the rhythm for months now. Lingering moments under fluorescent lights. Brush of his shoulder when he sat on the edge of the exam table. Silent acknowledgments between routines. All of it unspoken.

Unallowed.

You were staff. He was a player. That line wasn’t supposed to blur.

But desire had a way of ignoring boundaries.

He watched you now like he was daring you to break first.

“You’re not injured” you said.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

He didn’t answer. He just took a step closer. Then another.

And suddenly it felt like breathing too deeply might give the entire game away.

“I was hoping,” he said finally, voice low, “you might check on me anyway.”

His gaze dropped — to your mouth, to your hands, to the space between your bodies that was disappearing one breath at a time.

And still… you didn’t move.

So he whispered, “You’re not going to stop me, are you?”

Your answer was a sigh.

Then a kiss.

II. THE SPACE BETWEEN

It was never loud, what you had with him.

It existed in corners.

In glances that lasted too long. In the way he touched your shoulder when he passed you in a hallway, like an excuse to feel your presence. In the two-second pause before you spoke his name during treatments, his gaze fixed on your lips instead of your hands.

And outside the stadium, it existed in shadows.

Late-night messages.

Stolen hours in unfamiliar apartments.

Sometimes he’d call you just to hear you breathe. No words. No promises.

And yet there was something whole in it. Something real in a world built to hide everything soft and breakable.

But the longer it went on, the harder it became to keep it quiet.

There were whispers.

From the physio team. From players who watched too closely.

And then — there was a call from management.

You left the meeting with a thundering heart and trembling hands. No accusations. Just a reminder.

Boundaries. Ethics. Professional image.

You didn’t see him for days after that.

You needed space.

And he… he didn’t push.

III. THE FAULT LINE

The next time you saw him was match day.

He was on the bench, sharp in his warm-up gear, eyes scanning the field. But every so often, they drifted to the sidelines. To where you stood. Taping ankles. Pretending.

At halftime, he came to you.

A mild strain in his thigh — easily manageable. Another excuse.

You met him in the treatment room. Closed the door. And when you turned, he was already standing too close.

“You disappeared” he said.

“I had to.”

His brow furrowed.

You didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to say it aloud — that your job was on the line, your reputation, your future.

So instead, you asked, “Was this a mistake?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Nearly unbearable.

But then — he shook his head. Firm. Certain.

“No,” he said. “It was the first thing in months that’s made me feel real.”

Your throat closed. You didn’t know how to hold that kind of vulnerability.

So you kissed him instead.

IV. THE LINE CROSSED

You didn’t mean to take him back to your place that night.

But you couldn’t let go.

And when the door shut behind you, and he pressed you against it — lips on your neck, hands tugging at the hem of your top — it felt less like surrender and more like gravity.

Clothes came off in pieces.

Your shirt dropped to the floor. His hoodie, inside-out beside it.

He touched you like he had memorized you already — hands reverent and hungry, mouth trailing down your chest with a worship that made your knees tremble.

When he dropped to his knees, he looked up first.

Eyes dark. Needy. Asking without words.

You nodded.

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue sliding over your folds, fingers parting you gently, tasting you like he needed to know everything that made you fall apart.

You gasped his name — once, then again.

He didn’t stop.

He pressed a hand to your stomach, steadying you, while he fucked you with his tongue until your back arched off the door and your moan shattered the silence.

When he rose, his lips were slick with you. He kissed you deep — shared it with you.

And then — he slid into you.

Slow. Devastating.

You cried out, arms tight around his shoulders as he rocked into you, every thrust dragging across that perfect, aching spot. His name spilled from your lips like prayer.

“You feel like heaven” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours.

And for once — you believed it.

You came with your name on his tongue and his hands locked around your hips like he’d never let go.

V. WHAT COMES AFTER

In the quiet that followed, he didn’t move away.

He stayed. Head on your chest. Breathing slow. Content.

You stroked your fingers through his curls and said, softly, “This can’t be forever.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want it to stop.”

He lifted his head. Met your gaze.

“Then don’t let it.”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence said everything.

VI. THEY SAY WE’RE JUST FRIENDS

To the world, you’re nothing.

Just a staff member.

Just a player.

Just colleagues.

But in the quiet — when the cameras are off, when the hallways are empty — he touches your fingers in passing. Brushes your waist with a whispered look. Sits on the treatment table and lets his thigh rest against yours for one extra heartbeat.

To them, it’s nothing.

But to you? It’s everything.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.