#but then he beat it with a shovel and made it through

[morbidlcve]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ save a horse: (0.1)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pairings: cowgirl(dbf)!Emily x innocent!reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ content: pet names, Emily being sexy, masturbation, pervy Emily.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ wc: 1.3k

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ an: new and first series i hope you all enjoy.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 18+, men + minors dni.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

masterlist

Emily cursed under her breath, the ache pulling between her legs after dismounting her horse. Being stuck there for four hours definitely made her legs sore. She walked her horse to the stable tying her up then made her way to the house. She’s sweaty and dirty after a long day's work on the ranch. She doesn’t watch where she's going trying to undo the belt of her chaps. She pauses briefly when she comes toe to toe with you, well your sandals and white frilly socks. 

She looks up and you can barely see her face due to her hat covering her from the beating sun. You smile brightly, closing your book. “Afternoon sweetheart? You’re Hotch’s daughter aren’t you? Your daddy told me you’d be staying with me this summer whilst he’s away with work.” she grumbles, shaking the accessory off. She comes and takes a seat next to you, her boots heavy on the floorboards. 

She smirks at you, you look so cute in your little red and white checkered sundress, she can practically smell your innocence and it ignites something within her. “Guess I'm taking care of you this summer darlin’.” 

“Your daddy trusts me with you, and I'm going to make sure you have a summer you’ll never forget.” she smiles, noting her double entendre; her voice carrying a hint of a promise. Hotch asked her to look after his kid whilst he went away on business- what he failed to mention that his “kid” was a sight for sore eyes and pure little thing at that. 

Her eyes flit to the stalls where the horses are starting to whinny. She sighs, adjusting standing up, adjusting her belt and hat. You, taking in your surroundings with awe, completely miss the way she’s staring at you- the way the sun has already started to make your skin glow. She clears her throat- “You wanna help me with the horses sweetheart?”

You’d be lying if you said that the nickname she just gave you totally didn’t just make your stomach flip; but she’s like two or three times your age and nonetheless- your dad’s friend. You shake the feeling off, smiling sweetly at her- excitement simmering in your chest. “Yes!” you squeal, jumping up and following her into the stables. 

You watch her walking around the den, when she reaches for the pitchfork, her muscles in her arms working, the muscles in her back contracting as she throws the hay into the stalls. She can feel you staring, smirking, she calls over her shoulder. “Well don’t just stand there sweetheart, grab a shovel.” You stutter, shuffling to grab a shovel and scoop the food she told you to give them into their stalls. 

By the end of the task you are tired and sore- your arms feel as though they are about to fall off. “You not used to all this work?” she chuckles leading you back into the house. “No,” you say sheepishly, rubbing your sore arms. “You did well sweet” she says, hanging up her hat and kicking off her boots. “I’m going to shower, make yourself at home- once i’m done i’ll sort something out for dinner for us.” she shouts down to you from upstairs. 

You sigh rummaging in your duffel bag for the book you were reading and go to tuck yourself onto the couch and pick up where you left off. About twenty minutes pass and you hear Emily walking down the stairs. Your breach catches in your throat- she’s wearing a black vest with white short linen shorts, baring her smooth legs. She reaches up to take the towel off her head, the vest riding up the slightest bit, catching a glimpse of her toned stomach. “Right, what would you like for dinner?” she says wandering into the kitchen. Right, dinner. 

You swallow, getting up from your seat and following her through to the adjacent room. “I’m not sure, whatever you’d eat if I weren’t here I guess” you say, accepting a glass of apple juice from her. “Okay sure.” she says, reaching in the cupboard to fetch a box of pasta. She places it into a pan with water and allows it to cook. 

In the end Emily ends up making pesto pasta. You wash the dishes, much to her dismay and she puts them away. “We now have a few options, we can either go sit outside and cook s'mores or we can sit in here and watch a movie.” 

You smile, “S’mores, definitely s’mores.” 

“You got it sweetheart.” She takes the marshmallows and chocolate covered crackers from the pantry and goes outside to start the fire. You find the chairs stacked against the house and set them up for the two of you. Once seated, you feel an awkward sort of tension between the two of you, none of you really knowing how to really begin the conversation. 

“So.. horses huh?” you say, feeding the marshmallow onto the stick, holding it over the flame. Emily chuckles beside you. “Yeah, all my life, my mom moved around a lot, not for me, so I stayed with my nana and pops. Once their time came I got all this.” she motioned to the ranch. You nod, not really knowing what to say. “Do you like it?” you ask. 

“Yeah.. I do, horses, they just get you, you can tell a lot by a person on how the horse acts around you.” She says wistfully. “What about you?” she says, redirecting the conversation. You tell her about yourself, what you want to do with your life. You share your interests and hobbies outside of work and the conversation flows freely.

Hours must’ve gone by because when you start to shiver, Emily stands up- arms stretching above her head, really displaying her lean abs. You feel your face flush and begin to look down. “We should probably head in, it's getting dark and late,” she sighs, collecting the trash and tossing it into the can. She covers the fire whilst you put away the chairs. By the time you’re done, Emily is waiting on the patio for you. 

You follow her in the house awkwardly as she grabs your bags and leads you upstairs. She shows you to your new room for the next month and half, and gives you a tour of the top half of the house. “If you need anything, here’s my room.” She says, her hands coming to settle on her hips. She looks around the room, but you don’t notice, you’re too busy staring at her. Her sharp facial features, high cheekbones, perfectly sculpted nose, pointed jawline. “I’ll leave you to get ready for the night.” she says, bidding you goodnight. And just like that, you’re left alone. You start to unpack your bags, putting your clothes away in the dresser and putting your other bits in a new home. You take out some pyjamas and head into the bathroom. You turn it on and wait for it to get to the right temperature before hopping in. You start to clean yourself, lathering the loofah with body wash, running it over your body. Your eyes slip shut letting the water fall over you. 

Emily’s mouth hangs open as she watches you in the shower, pushing your door slightly ajar. Your perfect pert nipples, the round of your ass. She lets out a low groan, slipping her hand into her panties. She sighs rubbing her clit furiously, building up the stimulation. Her head drops as you run the sponge through your legs. She’s trying so hard to be quiet but when you look like that it rivals impossible. She gasps, slipping two fingers in trying to bring herself to an orgasm quickly. Your head falls back, scrubbing your shampoo into your scalp and she snaps. Legs shaking slightly. She pulls her hand out of her shorts and quickly makes her way out of your room back to her own. 

Flopping into her bed, she sighs. She is so fucked. 

fanart by: @tassiadulacs

[inseobts]

Captain

characters: luffy, law, shanks, kid and ace

inspired by: 'Captain' - Kang Seungyoon || spotify || youtube || apple music

a/n: hope this doesn't suck tbh

words count: around 1.0k - 1.5k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Luffy:

The sun is hot on your back as you lean over the Sunny’s railing. Waves crash below, sparkling like tiny stars in the ocean.

You sigh, but it’s not a sad sigh, just… tired.

Luffy’s jacket hangs off your shoulders, far too big, smelling faintly of salt and him. He’d dropped it on you earlier without a word, like he always did. Just something that happened now, the way you always saved the last bite of your food for him, or how he tucked your hair behind your ear when you weren’t paying attention.

“Oi! You’re making a weird face!”

You jump a little, turning around fast.

Luffy’s standing behind you, hands on his hips, grinning like he knows something you don’t. Which he usually does.

“I am not” you say.

“You are” he says “That’s your thinking-too-much face. I don’t like that one.”

You squint at him “You don’t like my face?”

Luffy laughs and walks up, grabbing your hand “Nah. I like your laughing face way better.”

Your heart does that stupid flip again. Luffy is always like this… saying small, silly things that hit you like cannonballs. You wonder if he even realizes what they do to you, or if he just lives like this, naturally, saying the exact thing you need to hear without trying.

He tugs your arm “Come eat meat with me.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will be when you see Sanji’s new meatball thing. He said he made it just for me. That means it’s good.”

You don’t want to argue, so you follow him. His hand stays in yours as you walk. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even think about it, like holding your hand is the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is. Maybe with him, all the strange, lovely things you thought you'd never have just… are.

The kitchen is loud. Usopp and Chopper are arguing about who can eat more. Sanji is yelling at Zoro to stop drinking straight from the soup pot. Nami rolls her eyes at everything. And through it all, Luffy’s hand stays in yours until he lets go just to sit.

Luffy sits down at the table and pats the spot next to him “Here. Sit.”

You sit.

Sanji brings over a plate with a small mountain of meatballs.

“Special recipe” he says, setting it down.

“Only for idiots who eat too fast and the people dumb enough to love them.”

“Yay!” Luffy cheers “That’s me!”

You raise an eyebrow at Sanji. He just smirks and walks off.

Luffy hands you a meatball. You take it. You chew slowly. He doesn’t. He shovels in three at once and nearly chokes. You thump his back.

“Maybe you shouldn’t eat too fast” you say.

“Too good,” he says between bites “Can’t stop.”

You laugh a little. He grins at you with his mouth full, face messy, eyes shining.

And somehow, in that moment, you feel more at home than you’ve ever felt on land. You bump your foot lightly against his under the table and don’t pull it away. He nudges back without missing a beat.

Later, when everyone’s tired and full, and the stars are peeking out, Luffy sits on the deck with you again. He lies down and folds his arms behind his head.

“Did you still have the weird face?”

“No” you say softly.

“Good.”

There’s a pause. The wind is gentle tonight. Your fingers inch toward his on the wooden deck until they touch. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts his pinky so it loops around yours.

You look at him and wonder if he knows. If he knows how much he saved you. If he knows that before this ship, before him, life felt so small.

“You’re thinking again” he says without opening his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be your captain forever, y’know.”

You blink “What?”

Luffy opens one eye and smiles at you.

“Even if you leave the crew. Even if you fly away like a bird. I’ll still be your captain. Okay?”

Your throat feels tight. You don’t say anything. You just nod and lie down next to him.

The stars look different from here. Brighter. Bigger.

Just like everything since you met him.

That night you have a nightmare... you often dream of fire.

It’s not real, not anymore. But the smoke curls around your chest when you wake up, and your heart races like you’re still running.

You sit up fast, hand on your chest. You're sweating.

The bed is warm beside you, a tangle of blankets and the faint imprint of Luffy’s sleeping form. He must’ve gone when he felt you stir.

Outside, the sea is calm. The ship creaks gently like it’s breathing.

You step outside the bedroom, careful not to wake anyone. The deck is dark, quiet. The kind of quiet that feels too loud when you’re carrying a storm inside.

You lean on the railing, gripping it hard. Trying to stop your hands from shaking.

You don’t hear Luffy approach. You never do.

“Bad dream?” he says softly.

You nod.

He doesn’t ask more. He just sits beside you on the wooden deck, cross-legged like a kid.

You look at him. He’s staring out at the ocean.

You whisper, “I wasn’t a good person before this. I did some things... things I can’t forget.”

Luffy shrugs “That’s okay.”

You blink “Okay?”

“You’re good now.”

Your breath catches “But—”

“I don’t care what you did. I care what you do now. You protect people. You laugh with us. You love this ship.”

You bite your lip “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve to be happy.”

Luffy’s head tilts “Why?”

“Because I hurt people. I made bad choices.”

He frowns, serious now “Everyone hurts people. Even me. You ever see me not punch someone?”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” he says “Because I’m the captain?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He scoots closer, his leg bumping yours “Listen. I don’t pick people because they’re perfect. I pick people who need a place. You needed one. So I gave you mine.”

Your eyes sting.

“And if you’re scared sometimes... that’s fine. I’ll be scared with you.”

You let out a shaky laugh “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Luffy grins “Thanks.”

Then he does something rare.

He reaches out and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm and a little awkward, his chin bumps your shoulder, but his arms are strong. Solid.

Safe.

You lean into him, just for a second. Just long enough to feel like maybe… maybe you can breathe again.

“I still got you,” he says “No matter what.”

The next morning, you’re quiet at breakfast.

Not sad, just full in a way that makes your chest feel warm. Luffy sits beside you like always, stealing half your toast without asking.

You don’t stop him. You just shake your head like you always do and let your knee rest against his under the table.

“Oi, Luffy, chew!” Sanji shouts from the stove “Don’t scare them off with your lizard face.”

Luffy puffs out his cheeks “I am chewing!”

You shake your head “Barely.”

He grins at you with crumbs on his lips “You finally smiled.”

“Huh?”

“You smiled at me,” he says, like it’s some great discovery “I like that.”

You feel your cheeks heat up.

Chopper climbs onto the bench next to you “You look different today,” he says thoughtfully “Lighter.”

“Maybe you finally slept” Nami adds, sipping her coffee.

“Maybe someone got a good hug last night...” Usopp says, wiggling his eyebrows.

You nearly choke on your juice.

Luffy doesn’t react “I give good hugs.”

Zoro snorts from across the table “Not with those rubbery arms.”

You stare down at your plate, smiling to yourself.

Later, you’re helping Robin tie down books in the library when Luffy finds you again. He peeks in like a kid looking for snacks.

“There you are!” he says “Come with me.”

You follow him without asking where. That’s just how it is with Luffy. You trust him.

He takes you to the upper deck where it’s quieter. The sea stretches out endlessly, sky blue and soft.

He sits on the edge and pats the spot next to him. You sit.

“I was thinking,” he says, picking at the brim of his hat “About last night.”

You look at him, curious.

“You said you didn’t deserve to be happy.”

Your chest tightens again.

He leans back on his hands “But you look happy now.”

You nod slowly “I am.”

He grins “Told you. I’m a good captain.”

You laugh a little “You are.”

Then, softly, you say it “This happiness I have right now… it was gained simply by listening to you and following your lead.”

Luffy tilts his head, eyes wide and bright “Really?”

You nod “You gave me a place. You didn’t even know me, and you still let me stay.”

“I knew enough,” he says “You were lost. I don’t leave lost people behind.”

You look down, fiddling with the seam of your shirt “I think I was scared to feel like this. Like I belong.”

“You do.”

You glance up. His face is open, honest—Luffy in his rare, still moments.

“You really think I belong here?” you whisper.

He nods “You belong with me.”

Your breath catches.

Not “with the crew”.

Not “on the ship”.

With him.

── .✦ Law:

The storm isn’t just outside.

It’s in the way Law walks the deck—slow, sharp steps, as if each one might cut the wood beneath his feet.

You watch from where you sit near the stairs, arms tucked around your knees. He hasn’t spoken in hours.

The sky above is black. Thunder grumbles like it’s trying to decide if it wants to scream.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Go inside” he says suddenly, without looking at you.

You stay where you are.

“I said—”

“I heard you.”

Silence again.

Then: “The wind’s picking up.”

“I’m fine.”

He turns his head just enough to glance at you, eyes narrowing “You’re stubborn.”

You shrug “You’re angry.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Loudly.”

He exhales through his nose—one of those short, sharp sounds that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

You unfold your legs and stand, walking slowly until you’re beside him. Close, but not touching.

Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that if you leaned in just slightly, your shoulder would brush his. But you don’t. Not yet.

“Is it about the intel?”

“No.”

“Then it’s about the crew.”

“No.”

“Then it’s about you.”

He says nothing.

The waves crash hard against the hull. Somewhere below deck, Bepo is probably pacing, waiting for the worst of the storm to pass.

But Law… Law doesn’t wait for anything. He carries storms inside him and tries to outpace them with silence.

You speak softly “Be at ease.”

He turns to look at you now, not annoyed, just… tired.

Your hand drifts to his arm, fingers barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve. You step in, gently, like approaching a wild thing. Like you’ve done this before—offering comfort without taking anything away.

“Let me watch your back now,” you continue, voice steady “My captain.”

His eyes search your face like he’s reading something in a language he forgot long ago.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.”

You take a step closer, your fingers brushing his coat sleeve.

“I’m not offering because you need it. I’m offering because you deserve it.”

His jaw tightens.

You shift your hand just enough to slide your fingers into his, letting them rest there—quiet and warm.

“Someone has to carry the weight when you can’t,” you add “Let it be me, even if it’s just tonight.”

For a long time, he doesn’t respond.

Then finally, he murmurs, “You talk too much.”

You smile “And yet you’re still listening.”

He doesn’t smile back but his shoulders drop, just slightly. And when the next gust of wind hits, he doesn’t flinch.

Because you’re there.

Because someone’s finally watching his back.

You lean in and press a kiss to his shoulder, not dramatic, just grounding. A promise. You feel him shift slightly toward you, almost imperceptibly.

The storm passes, but the cold stays.

You and Law sit under the overhang near the helm, out of the rain but not the wind. The ship creaks with each wave, but now it’s calmer. The kind of quiet that always feels like something is waiting.

He hasn’t spoken since you told him you’d watch his back.

But he’s still here.

You’re still here.

And that’s something.

You let your head rest lightly against his shoulder. His arm doesn’t move for a long moment, then slowly, tentatively, he curls it behind you, just enough that your bodies lean into one another.

“I thought you’d leave” he says at last, voice low.

You glance at him “When?”

“After Dressrosa. After the Doflamingo fight. Most people would’ve.”

“I’m not most people.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, something between agreement and disbelief.

Then he says it.

“I didn’t expect you to stay this long.”

You blink “Did you want me to go?”

“No” he says too quickly. Then quieter “I just thought you would.”

You wrap your arms around your knees, watching the wet deck glisten under the moonlight.

“People leave you a lot, don’t they?”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t need him to.

You reach over and take his hand again, threading your fingers through his with the same steady warmth you always give him. Your thumb traces soft circles over the back of his hand.

You take a slow breath and shift to face him more fully.

“You don’t always have to be the one doing the saving, Law.”

His head tilts, just slightly.

You lean forward but not too close, just enough to be clear.

“I’ll protect you now.”

The wind blows your hair into your face. You don’t move it.

He’s staring at you like he doesn’t understand the words. Like no one’s ever said them to him before and meant it.

“You think I need protection?” he asks, but there’s no bite in it. No challenge.

You smile “I think you’re tired of carrying everything alone.”

For a second, just a second, his expression softens.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like in the stories.

But his eyes lose that sharp edge.

He leans back against the wood behind him, shoulders dropping just a bit more than before. As if, maybe, he’s letting the idea settle.

Letting you settle.

You shift closer again and kiss his cheek, soft and slow, just near the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes like he’s soaking in the quiet.

You don’t push it. You just sit with him, in the silence, your presence a quiet promise:

He’s not alone anymore.

The cold settles around you both like a second skin, but here, pressed close, there’s a different kind of warmth.

You lean into him slowly, head resting against his chest this time, right where you can hear his heartbeat. At first, he’s stiff. Not resisting, but still wired tight, like his body doesn’t quite remember how to relax.

You wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him into a soft, secure hold.

He lets out a breath against your hair. It’s quiet. Almost disbelieving.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” you murmur into his coat “Not with me.”

You feel it when something in him finally begins to loosen. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But like a knot unspooling deep inside.

His hand comes up, hesitant at first, then rests on the back of your head. His fingers thread gently into your hair, and you close your eyes at the feeling.

He doesn’t speak.

You tilt your face up toward him.

His gaze meets yours, wary, but no longer guarded. He’s let you in. At least a little. Enough.

You smile softly “Come here.”

And before he can argue, before he can overthink it, you press your lips to his.

One kiss.

Then another. Then another.

Soft and fast, like raindrops. Like a flurry of promises falling out of you all at once, impossible to hold back.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his top lip, the edge of his jaw, then back to his mouth again.

With each kiss, you whisper:

“I will protect you now”

“My boss”

“My leader”

“My hero”

“My captain”

“My love.”

And something in him just… gives.

His breath hitches. His hands tighten around you, not pulling you away, but drawing you in. Letting you have him like this.

He exhales like surrender. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“…Fine. Do whatever you want.”

You press your forehead to his, smiling against his skin.

“I already am.”

And he doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t retreat behind silence.

He stays.

Wrapped up in your arms. Your warmth. Your words. Your kisses.

For once, Law lets himself be held.

── .✦ Shanks:

The first time you see him, it’s not on purpose.

You’re in a quiet port town, just passing through. Hiding, really. The kind of hiding that doesn’t involve running, it just means standing still long enough for the world to forget you.

Then the bar door opens.

And he walks in like he owns the ocean.

Red hair. Wide grin. A laugh that fills the room before he even speaks.

“Oi, Benn! I told you I could smell meat from a mile off!”

You glance up once and then away. You know who he is. Of course you do. Red-Haired Shanks. One of the Four Emperors. A name that carries storms.

You sip your drink and try not to look again.

It doesn’t work.

He notices.

You end up at the same table, somehow. He’s charming like that, pulls people in like the tide.

“What’s your story?” he asks casually, swirling his drink.

You shake your head “No story.”

“Everyone has one.”

“Not me.”

He smiles “You’re a terrible liar.”

You laugh despite yourself. It’s small. But he hears it.

“You’ve been drifting,” he says “I can tell.”

You pause “That obvious?”

He shrugs “Only to someone who’s done the same.”

Later, you’re sitting with him by the docks, the sea stretching out like a painting. He’s quieter now. Thoughtful.

You speak without meaning to.

“On a sea called loneliness… I’d come to lose my way.”

He turns toward you slowly, listening.

“My vision was dark. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.”

Shanks doesn’t interrupt.

“But a single sailboat came close.”

He smiles faintly.

“And that happy ending became our story.”

He chuckles under his breath “You’re poetic when you’ve had rum.”

You smile, but it doesn’t fade.

“You’re the first person who didn’t ask me to explain why I left. Or who I used to be.”

“I don’t care who you were,” he says gently “Only who you are when you’re with me.”

The sea breeze lifts your hair. His eyes flick to it, and stay there a moment too long.

You don’t speak again for a while. There’s no need.

Two drifters. One sailboat. And, maybe, the start of something that doesn’t have to end in loneliness.

Years Later

The sun hangs low, golden and lazy, casting soft light across the deck of the Red Force.

Shanks is half-asleep in a chair near the railing, hat pulled down over his eyes. You’re sitting not far, feet propped up, notebook balanced on your knee. You don’t write often, at least not like this, but today feels different.

You glance at him. He’s relaxed, arms crossed loosely, the breeze playing with the hem of his coat.

Years ago, he was chaos walking. A whirlwind with a smile.

Now?

He’s still chaos. But he’s yours.

You smile and press your pen to the page.

“On a sea called L-O-V-E,

The sunlight dazzles as it reflects upon the water.

On that sailboat over there, are two people—

Just a captain and a sailor.

And that happy ending is our story.”

You pause.

Then close the notebook, leave it on the small table beside him, and go below deck. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Later, just before dinner, he finds you in the galley. One arm wraps lazily around your waist from behind, pulling you in.

“I read what you wrote” he murmurs near your ear.

“Oh?”

“It was missing one thing.”

You raise a brow, glancing back at him “Yeah?”

He presses his forehead to yours “The part where the sailor becomes captain of the captain.”

You laugh, soft and full.

“In your dreams maybe” you tease.

“In our story” he corrects, grinning.

You shake your head and kiss him anyway.

It’s meant to be quick, teasing, familiar.

But Shanks doesn’t let go. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw as he kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. Like he’s been waiting all day for this one quiet moment.

You melt into him. The galley fades, the ship fades, even the sea feels quieter.

When you finally pull apart, your forehead rests against his. Neither of you speaks right away. You don’t need to.

He closes his eye, brushing his nose against yours “You still take my breath away, you know that?”

You smile against his lips “Even when I’m just trying to steal your coat?”

“Especially then.”

He leans back, just enough to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out something small, wrapped in an old cloth. He unwraps it with care, revealing a silver ring etched with faint waves.

“Was gonna wait,” he says softly, “but then I read what you wrote.”

Your breath catches.

“It’s not a proposal, not exactly,” he continues, “but it’s a promise. That whatever seas we sail, whatever storm hits… I’m yours. No matter what.”

You stare at the ring, heart swelling in your chest “Shanks…”

He slides it onto your finger, his touch feather-light “You don’t need to wear it if you don’t want. I just... I just wanted you to have something that says what I can’t always say.”

You take his hand in yours, kissing his knuckles “You already say it. Every time you look at me like I’m not just part of your crew, but like I'm part of you.”

He chuckles, a little unsteady “You are.”

The kiss you give him now isn’t playful. It’s reverent. Grateful. Fierce and fragile all at once.

Afterward, you whisper, “My captain. My anchor.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead, murmuring between each one:

“My light. My home. My heart.”

Later, beneath a sky dusted with stars, you lie curled in the hammock together—his coat draped over both your shoulders, his hand resting over yours, thumb absently brushing the ring now on your finger.

He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “I used to chase the horizon. But then I found you.”

You smile into his chest.

“I’ll chase it with you,” you say softly “As long as you want.”

He holds you tighter.

“Forever sounds good to me.”

And with the steady lull of the sea beneath you and the warmth of him around you, you sleep in the safest place you’ve ever known.

── .✦ Kid:

The ship is on fire.

Well, not literally. But that’s what it feels like after the ambush.

Scorched sails. Blood on the deck. Your ribs ache, bruised or maybe cracked, and Killer’s bleeding from his arm, trying to stop Heat from collapsing.

Kid is in the middle of it all, rage and metal, torn coat, growling orders no one can follow fast enough.

“Damn it, where’s WIRE?!”

“Dead if we don’t patch him now!” you shout back, dragging your half-burned jacket off to wrap someone else’s wound.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes scanning everything like he’s trying to hold the whole crew together with nothing but anger and magnets.

But you’re not afraid.

You’ve seen him like this before. Broken knuckles. Cracked teeth. And still standing. Still fighting.

Still trying.

He doesn’t realize you’re next to him until your hand grabs his shoulder.

“Kid.”

He glances at you, blood across his cheek, chest rising like a storm trying not to explode.

“We’re not dead,” you say “We’re still here.”

He scoffs “Barely.”

You shake your head “You always think surviving means losing.”

“Because it is,” he snarls “Every fight takes something from us.”

“Now just breath” you snap, stepping closer “Look at me.”

His eyes go wide.

You don’t blink.

“I’ll follow you. I’ll follow you ‘til the end of my days.”

The words hit the air like thunder, loud, real, and permanent.

You lift your chin with your biggest smile.

“YES, SIR.”

Something shifts in his face, not softness, not yet. But a crack. A flicker. The kind of look someone gets when they realize they’re not alone.

His voice is low.

“You’re not scared of me?”

You grin.

“I was.”

“And now?”

“I’m yours.”

And for once, Kid doesn’t argue.

He just takes your hand, calloused and shaking, and holds on like it might be the only thing left that doesn’t burn.

The ship’s quiet now.

Not peaceful but quiet. The kind of silence that settles after screaming, after gunfire, after the medics say “He’s gonna make it” and you finally let yourself breathe.

You check on everyone first. Heat’s stable. Killer’s stitches are clean. Wire’s conscious.

Only after you’ve made sure the others are resting you walk down the hall to his door.

It’s half open.

You knock once anyway.

“…It’s open” Kid’s voice grunts from inside.

You step in.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bunk, shirt off, fresh bandages wrapping his torso and arm. His metal hand is still twitching from leftover stress—little sparks crackling at the edges.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

But he doesn’t tell you to leave.

You shut the door and walk over, slow and calm, like approaching a wild thing that might still bite.

“You good?” you ask softly.

“Peachy” he mutters, eyes on the floor.

You eye the bruise on his jaw “Looks like it.”

He grunts, but says nothing more.

You stand there for a few long seconds. Then you exhale, toss your jacket to the side, and without asking, climb onto his lap, straddling him gently.

He stiffens a little “The hell are you—?”

“Shut up.”

He blinks. You settle your weight down, arms looped around his neck, foreheads almost touching.

His breath slows.

“…You’re gonna make me soft” he mutters, voice rough.

“You are soft” you say, brushing his hair back from his face.

He huffs “Right.”

You smile.

Then, quietly, honestly, you speak “My hero.”

His jaw tenses.

“My captain.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Every day in this world feels like a battle… but you’re the captain who brought me to my victory.”

He looks up at that.

There’s a flicker of pain, disbelief, maybe guilt. He shakes his head.

“We lost.”

You don’t flinch. You bring a hand to his cheek, cupping it firmly.

“We all survived.” You lean in, eyes locked with his “Is it really a loss?”

The words hang between you, heavy and warm.

He stares at you for a long, long moment. Then finally, his voice low, almost gravel, he says “…No.”

You nod.

“Good,” you whisper “Now let me hold you until your stupid brain believes it.”

He lets you.

He even wraps his arms around you, tentative at first, then tight, like maybe you’re the anchor he didn’t know he needed until tonight.

You rest your forehead against his, feeling the tension bleeding out of him inch by inch.

His metal hand settles at your back, warmer than it should be. Steady.

“You always this bossy?” he grumbles, voice low but not annoyed. Almost… fond.

You grin “Only when you’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? I got impaled.”

“And still talking,” you say sweetly, brushing your nose against his “Clearly not fatal.”

A quiet sound escapes him, not quite a laugh, but really close. He pulls you closer, jaw pressing to your shoulder, voice muffled against your skin.

“You scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

You smile “Good. Keeps you on your toes.”

You shift slightly, just enough to ghost a kiss across his cheekbone. Then another, soft at the corner of his mouth. Then one more right on his lips, softer and a bit longer.

He exhales, like you’ve stolen all the fire out of him with that one simple touch.

You whisper against his mouth, “I meant what I said.”

“I know.”

“My hero.”

He groans lightly “You’re gonna kill me with that shit.”

“My captain” you say again, this time planting a kiss under his jaw.

“I’ll throw you overboard” he warns half-heartedly, pulling you tighter.

“No you won’t.”

He doesn’t argue.

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the slow thump of his heart, and he buries his fingers in your hair like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“You’re the only thing that makes this worth it” he mumbles after a while.

You grin again, eyes closed “Took you long enough.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t.

You just nuzzle in closer, his warmth surrounding you, his heartbeat steady against yours, and for once, even on a ship held together by bolts and scars and sheer, everything feels unshakably, impossibly whole.

── .✦ Ace:

The waves crash steady against the ship, stars scattered across the sea like someone spilled the sky.

You’re sitting on the edge of the deck, legs swinging over the side, the ocean dark beneath you. Most of the crew’s asleep. Only you and him are still awake.

Ace drops down beside you, barefoot and shirtless, sea breeze ruffling his hair. He smells like smoke and salt and freedom.

"You're gonna fall in one day" he says, nudging your leg with his knee.

You glance over "Then you better be ready to dive in after me. Oh wait, you can't even swim anymore!"

He grins "I'd like to see you try drowning."

You bump your shoulder into his "I did once, remember? Before you even formed this crew... That's how we met."

He goes quiet.

You weren’t joking.

Neither was he, when he dragged you back to the ship half-dead, coughing seawater, chest heaving as he yelled your name like it was the last thing keeping him afloat.

That was the first time he held you like something fragile.

And the first time you knew he’d never let go.

You look out at the sea again "You saved me."

"Hm?"

"Back then. And now. All the time, really."

He leans back on his hands "You act like I’m some hero."

You shake your head "No. You're not a hero."

He laughs "Gee, thanks."

You turn to him, steady “I'm your sailor. You're the captain. You saved me from drifting.”

He blinks. His grin fades, not in a bad way, just... softer. More real.

“I never saved anyone” he says after a second.

“You did, and I'm not talking about that time...” you whisper “You just don't realise it.”

He doesn’t speak, but you feel his hand brush yours, fingers grazing yours like he wants to hold on, but doesn’t know how.

So you do it first.

You intertwine your fingers with his, firm and warm.

“I didn’t follow you ‘cause you saved me that day” you murmur “I followed you ‘cause I finally felt seen.”

He swallows hard.

Then says your name... just your name, but it sounds like a promise.

Not grand. Not dramatic.

Just true.

And that’s all you ever needed.

Years Later

For once, everything’s quiet. No Marines, no missions. Just you, a sleepy harbor, and one very shirtless fire-user leaning against the rail with a half-eaten orange in hand.

You step outside, towel-drying your hair from the bath, and lean beside him.

He grins at you like always, like you’re his favorite sight in the world.

You smirk.

“Hey, Captain.”

Ace groans immediately, tossing the orange peel at your feet.

“You still call me that?” he says, exasperated “It’s been years since I stopped being a captain, Y/N. Drop it already…”

You shrug innocently “But it suits you.”

Before he can roll his eyes harder, you lean in and plant a quick, soft kiss on his lips.

Then whisper, just close enough for him to feel your breath “My boss. My leader. My hero. My captain.”

Ace exhales like you’ve just made his heart do a backflip, but he plays it cool... barely.

“Ugh,” he groans dramatically, gently pushing your face away with one hand “Can’t you just be a cute lover and call me… I don’t know, boyfriend? Honey? My love?”

You blink at him, lips twitching, then smirk.

“Alright, sure. How about... Flamey Hot Dumbass Supreme?”

He stares at you.

“...That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

You grin wider “What? It’s affectionate.”

Ace covers his face with one hand, groaning “What was I even thinking that day I confessed to you and kissed you...”

You press a kiss to his cheek “That I was the only person who could make your life this fun.”

He huffs but he doesn’t argue.

He just pulls you closer, tucking you under his arm, and lets the sunset burn quietly around you both.

The laughter fades slowly.

Ace still has his arm around your shoulders, thumb brushing slow circles on your upper arm. You rest your head against his bare chest, listening to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat.

The orange-sweet breeze brushes past. The sun’s dipped lower now, gold turning to pink.

He doesn’t speak for a long while.

And then softly, without teasing “You’ve been sitting next to me all this time…”

You glance up, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest squeeze.

“Yeah” you whisper “Where else would I go?”

Ace lets out a breath that almost sounds like disbelief. His fingers move up to touch your cheek, warm and careful.

“I was so busy back then. Fighting. Running. Trying to prove something. I didn’t even see it at first.”

“See what?”

“You” he says “Of course.”

You smile, nudging his nose with yours “Took you long enough.”

His other hand finds your waist, pulling you gently closer until your knees are nearly in his lap. His voice drops “I love you.”

You blink, heart thudding.

He’s said it before, during arguments, in bed, drunk off sake. But this time? This time it’s bare, and slow, and steady.

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper against his lips:

“I love you too, firebrain.”

You’re both smiling into the kiss when—

“Yo.”

You freeze.

Ace groans out loud, forehead thudding against your shoulder as Marco’s voice cuts you.

You both turn, Ace’s hand still on your thigh, your face flushed, as Marco stands with a completely deadpan expression.

“Am I interrupting?”

Ace doesn’t even lift his head “You think?”

Marco shrugs “Well, you're not in your room, you know? That’s basically an invitation.”

You’re trying not to laugh as Ace flips him off without looking.

“Five minutes, Marco” you plead.

Marco holds up his hands, already walking off “Sure, sure. Just letting you know dinner’s ready... lovebirds.”

Ace groans again, shoving his face into your neck as you laugh harder.

“I swear I’m gonna set that pineapple on fire.”

“Sure you are, Captain.”

“…Don’t start.”

[yenhan]

"Accidental pregnancy scare"

Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor ft. Alejandro and Rudy

Part One - Masterlist

Synopsis: One little misunderstanding surely won't do much damage.

You knew you’d messed up the second Rudy dropped his drink.

He was laughing at first. He was. That man had a distinctive laugh, and he definitely fit his newest job as a self-defence instructor for kids. He just gave the impression to be that good with children. Alejandro, on the other hand, had his eyebrows so high up that they were about to vacate his forehead entirely.

Knowing they spoke Spanish, you took it as a chance to dust the drawer in which the 'one month exchange in Spain' had been abandoned. You finished telling them a story; being flustered after an evil seagull stole your sandwich at the beach. "Me sentí tan embarazada," you said at length.

Except, you just made a terrible mistake. A little mix-up between languages. Who could blame you? Your brain switched languages every two seconds! Embarazada, imbarazzata, embarrassed... Why did they sound so similar? Was it really your fault if 'embarazada' meant 'pregnant'?

Which you were not. Not even remotely.

You coughed. Alejandro grinned like Christmas had come early.

“¿Embarazada?” Rudy repeated slowly. “You’re pregnant?”

Your heart dropped into your socks, under your shoes, under the pavement of the flat. “No! That’s not what I meant! I’m not—" You covered your face.

Too late.

The colonel, bless him, was already turned toward the lads, aware he was about to deliver a bombshell of gossip. “Did you know your little neighbor is pregnant?”

“Wot?!” Soap choked on his tea, beating his chest to avoid suffocating.

Gaz immediately teared up. “I—I’m not ready to be an uncle... Who’s the dad? Does he have a job? This requires an emergency meeting. We don’t have a contingency plan!”

Ghost stood up and walked directly to the window. As if the shining glass could track the identity of the mystery father... You were fairly certain he was running through a list of local male residents and assigning kill orders. Was it Jared from the butcher's shop? That boy had a penchant for dangerous endeavors, alas flirting with you when you accompanied Johnny and Simon to buy steaks. Perhaps Ray, the mailman, had lingered a little too long by your doorstep lately?

Price’s sigh could’ve powered the National Grid. “For Christ’s sake.”

Soap, poor guy, was pacing now. "Right, who wis it? Ah'll kill 'im. Naw, seriously, just blink twice if it’s someone we ken."

Encouraged by Alejandro's discreet sneer, you made a show of holding your stomach. “Oh, I just felt a flutter. Must’ve been the spicy fried chicken.”

The Scotsman nearly fainted. “You sneaky wee shite!"

“Y’lot are absolute idiots,” Price muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can someone get me a drink? Or a shovel to bury the rest of my patience?”

“I’m kidding! Not pregnant. Just linguistically challenged. Sorry, Kyle.”

Gaz stopped mid-sob. “Thank God. I wasn’t ready to financially commit to diapers.”

“Tha's it? No situation to… address?” Ghost turned. He sure was inscrutable, but you noticed the relieved glint in his eyes before it disappeared.

You gave him a look™. “Uh? Like you’d what, adopt the baby out of spite?”

He didn’t answer.

"Simon."

"I didn’t say yes."

"..."

Price just pointed a finger at both of your Mexican friends. “You two are banned from visiting. Indefinitely.”

Remember kids: Check your false friends before they give your neighbors a collective aneurysm. Or a reason to plan a shotgun wedding.

P.S. Yes, Simon would adopt the baby.

Based on a friend's mishap in Madrid. I promise pt. 3 will come out :)

[fanged-fanfics]

hey broski! I hope you don't mind, requesting

Pure Vanilla/Shadow Milk x Sorcerer! Eldritch Magic User!Reader, Oneshot if you can :) Their gender is whatever, They/Them

Reader was Pure Vanilla's assistant or bodyguard like Wild berry, and they weren't from vanilla kingdom, but they worked as Pure Vanilla's and tries to fit in, they have a special abilities(Doctor Strange's magic bcuz yes, also bonus if they used to be non-magic cookie) They're mature and responsible.

Reader was a older sibling/Parent-figure to Gingerbrave's friends.

They all visit to Beast Yeast together and yeah, I don't know. You can add and go crazy. Thank you!

☆ A Stroll Into Town — Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk (seperate) x Bodyguard!Reader ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

You walked dutifully along Pure Vanilla, a contained Shadow Milk being dragged behind you both. While the deceitful beast was passive, you'd decided it had been far too long since visiting your friend Gingerbrave. He'd attempted to write you a few times to tell of his adventures, and you missed seeing him in person. "We'll be coming up in just a moment, I think" Pure Vanilla said through the silence. Shadow Milk struggled against the restraints you had him in "I'm so BOOOOREEDD!! Can't I have a little break? I'm gonna crumble away at this rate!" He cried.

You spun around, pointing your sword in his direction "Quiet. You will be detained when the time calls for it". Shadow Milk didn't seem deterred, and he blew a raspberry in your direction. You leaned back with an unamused look, Pure Vanilla patting your shoulder. "Patience, my knight. He'll have his due time". You grumbled, but gave an obedient nod, walking forwards and dragging the fallen beast once more.

You soon entered through a thick patch of trees, peering into a building Kingdom on the other side. Many Sugar Gnomes flooded the place, building stones up with shovels and saws to make the walls. You walked in perfect tandem with Pure Vanilla, and a familiar Cookie turned to see you, his blue eyes shining with excitement. The next thing you knew, you were being tackled to the ground in a hug. "YOU MADE IT!!! The castle is being rebuilt right now, but I'm SOSOSO happy you're here!" Gingerbrave exclaimed brightly.

You grunted while sitting up, patting the shoulder of the crushing hold you were in "Wouldn't miss it for all of Earthbread. Now let me breathe-" you replied. Gingerbrave pulled back "Oh- sorry! I've been getting so strong recently" he said, grinning as he flexed one of his thin crispy arms "Must be all that adventuring". You smiled, chuckling a little "I'm sure. But I bet you still couldn't beat me". "Oh yeah? I bet I could!" Gingerbrave shot back confidently.

You glanced up to Pure Vanilla, who was smiling warmly at seeing you so relaxed. He gave an approving nod, and you stood, facing your now-opponent "Come on, let's put it to the test" you said. Gingerbrave got a running start, causing you to chase after him. Meanwhile, Pure Vanilla positioned Shadow Milk onto a nearby bench. The beast was still grumbling, practically pouting now "This is what we came here for? Ugh, you're making me think a jailcell would've been a better option"

"On the contrary, this is exactly the kind of exposure you need" Pure Vanilla said, taking a seat nearby. When Shadow Milk glared at him in confusion, he went on, "Look around, Shadow Milk. All these Cookies coming together to build something great. Not just a kingdom, but a home. Even our dear knight can't help but join in". He turned his eye staff to the Cookies running about, using it to see the scenery "They're family, friends, comrades. It's everything you need to learn"

"BOOORRIIINNNG" Shadow Milk interrupted, leaning back in his seat "Sheesh, and just when I wanted to think you couldn't get any worse, you bring out the friendship speech. Give it a rest, you fool". Pure Vanilla just gave a shrug. He was always irritated with Shadow Milk, but it wasn't in his nature to lash out or snap. Not after that first time... he focused on his deep breathing instead, finding comfort in watching you battle with your pals.

Shadow Milk rolled his eyes, but found his gaze going to the same area. You looked so carefree out there. So unapologetically yourself. Just you, the sun beaming down, and the thrill of battle. He didn't remember a time where he ever saw you look happier. Maybe there could be something there.. a spot carved out in the earth for something even as vile as him. Maybe a spot right beside you, if he wanted to really hope. But he shoved the thought back down when remembering the scowl you always fixed him with. It was stupid to get his hopes up, he figured. But for now, he was drawn to your form, awestruck by you, and he felt no need to look away.

[a2remedy]

Ride or Die and Beyond

Jason Todd, at 15, panicked and tired, didn't know what to make of the situation he was in.

Jason Todd, at 13, was oblivious to his best friend, who was, by all means, just as much of a medical professional as Leslie. That totally wasn't concerning.

Oblivious to how he'd always have a copy of Pride and Prejudice on hand whenever Jason was feeling stressed. Oblivious to dancing shadows and tricks of the light that lead him to hidden clues at crime scenes. But he was aware of the promise to be each other's ride or die when they had to beat up older Gotham Academy students that tried bashing them for not being from rich families.

Jason Todd, at 15, was aware that changed when it was his turn to tend to his friend who got a high fever. He had Alfred rush them to Leslie's and stuck by his side because he knew his friend was afraid of hospitals and needles. He held his friend's hand tight and squeezed to remind him that he was there.

They made jokes about how they couldn't avoid each other even in death. That's when it becomes Ride or Die and Beyond. Then he died. Screaming for his friend and for his dad. Jason Todd, at 15, has never failed to grasp that he couldn't get rid of his friend even if he wanted to. It was fucking annoying... and endearing.

----

Danny Fen Nightingale, at 15, never thought he'd be fighting back an assassin lady with a shovel in front of his best friend's grave. He's been feeling off for months. His grief over his friend felt... wrong? Something was happening. No, something was bound to happen. He couldn't explain it until a green sticky note told him to take a little walk down memory lane within Gotham. He dug up some flowers he was growing and stopped by a tool shop to get a bigger shovel to get the flowers closer to his best friend. As close as they could. But someone beat him there. Someone new? No, he knew this feeling. The unknown, the feeling that someone was watching whenever he visited. He failed to crack her upside the head for attending without flowers. But he felt the shift, somethi- time, time decided to set things right. ---- Talia was caught between a sense of shock and pride that the friend of her beloved's ward nearly got the jump on her. She wouldn't deny that it was within her expectation, though. The boy's steps were so light, she would've been hit if he wielded with less drag, something lighter. With the way the boy dodged and weave from her blows, she was ecstatic to see a dagger in his hands. Is this how the boy felt when he slipped out of here mentioning a 2 for one deal? It was only after her beloved's ward crawled out of his grave that the boy let his guard down so slightly while blocking her off from him. The boy lasted without her training. She was sure he had training of some kind, and yet his form was lax. So nimble, so adaptable.

Of course, she made quick work of the two and covered their tracks before making her escape.

Were her maternal instincts activating again? ----

She wasn't sure how to define her relationship with Danyal. The boy has finally seen the effort to correct her and Damien as pointless after months of being here. Yet, he's displayed a strength she hasn't seen in knocking down her father and dragging him through a brighter glowing Lazarus pit for "paperwork". She may not be sure of what or where her father was, but Danyal has ensured his good health with a devilish grin and that he never laid another hand on him. She was positive he was being tortured in a way the soft-hearted boy deemed fitting. But was he another son? He didn't seem opposed to the idea after her insistence to be trained and grimaced at being in a room with them for too long as he said they stink. He visits 3-4 times a week to ensure her beloved's war- Jason was good in his recovery.

She found herself agreeing with Jason less and less as the boy began turning red after they shared the night he was first back in his right mind crying and holding the other close. But Jason assures her that he's just his best friend... Maybe Danyal couldn't be her son. But he could be her son-in-law.

She wasn't against that.

She also wasn't against the glances she shared more often with Damien as two interacted. They grew closer in discussion of how Danyal fell first, but Jason was falling harder. Then there was this Roy character she's been hearing about more. She couldn't wait to take pleasure in Jason's reaction of his love interests assassinating the so-called Prince of Crime. It warmed her heart that they involved her in strategizing and cleaning up. They also seemed to be reaching a similar affection.

Now she and Damien just need to get Jason to realize he has two boyfriends. Oh, the struggle of motherhood.

[gainercontent]

Eli's Thanksgiving Feast

Eli had been dreading this moment for weeks. After three months of dining hall food, late-night pizza, and chugging beers, he knew the consequences of college life were starting to show. The freshman 15. Everyone talked about it, but no one really prepared him for how quickly it could sneak up on you.

When he pulled in the driveway and saw his two older brothers tossing a frisbee in the front yard of their house, he could already see the smirks on their faces.

"Damn, Eli, you look like you’ve been hitting the dining hall more than the library," his brother Noah said, giving him a teasing once-over.

"Seriously, can't even hide it now," Micah, the middle brother, added, a laugh bubbling in his voice. He reached out to give Eli a pat on the back, but the gesture turned into a playful poke in the stomach. "You sure you're still fit to play ultimate, or are you just here for the Thanksgiving stuffing now?"

Eli tried to laugh it off, but deep down, he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He had always been the skinny one growing up, the one who could eat whatever he wanted without worrying about his weight. But college had thrown him off balance—dorm food, late-night study sessions, and the absence of his mom’s homemade cooking. It didn’t take long before he found himself snacking on pizza rolls at 2 a.m. or grabbing a double cheeseburger between classes. And now, it showed.

"You guys are ridiculous," Eli muttered, trying to change the subject. "It’s just a few pounds."

"No kidding. It's not like you can just wish it away, bro," Noah teased.

"Don’t worry, we’ll help get you back in shape… after dinner," Micah added with a smirk.

Later, at the dinner table, the teasing reached new heights. Their mom had outdone herself this year, as usual. The kitchen was filled with the familiar smell of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, Mac and cheese, cranberry sauce, and—of course—her famous stuffing. It was the kind of meal that made Eli’s mouth water just from the smell.

"Sit down, Eli," his mom called, placing a massive plate of food in front of him. "I know you’re starving after your long drive."

"I’m not that hungry, Mom," Eli protested, eyeing the mountain of food in front of him.

"No, no," Noah chimed in, grinning. "You’ve gotta eat it all, Eli. You need the fuel. We don’t want you looking like you’re gonna float away after dinner."

Eli shot him a glare but sat down, his stomach already rumbling at the sight of all that food. Micah was already halfway through his first plate, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth with reckless abandon.

"Come on, little brother," Micah teased. "You’re not gonna let me beat you, are you?"

Eli rolled his eyes. "I’m not racing you guys."

But as the meal went on, Noah and Micah’s constant badgering wore him down.

"No way you can eat all that," Noah challenged, smirking at Eli. "Come on, show us what you've got."

"Yeah, we dare you," Micah added. "Five plates. You know you want to."

With each bite, Eli found himself getting fuller and fuller. But the challenge was too tempting to ignore. He loaded up his plate with mashed potatoes, a giant scoop of stuffing, turkey, green beans, and a spoonful of cranberry sauce. His brothers cheered him on, making exaggerated comments as he shoveled it all in, their voices getting louder the more he ate.

By the time he finished his first plate, the edges of his stomach were beginning to protest. He was full, but his brothers egged him on, urging him to keep going.

"Come on, one more plate. You can do it!" Micah shouted.

Noah chimed in. "You know the rule—no one's allowed to leave the table until they’ve finished five plates."

The competitive fire in Eli flared. He couldn’t back down. Not now. So, he loaded up a second plate, then a third. He felt the strain in his stomach with each passing bite, the tightness in his waistband beginning to feel like a constant reminder of how much he was stuffing in. But his brothers kept making comments, kept laughing, and it pushed him forward. He kept eating.

By the time he reached plate number five, Eli felt like his body was about to give up. His stomach felt like a bloated balloon, full and aching. The tightness of his jeans was becoming unbearable, and he let out an involuntary, loud burp that echoed through the room.

"Uh-oh, bro," Noah said with a grin. "Sounds like someone’s gonna pop."

Eli’s face flushed crimson, and his hand instinctively went to his waistband. He couldn’t take it anymore. He unbuttoned his jeans, letting out another long, audible burp as he tried to ease the pressure.

Micah leaned back in his chair, his grin practically splitting his face. "Dude, you seriously ate five plates. I’m impressed, but you might need a stretcher to get off that chair."

Eli laughed weakly, clutching his stomach. "I think I might just sleep here," he groaned. "Can’t move."

"Ah, don’t be a wimp," Noah said. "There’s still dessert."

Eli’s eyes widened. Dessert. He had completely forgotten. His mom had already brought out a spread of pies—pumpkin, apple, pecan, and chocolate cream.

"You guys are insane," Eli muttered, but when Noah placed a huge slice of pumpkin pie in front of him, he couldn’t say no. His stomach might have been on the brink of revolt, but dessert was a whole other beast.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze of discomfort. Eli could barely look at the food in front of him, but he forced down a few bites of pie. By the time dessert was over, he felt completely stuffed. His pants were barely holding on, and each breath felt like a labor.

Eli slumped in his chair, a hand pressed firmly against his bloated stomach. He had lost the battle—not only had he eaten way too much, but he’d also been completely outdone by his brothers’ teasing.

But despite the discomfort, there was something oddly satisfying about the whole experience. Sure, he was stuffed to the point of misery, but he had done it. He had survived five plates, countless teasing remarks, and endless jokes.

As the night wound down, his brothers gave him one last, affectionate jab.

"You’re gonna need a week to recover from that," Micah said, ruffling Eli’s hair.

"Probably a month," Noah added with a chuckle.

Eli just smiled weakly and groaned. "I think I’ll just sleep until Christmas."

And, for the first time in a long while, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Regrets | Ghost x Reader

Day 25: Simon “Ghost” Riley

Summary: After a rough night, Simon treats you a bit too roughly, and tries to make it up to you.

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: SMUT, p in v, mentions of rape, allusions to past rape, rough sex, panic attacks, simon being a meanie, sort of dubcon? but it’s okay they make up after it (smut to angst to comfort)

Minors, do not interact!

A/N: thank you to anon who requested this, I hope it’s what you wanted, if the writing tone randomly switches up it’s prob bc I fell asleep 300 words in and finished it later, hope you enjoy regardless<3

Requests are open!

It had originally been a one-night stand, something simple with no strings attached, no expectations Ghost had to keep up with or care about.

He’d met you at a bar, a girl able to handle more alcohol than him despite his much larger body. It wasn’t every day he saw that.

One night had turned into two, two had turned into three, and now he was showing back up again, dragging himself to the doorstep of your apartment where he knew you lived. He’d seen your car outside in the parking lot, so he knew you were home. Those three nights had turned into almost daily visits when he was on leave.

Some nights, he’d stay a bit longer, treat you how a proper gentleman would’ve with the aftercare, giving a bottle of water, a little towel wiping you down, and tucking you in. He knew it wasn’t fair to give you little tastes of what you could’ve had instead of him, but he just couldn’t help it.

You two weren’t exactly a couple, but were more than just fuck-buddies at this point. You’d let him come over and eat dinner, watching him shovel down an impossible amount of food, devouring everything like the human garbage disposal he was. Most nights were followed with slow sex, not exactly tender as much as being patient and gentle, not rushing it. He’d been rushed too often on the field to enjoy it when on leave most days.

But today he was angry.

Recruits had arrived, and been shoved into a team at the last minute with Ghost because of some complications with their commanding officer being out, so he’d had to take over. You’d think that the men had never held a gun before in their lives, considering their shitty grip and twitchy trigger fingers. They’d been all too eager to please at training, trying to show off to the Lieutenant who didn’t seem to care much, annoyed brown eyes flicking between them to check their forms.

He’d approached one of the taller rookies, opening his mouth to correct his stance while going through the motions and exercises, and that was when it had happened. The man had grabbed the base of his balaclava, yanking the fabric roughly up in a way that made it scratch against his scars.

The other recruits had all dropped what they were doing, trying to catch a glimpse of Simon’s face, failing as it was pulled right back down, and he promptly beat the ballsy recruit’s ass.

But even after, he was still angry. His blood was boiling beneath his skin, even after filing a report, leaving the base with bloodied knuckles and a scowl on his covered face. And well, he’d never been one to indulge in rough sex, not after what he’d heard his father did to his mother in the night when he thought no one was listening. He could still hear the crying and begging if he tried hard enough.

But he wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t in the mood for the usual tender session, the buildup just as enjoyable as the release. He needed an outlet.

Your door wasn’t locked when he opened it, throwing his bag to the side of the door, shutting it, and sliding the bolt shut before moving to hunt you down. There was a nice aroma coming from the kitchen, the smell of sweets, freshly baked cookies, or brownies.

He walked, more like stormed, into the kitchen, mask staying on, towering over you even from a distance as he saw you pulling a tray out of the oven, one full of cookies, chocolate chip, just the way he liked them. You pulled your oven mitts off, clicked a button to turn the oven off, and heard his heavy footsteps. You turned, smiled, and offered him one.

“Hey, Si. Just finished cookies, you want one?”

You asked. He didn’t reply. He just stood, staring at you from the holes in his skull mask. You swallowed, seeing the black pit of hunger forming in his eyes, not for the cookies or any other food you’d usually have for him. His hands went to his belt, and you tried to shove down the little tingle of anxiety you felt forming.

He didn’t fiddle with the buckle, pulling, pushing, and having it off in less than five seconds flat. He let it clatter to the floor, missing the way you flinched just a little bit, too focused on pulling his shirt off, military pants soon to follow.

You got the message, eyes watching him all too closely as you pulled off your shirt and slid your shorts down.

He grunted something, maybe a word you didn’t understand, before grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you off to the bedroom. When you were both down the hall, he picked you up, tossing you on the bed.

On any other day, you might’ve found it amusing or hot how easily he could manhandle you. Today, you just weren’t really in the mood, but you could play pretend if he needed it that bad. You didn’t want to disappoint him, not when you’d finally gotten him to slowly let you in behind the walls he’d built up.

He crawled into the bed, hand hooking into your panties and pulling them off, throwing them on the floor, and spitting on his hand before shoving it in his boxers, pulling his half-hard cock out. He gave it a few pumps, lining it up at your entrance.

You scrambled a bit, having absolutely no prep, a stark contrast to the usual at the very least 20 minutes of him scissoring his fingers in, rubbing and occasionally licking your cunt.

He pushed in despite the little grimace on your face as the sting of the stretch made your eyes water. His eyes fluttered shut with a little raspy groan, and he didn’t let you adjust for a second when he bottomed out, moving immediately in sharp thrusts.

“Fuck—slow down, need a minu—“

You tried to gasp out, the friction between your hardly wet folds and his poorly lubed dick burning slightly. He didn’t pay you any mind, continuing with the deep thrusts that were certainly bruising your insides where the tip slammed against each time.

“Fuckin’ deal with it,”

He growled, British accent heavy and thicker the closer he grew to his release. Your throat tightened, tears welling, as you tried to push him away.

He didn’t move.

He grabbed your hips with his meaty hands, shoving you back down to him. It wasn’t the first time you’d been trapped by a man, crushed underneath him, his dick inside of you when you didn’t want it.

And suddenly it wasn’t Simon Riley above you, it was him.

His hands holding you down, keeping you from moving. His cock shoving in and out, ignoring the friction from you being drier than the Sahara desert. His raspy grunts and heavy breathing. Him using you.

You kicked and flailed, desperate not to just be held down, docile like before. The ball of your feet kicked him directly in the knee, his bad knee, the one he’d taken a bullet in before, and he crumpled, being roughly pushed out of you as you kicked and shoved him away with your feet.

“Red,”

You finally choked out, scooting away from him, despite Simon being back to being Simon Riley again. The skull mask stared at you, but was abandoned quickly, pulled off as soon as he saw how you shook, tears rolling down your cheeks before you curled in on yourself in the bed. He’d fucked up, he knew it.

Honey brown eyes smudged with eyeblack watched as sobs shook your body. He didn’t know what to do.

“Hey,”

He tried, rough voice mellowing down to a little more than a cooing baby voice. He knew what this was. He should’ve recognized the signs from the beginning.

Your sobs quieted to sniffles over time. He shoved his dick back in his boxers, feeling as if he deserved the sting of pain from the sensitivity that came from the rough handling. He scrambled for any clothes, pulling out a pair of his jogging shorts and one of his on-leave shirts and pulling them quickly on.

He grabbed a water bottle from your dresser, not knowing nearly how old it was, but deciding that anything was better than nothing, and he wasn’t leaving you alone to go to the kitchen right now.

He unscrewed the cap, set it down on the nightstand, and kneeled at the side of the bed. His finger connected with the bottom of your chin, pulling your face up, to see your watery eyes meet his. He offered the water, putting the tip at your lips, watching your trembling hand reach to steady it as you took a long drink.

“I’m sorry,”

He whispered. It was hard to speak when your body language was suffocating him. He’d scared you. He’d had his panic attacks before, he knew what they felt like, how catastrophic they could be on your mind and body.

You handed the bottle back, breathing a little bit steadier now, which reassured him at the least. You stared.

He’d never been good at making idle conversations, not without someone to carry the backbone of it and keep it smoothly going like you and his Sergeant were easily able to do, but he would try.

“I was thinkin’ about those cookies you made. Maybe we could—watch a movie, one o’ them…”

His voice trailed off, watching as you wiped your eyes, calming down, eyes refilling with something other than blind panic.

“…those—the, uh, cheesy romcoms you like, yeah? Laugh at how dumb they look? We did that over a pizza once, was cracking up so bad I almost had to pull the Heimlich on ya.”

He glanced hopefully up at you as he heard a little giggle bubble up out of your throat through the sniffles. He’d filtered out some of the usual words he would use for those shitty romcoms, knowing it might set you off.

It was only when he caught sight of the curve of your breast, was he reminded that you didn’t have any clothes on.

“You…want me to get you some clothes, luv?”

You nodded. He got up, moving to the dresser once more, opening the drawers, pulling out the pajama set with different little cartoon dinosaurs on them that he knew you loved, as well as a pair of your more comfortable underwear.

He handed you the clothes, shutting his eyes as he heard you shuffling around, a little blush coloring his pale cheeks. It was only when he felt your hand brush his shoulder, that he dared crack one eye open, seeing you in your pj’s, as you slid your legs over the bed, not even hitting the floor as he picked you up.

He knew you were sore. He’d seen how you’d hesitated before trying to stand before he’d scooped you up.

You hadn’t recoiled at all, so he took it as a sign that he could keep holding you, and he stood, walked to the kitchen, grabbed the tray of cookies in its entirety, and walked to the living room, plopping you down on the couch with the cookies, and handing you the remote.

“Find us somethin’ to watch, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

He murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek and walking into the kitchen again.

You grabbed the remote, using it to turn the TV on, before scrolling through your options for the cheesiest, worst-rated romance there was. You and Simon had watched one or two, but he never stayed long after they ended.

You found a particularly awful one that was free with ads, and you paused it at the very beginning, hearing the sound of popping, your microwave buzzing, the sound of something being pushed around, and a few cabinets being opened, before an exasperated sigh.

“Where the hell are the bags?”

He asked from the kitchen, and you giggled to yourself, grabbing a cookie from the tray and taking a big bite.

“Bottom, left of the fridge.”

You called back, and moments later, he appeared with a bowl of popcorn, and a bag of ice that he handed to you. You raised a brow.

“Don’ know where it hurts, but I know you’re sore.”

He replied. He’d thought about trying to put it where it might hurt but quickly realized that putting a bag of ice on your vagina might not come off well after the events of the night.

“Thanks.”

You murmured, adjusting it to where you wanted, taking a bite of popcorn.

“No need. I was bein’ an ass.”

A beat of silence.

“Yeah, you were.”

You took a handful of popcorn.

“You wanna talk about it?”

A strange question from a man who was so unemotional most of the time, but you figured with his smarts, he’d figured out why you’d reacted like that. You shook your head. A little nod, and he was ready to talk about it later, if not right now.

“Let’s watch the movie.”

You spoke, turning it on, setting the remote down as he wrapped a gentle arm around your shoulder, pulling a blanket from the floor overtop the both of you.

It was safe to say the rest of the night was spent giggling at the movie, his dead one-liners making you laugh your ass off as you both made fun of it.

[peachbubbless]

An SBR request! Could we have Johnny bring around a reader with Keratosis Pilaris? Aka strawberry skin, they look similar to bug bites! Btw I absolutely love your writing, I’m falling for characters I hadn’t even paid full attention to before!

YOUR MIND - astounding. The things you’ve done for the Johnny Joestar community 🙏 I have KP myself and suddenly love it a lot more! I'm so glad you enjoy my writing my love, hope you enjoy this one too, it’s such a fun premise! <333

Strawberry skin – Johnny Joestar x Reader

Sexual themes | Word count - 1676 | Day 2 SBR fanfic Week

It hadn’t been a plan.

Not at first.

After the Steel Ball Run ended, after the winners were named and the dead were not, it turned out no one really knew what to do with themselves.

You hadn’t expected to survive, much less to have to figure out what came after. You’d ridden halfway across a continent for a reason that didn’t even make sense anymore. Salvation, maybe. Or spite. Some days it was hard to tell the difference.

But when it was over, your name wasn’t in the papers. There was no parade. No epilogue written in gold.

Just bruises, half-healed wounds you still didn’t like to talk about, and a quiet life with Johnny Joestar.

“You don’t have to go back,” he’d said, not quite looking at you.

“There’s room at the ranch. I could use the help.”

You knew what he meant. You both did. It wasn’t about chores. It wasn’t even about the room.

It was about not being alone.

He hadn’t wanted to ask. You hadn’t wanted to say yes.

But here you were.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere you were living on Joestar land, sleeping in the old guest room, and pretending it wasn’t strange that your post-trauma coping strategy included shovelling horse shit and arguing about who made worse coffee.

You weren’t together-together. Not officially.

But there were looks. Drinks together. Moments that lasted too long and silences that said more than anyone was willing to put into words. Something had started in the desert, and it hadn’t stopped growing. Not yet.

The morning was already warm by the time you started on the stables.

The air smelled like leather, grass and dust, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how many times you washed. The sky stretched overhead in that cloudless, uncaring way that reminded you of your race days - only now, the only thing trying to kill you was hay fever.

You had your sleeves rolled up and your pants cuffed at the knee. Not for fashion. Just because it was hot, and the horses didn’t care what your legs looked like.

You were halfway through mucking the second stall when you heard the slow crunch of gravel behind you.

“You get bit up bad or somethin’?”

You turned.

Johnny was leaning against the fence, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in that classic Joestar way. He wasn’t wearing the hat today. His hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it and then given up halfway. There was a glass of lemonade sweating in one hand and a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

He nodded toward your legs.

“Legs’re lookin’ a little rough.”

You blinked. Followed his gaze.

Right.

The keratosis. Strawberry skin.

The skin below your knees prickled under his stare. Pale, red-flecked, raised along the surface. The sun wasn’t helping.

You dropped the pitchfork, wiped your hands on your legs as if that would help, and shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“It’s not bug bites. I have a skin condition.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Just kept looking.

“Keratosis Pilaris,” you added, like it was a spell that might end the conversation. “It’s not contagious. Just… ugly.”

Still nothing. Just the breeze. Just him, watching.

You tried to brush it off with a laugh that didn’t quite land.

“You can say it’s gross. I’m used to it.”

Johnny tilted his head. Sipped his lemonade. And then, slowly:

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

Pause.

“I was gonna say something worse.”

Your brow lifted. “Worse than gross?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then looked away, like he needed to physically reset himself to say it out loud.

“I’ve only ever told one person this before,” he muttered. “And that was Gyro. Which I regret every goddamn day.���

You blinked. “Okay…”

“I have a bug bite fetish.”

You froze.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a thing,” Johnny said defensively. “A real thing. Don’t look at me like that.”

You were absolutely looking at him like that.

He kept talking. Too fast. Clearly spiralling.

“It’s not like - not in a weird way. Or not weirder than the stuff people are into now. It’s just - there’s something about it. The texture. The way it looks. And you’ve got that- look.”

You raised both eyebrows.

“Bug bite look?”

“Okay, that sounds worse out loud, I’m realising that now.”

You stared. For a long moment.

Then:

“You’re a fucking weirdo.”

Johnny grinned, all teeth.

“Takes one to move in with me.”

Your face burned hotter than the sun overhead. You rolled your eyes and went back to the pitchfork, jabbing it into the hay a little harder than necessary.

“You need therapy.”

“I had therapy. He quit when I started talking about corpses.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Well, neither is watching you stomp around in barn muck and somehow making it hot.”

Your hands stilled on the pitchfork.

Then, slowly, you looked over your shoulder.

“You wanna touch it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept working the pitchfork like you hadn’t just flipped the entire balance of power in the barn. Straw and whatever-the-hell-else shifted under your boots while the silence behind you stretched dangerously.

“You serious?” Johnny said, a beat late and a little too casual to be real.

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned on the handle like you had all day and zero intention of making this easy for him.

“Well,” you said slowly. “You’ve been staring at my legs like they owe you money.”

“I haven’t.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay but like - respectfully.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. He was standing there, lemonade in hand, mouth slightly open like his brain had completely shut itself off from the rest of his body.

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I could be,” he offered. “But you just keep… existing. Like that.”

You gestured vaguely to the pitchfork, to the sweat, to the literal shit you were knee-deep in.

“Like what? Covered in dust and horse piss?”

“Like someone I absolutely should not be thinking about in this setting.”

“You need help.”

“I need to look - respectfully.”

“You are not looking respectfully.”

Johnny didn’t respond. Just sipped his lemonade in the world’s most suspicious silence.

You raised an eyebrow. “You thinking about it?”

“I’m trying not to,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m failing.”

You couldn’t help it - you grinned.

“It’s just skin, Joestar.”

“No. That’s like - fuckin’ - limited edition.”

You nearly dropped the pitchfork.

“Limited - what? Are you mad?!”

“I’m just saying!” he blurted, face pink. “You’ve got that… deluxe model skin!”

You wheezed.

“You are so goddamn weird.”

“You offered!” he reminded you, voice cracking halfway through the sentence like his vocal cords had just tried to file a protest.

You tilted your head, still grinning.

“So…?”

He stood there. Glass still in hand. Eyes firmly planted somewhere below your knees like they were trying to manifest a deeper meaning from your skin texture.

“I want to,” he admitted, and he sounded uncomfortably sincere about it.

“But?”

“I don’t wanna get slammed in the jaw while you’re holding that pitchfork.”

You stepped closer. Just enough for your foot to bump lightly against his boot.

“Then don’t be weird about it.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Okay, but like - don’t be gross about it.”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“I make no promises.” 

Johnny looked like you’d handed him something delicate, forbidden, and weirdly exciting.

“I’m gonna… just - yeah,” he mumbled, reaching out like your shin was booby-trapped.

You didn’t move. You also didn’t help.

He finally touched it - just a light brush of fingers along the skin, slow and cautious, like you might retract your leg and kick him in the jaw at any moment.

“Huh,” he breathed.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“It’s… soft,” he said, surprised like you were some kind of rare terrain.

“Wow. Crazy how skin works.”

“No, but like - textured. In a cool way.”

“You’re describing me like a countertop.”

His lips twitched.

“A countertop…” he repeated, like he was testing the flavour of the word.

Then he looked up at you, slow and unmistakably up to something.

“You’re giving me ideas.”

You pointed the pitchfork at his chest without missing a beat.

“Finish that thought and I’ll brain you with this.”

Johnny grinned. “You say that like it’s not still on the table.”

You groaned.

He was still touching your leg gently, like he was scared he’d be banned if he pressed too hard. You permitted it. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back, and his hand dropped like you’d unplugged him.

“Okay,” you said. “Enough leg fondling in the barn.”

“You’re cutting me off?”

“I’m cutting you off before you start talking about getting a second helping.”

Johnny squinted, obviously trying to think of something clever and failing miserably.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“You were about to say something unholy. I could see it building.”

“I was gonna say ‘compliments to the chef,’ actually.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, already turning away. “I am not letting you simp for my legs in a room full of hay and horse shit.”

“That’s fair,” he said, recovering instantly. “But just for the record, I was being so respectful.”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder.

“You looked like you were about for my leg in marriage.”

“Was gonna ask real nice, too.”

“Save it.”

“So, not never,” he called after you. “Just… not while you’re holding a pitchfork?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Cool, cool, cool. Hypothetically, if I brought you a drink and washed my hands-”

“Johnny.”

“Okay! Just checking. Later, then.”

“-I’ll clean the countertop.”

You stopped in the doorway.

“Clean it with what, your drooling mouth?”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat.

“Good idea. I did call you a countertop, didn’t I?”

[fireside-fanfics]

After All This Time

The mission was supposed to be easy. A recon op. In and out. No civilians, no surprises. Just a quick scan, log, extract.

Cameron had said it with her usual confidence, gear strapped tight, goggles pushed up onto her head. Joaquin had watched her go through the motions—checking their drone feeds, syncing comms—like it was muscle memory. She’d done this a hundred times. She always made it look easy, like nothing could touch her.

But even the best plans fall apart.

Now she was lying on a SHIELD med bay table, blood matting her side, her breathing shallow and uneven. The silence in the room felt like a scream. Joaquin stood next to her, still in his flight suit, streaked with soot and ash. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. One was gripping the edge of the table like it could ground him, the other hovering uselessly near her shoulder, afraid to touch her again, afraid to let go.

She wasn’t supposed to be the one hurt. Not her. She was the one who always came back with everyone else’s gear, always double-checked the plan, always covered his six.

“Cam,” he said softly, leaning closer, eyes locked on her pale face. “Hey mi cielo, you with me?”

“I told you not to follow me,” Cameron stuttered. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, unfocused, but she smiled ... barely.

“Yeah, and I told you to stop giving orders once we’re out of uniform,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Guess we’re both bad at listening.”

She tried to laugh, but it turned into a grimace. “Still reckless…”

“You love it,” he said, softer now, brushing her hair back from her face. Her skin was too warm. Her pulse too slow.

His heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. He remembered the first time he met her. They were four years old, standing next to each other at a sandbox outside their pre-K building. She’d offered him her favorite dinosaur-shaped shovel, and when a bigger kid had tried to steal it, she’d socked him in the nose. Cameron had been fearless, even then.

From that moment on, they were inseparable. Sleepovers turned into weekend hangouts, which turned into road trips by the time they were seventeen. They got tattoos together on their eighteenth birthday—hers a set of coordinates, his a winged insignia on his bicep.

They had a rhythm. She was the responsible one, the one with a plan. Joaquin was chaos. He lit the matches just to watch her roll her eyes while she put the fires out, but he never let anyone hurt her. Never.

When she enlisted, he was the one who drove her to the airport. He didn’t cry until she was out of sight.

“You remember when I dislocated my shoulder sophomore year?” she murmured suddenly, voice barely audible.

He blinked and managed to stutter, “What?”

“You rode your bike across town to bring me Oreos and Gatorade. Told my dad you were my emotional support animal.”

A laugh burst out of him, shaky and real before he continued, “You said I could stay if I didn’t make eye contact with your mom.”

“You didn’t. You stared at the ceiling for four hours straight.”

“I would’ve done it for four more.”

Her lips twitched again, but her eyes started to flutter. Panic flared in his chest.

“Cam, hey—hey, no. Stay with me. Just…” He cupped the side of her face, careful not to jostle the IV lines. “Just close your eyes for a second. I’ll still be here when you open them again. I promise.”

She hesitated, just for a beat, her gaze locking with his. Something flickered there—something deep and scared and vulnerable.

“Okay,” she whispered, “but only ‘cause it’s you.”

Then she closed her eyes.

The hours that followed were torture. Joaquin didn’t leave the med bay. He paced. Sat. Paced again. Argued with a nurse who tried to get him to rest, then apologized. Then went back to pacing.

When they finally moved her to recovery, he was already at her side, pulling the chair close, fingers laced through hers. He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the shift change startled him awake. Her eyes were open when he looked up.

“Hi pretty boy,” she murmured, voice scratchy but there.

Joaquin blinked hard, fighting back tears as he said, “You scared the hell outta me, Cam.”

“I told you not to follow me,” she repeated, smiling weakly.

He didn’t smile back this time. Just studied her face like it held the answers to every question he’d been avoiding since they were kids.

“You were right,” she added softly. “You were still here.”

“Of course, Cam.” His throat tightened. “I’m always gonna be right here.”

He pointed at her heart. She looked at him for a long time, and something shifted.

“Why?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could’ve stayed back. You should’ve, but you didn’t—and you never do. You’re always there when I need you, even when I don’t ask. Even when I’m mean...”

His pulse thudded in his ears as he looked away, blush creeping up his neck. Finally, Joaquin glanced back up at her and whispered, “You really don’t know?”

Cameron pushed herself up slightly, wincing but determined. “I want to... Please, J, tell me.”

He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Cam,” he said, voice low and steady. “Maybe since we were kids. Definitely by the time you joined the Air Force. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to steal your moment, but mostly because I didn’t want to screw up what we had. You were my best friend. You are my best friend. You’re my everything, Cameron...”

Cameron stared at him, stunned silent. Their hands were still intertwined, and her grip around his fingers tightened.

“I love the way you roll your eyes at my stories. I love how you fix engines better than half the guys on my team. I love that you always carry extra snacks and pretend it’s not for me. I love that you trust me—even when you shouldn’t. And I love you enough that I’d follow you into hell just to make sure you get out again.”

“Joaquin…” She blinked hard, tears gathering.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly, trying to backtrack. “I just needed you to know. In case—”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“What?”

She gripped his shirt weakly and tugged him forward. Her kiss was soft and a little shaky, but full of every feeling she’d buried for years. When they broke apart, her forehead rested against his.

“I’ve loved you forever too, you idiot,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Joaquin.”

He smiled, really smiled this time as he said, “So you’re saying I’m your emotional support animal and your soulmate?”

She laughed, then winced. “Careful. I might take it back.”

“You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” she said, settling against the pillows, pulling him close again. “That’s exactly where I want you.”

The sound of the key turning in the lock was still new. Joaquin stepped inside with a paper bag tucked under his arm, kicking the door shut behind him. He took off his shoes and tossed his keys in the bowl by the door

“Hey Cam, I brought tacos!” Joaquin called from the entry way. “And I got the salsa you like that makes you cry but you still eat it anyway.”

From the couch, a voice called out, half-muffled, “You’re an instigator!”

“Yeah, but I’m your instigator now,” he grinned at her as he finally entered the room.

Cameron peeked out from under the blanket cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. She still moved slower than usual—healing ribs and stitches will do that—but her smile was soft and easy.

It had been three weeks since the med bay. Two weeks since she’d been discharged. One week since she’d brought it up casually over breakfast: “So… my lease is almost up. You still want that third drawer in your dresser?”

It hadn’t felt like a big thing. It was Cameron. He’d been folding her laundry and storing her snacks in his pantry since they were sixteen. But still, something shifted the moment she actually moved in.

They were still them. Still best friends. Still teasing each other over morning coffee and finishing each other’s sentences mid-mission briefings. But the quiet moments were different now: warmer and heavier as if the final bit o f space between them had finally been filled.

Joaquin dropped the bag on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch beside her. “You’re hogging the blanket.”

“You like a challenge,” she muttered, not moving.

“You’re the only challenge I like.”

She rolled her eyes but lifted the edge for him. He slid in beside her, letting their bodies press together like they always had—only now, it meant more. They sat in comfortable silence, the kind that came with years of knowing. She rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her without thinking; and for a while, that was enough.

Until she spoke.

“Do you think this’ll change everything?”

His heart kicked up a beat. “You mean us?”

She nodded against his shoulder and continued in a hushed tone. “We’ve always been … us. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he said urgently. Then, quieter he added, “But it might shift a little... That’s not bad, right?”

She was quiet for a moment, but then: “It’s just weird waking up next to you and having it mean something.”

“Cam,” he laughed, “we’ve been waking up next to each other since that camping trip junior year when you punched me in your sleep.”

“You stole the sleeping bag!”

“It was raining!”

Cameron’s laugh rang throughout the room as she tried to punch him in the chest, but Joaquin caught her hand in his and laced their fingers together.

The summer when they were eight they were obsessed with building blanket forts and movie nights. One evening they were building a blanket fort in Joaquin’s living room, and Cameron was bossing him around like a mini sergeant. “You need structural support, not just vibes,” she scolded, frowning at the sagging sheet. Joaquin had grinned and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” Later that night, they fell asleep inside the fort watching Spy Kids. His mom found them in a tangle of blankets and Goldfish crumbs. She took a picture and whispered, “Those two are gonna get married one day.”

Later that night, they lay side by side in bed, legs tangled beneath the sheets. It had started storming—Cameron’s favorite. She always said thunder made her feel grounded. Joaquin was tracing slow, aimless patterns on her arm.

“I know this is new, Cam,” he murmured, “but it doesn’t feel different to me—not really. You’ve been home to me for as long as I can remember.”

Her throat tightened with uncertainty, but she managed to whisper, “I feel the same. It’s just ... I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend.”

He smiled softly, kissing her temple. “Good news: I don’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend. Guess we’ll figure it out together.”

She giggled, and they fell quiet again, listening to the rain.

One hot summer weekend Cameron returned home from her first month of training. Exhausted. Bruised. Homesick. Joaquin had shown up at her parents’ house with a box of pizza and a lopsided smile. “I saved your spot on the couch,” he said excitedly. “Nobody else gets to sit there while you’re gone.” She’d cried for the first time in months, falling into his open arms.

“I think,” Cameron whispered, “I’m scared of losing what we’ve built. What if we fight? What if it doesn’t work?”

Joaquin turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. His gaze was steady.

“We already have fought,” he reminded her gently. “Remember that week you blocked me after I bailed on your birthday dinner for a drone op?”

“You deserved that. I made reservations.”

“And you still came back. We always do.”

Cameron rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t need some big, dramatic love story,” she said finally. “I just want… this. You. The tacos. The dumb blanket fights. The days when we do nothing but sit in the quiet and exist.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Then that’s what we’ll be. No pressure. No pretending. Just us. Like always.”

“You’re right,” Cameron said, relaxing into his side. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. “This is how it’s supposed to be...”

Moving in together didn’t look like what she thought it would. It wasn’t roses and love notes and constant PDA.It was Joaquin leaving her post-it notes on the coffee maker with “Don’t forget your protein shake, nerd :)” scribbled in his terrible handwriting.

It was Cameron organizing the toolbox because she couldn’t stand his chaotic system of “just shake the drawer and hope for the best.” It was arguing over thermostat settings and where the cereal should go.

It was falling asleep with his hand around her ankle under the blanket because he liked knowing she was close.

When they were fourteen, the spent the summer in Cameron’s garage, trying to rebuild an old go-kart. She’d smudged grease on her cheek and he hadn’t told her. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she huffed later. With a cheeky grin, he shrugged and said, “You looked cool.” That night, she wrote about him in her journal for the first time. Just his name. Then a heart she erased three times.

One night, a month into living together, Cameron found Joaquin in the kitchen at 2AM, staring blankly at the fridge.

“You good?” she asked, sleepy.

For a few long moments, he simply stared at her, eyes soft in the dark.

“I used to think,” he started slowly as if he was still planning out his sentence, “that if I ever told you how I felt, it’d be this huge thing. Like a firework moment.”

“And now?”

He reached for her hand. “Now I realize that’s now how things ever are with us—and I like it better this way. Actually, it’s quiet. It’s real. It’s you, in nothing but my shirt, brushing your teeth at my sink. It’s you, barefoot, telling me I forgot to take the trash out.”

“Baby, you did forget,” she smiled, leaned up to kiss him.

“Guess I’ll do it tomorrow. After pancakes.”

A year later they still teased each other like they were twelve. Still had sleepovers on the couch instead of going to bed. Still argued over who got the last gummy worm. But now they said “I love you” out loud. Sometimes mid-sentence. Sometimes half-asleep.

They weren’t perfect, but they were steady. They were sure. They more confident in each other than they were about anything else.

Joaquin once told her love didn’t have to be loud to be life-changing and Cameron believed him now. Because even when she closed her eyes, he was still there when she opened them. Every single time.

[comfortless]

syl im begging on my hands and knees pls pls pls expand on that idea of könig being a warrior rumored to eat womens hearts its like giving scheherazade and i NEED IT

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. vague time period/setting. fem(afab) reader. light descriptions of violence and gore, talk of cannibalism, non-con groping & cuddling, forced marriage.

There are endless tasks to be done and everything beneath a vast blue sky to explore, forgoing those things, the men about your village often prefer to gather for a duel. There are no rules for their game, only that you bring a weapon and thrust it toward the opponent in such a way that it brings you glory, pride, some scabbing mend to a crooked scar.

Except not you, never you. They wouldn’t so much as allow for the women to watch unless sparring for the hand of a weeping bride happened to be the gleaming prize waiting at the end of the night.

Your eyes had witnessed such before, a girl with hair the color of autumn straw that rolled down to the end of her back, whisked away by some man from the sea after he dug his blade into an old farmer’s belly. Her father. A sad thing, but you imagined her life must be much better now. Instead of tending to a mule or pricking her fingers on needles for sewing, she’s off collecting sea shells and has the ocean’s breeze eternally perfumed in her hair. Maybe she cradles a baby on her hip now, plump and cooing happily whilst they watch the waves roll and glitter beneath the sun.

A better life for only the cost of a swift death. It was something that you had always envisioned wanting for yourself, away from this village that reeks of blood, the very place where your options were limited to shoveling after the horses or to die a lonely hag.

That was until the behemoth began to show his face. Not quite his face at all, actually. It changed things for you. Instead of a longing for one of these strong men to carry you off into the night, there sat a creeping terror each and every time he crossed the threshold into the village.

He was rumored to be many things: an executioner from a foreign land, either a lost and wicked saint or a demon made flesh, and worst of them all… a cannibal from out in the untamed downs that crest the mountainside.

The women of the village were frightened by him, by the bulk and height that suggested he was not a man at all, but something far more terrifying beneath that black veil. They hid away when he first arrived, claiming he carried an organ in his hands, chewing away at a still-beating heart with blood running down his fingers. The men remained rigid, but their hands shook when they took up their weapons against him.

And there was no way of knowing then that this man was to be yours.

Time and time again, the giant would win, request a warm meal and a bed for the evening, and would be gone away come morning. He wouldn’t return for months, and the gossip would continue to fester until his return. Then, only then, would lips be pursed in silence and another fool would rush to death in an attempt to win some measure of pride. His opponent would be buried in the very field they would fight in, his bones serving for another layer upon the earthen stage once the worms and rats had picked him clean, and the giant would be back. He was always back.

The town is hushed to silence when his horse is led through the well-worn street. There are lingering observers: the broad stable hand that would not even dare to raise a whip or a dagger to this behemoth, the women of the brothel even shy away from him, and the children who whisper their rumors behind open palms.

He does not stop for any of them, only carries forward with that dark cloth concealing his head.

You peek out from your window, nursing tea with honey to calm the chill drifting through the air, feathering over your skin. It’s bitter on your tongue, even with the sweet coursing through it. Bitter, when his blue eyes flick in your direction and you feel every inch of your skin begin to prickle and tense.

He’s worse up close like this. The man doesn’t conceal his torso, never seemed to find a need to— no one ever gets close enough to wound him. Not any more, at least, judging by the pasty scars that mar his chest with the biggest being a healed, pinkish blemish that stretches from below his ribs down to a narrow hip. You find the most unsettling part about him is not those marks of violence, but the fact that you can not read his face.

Time slows to a halt as he just stares, takes you in with your cup of tea and the old dress stolen away from your mother’s own wardrobe. And you return it, warily looking him over from his veiled head down to the toes of his boots. After regarding you in the very same way a bored cat would observe an unaware, little bird, he moves along his path with a quiet huff of breath as his face is turned away from you.

There’s a heavy axe strapped to his back that you only notice then. Something new and shiny, glistening in the rays of golden sunlight above. Sharp and wicked, too cruel a weapon to be used in a bout for dinner and a lumpy mattress stuffed with decaying straw.

You could only hope he brought a cloth to clean it once this ordeal was over. Perhaps he truly does use his veil to do so, gets drunk on the scent of blood and gore clinging to it and pleasures himself to the violence as they claim. The macabre tales of this giant only go darker than that. But the tales he lives up to most of all are the ones about his skill in killing.

When night begins to scrape across the sky in dark, drab purple, fate comes crawling throughout the town as though it is nothing more than a famished ghoul.

Your mother storms toward you where you’re sat, preparing for bed. Her face is a mask of pure anguish when she pulls you into a tight embrace. She bawls into your hair, digs her nails into your back as though she would sooner die than let you go.

The men of the town follow behind her, wrenching her arms away from you and pulling you up by the front of your gown. The thin linen tears with the force of rough hands, rips a thick line down your chest that almost leaves you bared to them. Though the hands are eager, the eyes of these men do not shine with hunger, only with fear.

The shouts and cries from your lips are lost to them, to even your mother who wails in defeat someplace behind you.

“You’re plenty old enough to be a bride,” says one of the men, voice like a coiled snake spitting venom. It doesn’t take one of the well-educated people of the capital here to explain just what is to happen to you now.

The giant, the cannibal, saw something that he liked, and decided that you would be his prize. When you’re led to the field, kicking and flailing against the strong arms that hold you tightly in their grip, the sight is enough to tell you just how much that he enjoyed your silent, curious staring only hours before.

He stands upright, silent and daunting above a body that’s been split by the axe still held in one strong hand. The color of crimson cakes his knuckles, crests over his arm and the expanse of his chest, all from the headless corpse lying disposed at his feet.

The scene is what you expected, you’ve heard the words of your people about this beast of a man’s propensity for violence, but no amount of mental preparation could have truly readied you for seeing so much blood. The blood of a man you knew to be good and true, a hard-working blacksmith from the foothills. What a tragic way to go out: fighting for a pouch of coin when this horrible giant must have clearly lost his mind to rut and rage.

No hand comes to cover your mouth when you shriek, and the tight grips guiding you forward only loosen when your man or murderer stalks forward to take his prize. Through your tears, you still manage to make out the lines beneath his eyes, how they fold upward, and there’s no doubt that he’s smiling beneath that mask. A big, ugly grin at the thought of prying open your ribs and helping himself to a maiden’s heart.

He lifts it over his head in a swift motion, and drops it over your own instead, opposite to the hastily cut eye holes to block out all of the hazy, pale light of the moon and flickering yellow-red torches surrounding. Amidst the panic threatening to send your heart fleeing from your chest, the cold trickle of dread that finds itself curling in your belly, you feel two arms hoist you up and settle you over the back of his wretched steed.

“Gehen wir.”

Then, the darkness turns abyssal.

You only pray your body has truly died of fright when you first wake. There’s no darkness, no scent of blood when your eyelids pry apart to flutter. Water laps over your bare thighs, cold enough to force a shiver up from your feet to the blades of your shoulders. But behind you sits fire, a warmth so comforting you would think you’re rested against a stone bathed in summer sun, if not for the softness.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, rationalize just what’s happening, until a hand clutching a scrap of cloth maneuvers up from your thigh to your tummy, lathers you in a soap that smells only of pine. It halts, cinches around your waist when you begin to tense, when he knows you’re truly awake. A pond to your front and a man of horror at your back.

There’s sunlight streaming down from above, painting the clouds in gold. There are birds happily singing from the surrounding trees, and other, unseen animals scurrying through fallen leaves. Serene, pretty, and almost comforting when the wind turns course and brings with it the scent of late-ripening fruit. If the reality of your situation were not so dire, perhaps you would have enjoyed it, being here with a man who killed instead of presented your family with a dowry or offered you some pleasant wedding to dine and drink your fill of berry wine at.

“Let me go.” Your voice is a feigned warning, the mocking growl of a mere pup. You imagine he must keep his weapons close, only offering himself the courtesy of cleaning you so your meat doesn’t taste of dirt or lavender oil when he sinks his teeth into it.

“Süss frau,” he mumbles behind you, presses his head into your hair and inhales deeply as your body only grows further rigid. There’s a pause, before he corrects himself. “Meine süss frau.”

It would help if you knew what he was saying, calm your nerves some, maybe, but each word spoken only sounds guttural and instills further fear. You twist in his grip, hissing small curses that would have left your mother in a rage, but he only laughs at your squirming. Then, he tightens his grip as the cloth is dropped into the pond’s glassy water.

“Take me back home,” you continue to urge, placing a trembling hand over the limb pressing your body further back against him. “Please.”

Your small attempt at pleading is met only with his head dropping to the nape of your neck, a kiss pressed against the flesh there. It warms for him, sends a heat spiking up to your cheeks in spite of the way you still suspect he wishes only to rip your throat open with teeth more akin to a devil’s fangs.

You turn your head, intent on spitting right in this monster’s face, but find only a man looking back at you.

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that almost seems playful, a grin so prevalent there it must cause the corners of his mouth to ache. No blood in his teeth, and though the silvery-blue of his eyes seems distant, they are not cold. The goliath who stole you away stinking of blood and innards isn’t present now, and that seems even less of a comfort. He’s even handsome in the strangest way, certainly not the look of nobility, but none of his features are cruel. There’s a boyish charm to him, perhaps he would have the look of a charismatic farmhand or an apprentice of sorts if not for the scarring.

“Won’t hurt you… too pretty,” he assures, burying his face against the side of your neck. But the bastard does, digs his teeth right in and suckles at your skin when you claw at his arm in surprise. It’s not enough to draw drops of blood, but it accentuates the point that he seems to see you as something of his, a possession of sorts.

There’s a messy patch of drool over bruising skin when he pulls away to laugh at the wounded expression upon your face. He apologizes in a huff of breath as he guides you up to stand at his side. His hands linger too long for comfort when they rest along your waist. Your sullen glare only seems to further endear him. Too much, judging by the way the pillar between his legs bounces thick and hard and proud, throbs when you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze and angrily hiss to him about how a man should treat his wife. Cannibal or not, the beast needed to learn some manners.

Fear still edges its way up your spine, but it diminishes more and more as the seconds pass.

He’s no gentleman when he splashes away the remnants of soap from your body, hands grazing over every inch of your bare skin he sees available to touch. Your breast first, weighed up in his palm with the nipple pinched between his index and middle. Emboldened by your hushed protests, he dares to slip his other between your legs, and only then do you force his hands away.

He certainly bears no resemblance to a proper husband when he hoists you over one shoulder to carry you further into the woods and into his shack, either.

It’s barren and ugly, an unsightly wooden structure decorated only with a thin mattress, a table too small, and blades of many forms. The axe sits proudly below the window, astonishingly cleaned of the gore from the night prior. The veil rests above it on the sill, damp from a cleaning that never should have been. You stare at his belongings for a time when you’re placed on your feet, silently judging the array in search of anything to justify the gossip, only to come up short of anything.

He doesn’t even touch you past the bathing in the pond. You’re dressed in a tunic that fits like a dress upon your form: far too big, long and dull to be anything you would normally be seen in. But there are no tailors this far out in the wilderness, though there’s an apologetic promise whispered to you once he sees you in his clothes. He’ll buy you a new dress upon your first visit to town as his wife, several if it pleases you.

The man leaves for a spell, brings you rabbit to clean and prepare, then busies himself stoking up a fire for cooking. His speech is a little broken when he tells you of how long he’s waited to have someone like you here with him, how he never suspected a woman so pretty would be his wife. And you don’t eat when the meat is fully cooked and placed in front of you both. You insist that you only wish to return back home, to hug your mother and tell her that you’re still alive.

That, he takes insult to.

His brow is pinched when he forces you to sit in his lap. He brings the meat to your lips and presses into your cheeks with his free hand to force your mouth open. There’s nothing romantic or cute about it, about him, but you do glumly settle in his hold when the realization does dawn on you that, though his strength is extraordinary, he is only a man and the only harm coming to you would be between your legs.

You’re drug over to the mattress after dinner by a tight hold over your wrist. The fight hasn’t left you, not by a smidge, even when the loose tunic is lifted over your head with shouts of your displeasure and you’re pressed onto your back with the giant watching you curiously from above.

He pins you there, but doesn’t force his hands down to your sex again. He only sighs when he rests his weight next to you and curls in to lie his head over your breasts.

You’re body remains stiff and rigid as a bowstring. His nearness only sends that same swell of heat back from the pond, brings with it the scent of fire smoke and sweat emanating from him. His hair is long and soft, soft as the kisses he places on the plushness of your tit, long as the drag of a callused palm from your hip up to cup the other.

He offers you no warning when his teeth circle over your nipple, holds fast to you when your back arches and your fingers weave into his hair to jerk him away. The worst part about him seemed to be having a penchant for leaving a mark, and the smug grin that crosses his face when he meets the fury in your eyes with the lust-drunk look in his own.

“Was? You don’t like?,” he grumbles, tracing over the marks of his teeth with his thumb, pressing against and smearing his saliva until you feel your back begin to arch and your breathing grow heavy.

“It hurts.”

He stares at you in amazement for a moment, whether surprised you haven’t made an attempt to flee or startled by the lack of a strike to his jaw after such a thing, it mattered not. Your terrible, ignorant “husband” only seems satisfied with your response. He draws back to sit on his knees before you, sliding his hands along each curve and dip of your body until they rest at your ankles.

“Ja… hurts. I will make it better, meine süße.”

He’s no less brazen when he makes a dive toward your womanhood, lips parted in preparation to breathe you in. Or… taste you in full, whichever option was suited for men who were more beasts than men at all. Maybe that was his only feat of cannibalism: licking at women until they were wet and pliant for him to take entirely. You pry him away with a gasp and a quick shift onto your side, demanding that he not touch you any further.

Again, he laughs, curls behind you and shifts his hips to slot the girth of his cock between your thighs, buries his face into your neck once again. You can feel the grin that stretches over his lips against your skin. When the dark envelopes you both, the quiet crackle of the fire in its pit still showing signs of life, he seems content to just cuddle you close.

Exhaustion creeps its way through your limbs, steals the fight from your voice and leaves your eyelids heavy. You consider waiting it out, listening to his breathing deepen and slow to creep away, but his grip is firm around your middle, so strangely comforting that you do allow yourself to relax. Running could wait until the morning sun rose.

[jyoongim]

An old request i thought i would try

————————————————————————————————

Human Alastor x demon!wife reader

FLUFF

————————————————————————————————-

Something was off about you.

Alastor just couldn’t put his finger on it.

He loved you dearly, he married you after all but there was just something uncanny about you.

You were obsessed with listening to the crime reports on the radio, relished in it. He would often catch you smiling in malicious glee at the gruesome details.

You weren’t like most women when he revealed that he was the cause of most of the murders in your town.

You asked him for details, even if you could go with him to see how he killed his victims.

Being the gentleman he was he refused, saying that blood and brains were nothing a pretty thing like yourself should see.

And for a time you listened.

Until he wasn’t back for dinner.

———————————————————————————

You caught scent of blood on the wind and followed it.

You knew Alastor had said he would be out ‘hunting’ tonight and that he would done quickly, but your husband was late and it made you worry.

The sound of a sharp cry greeted your ears and you ran through the woods to see your husband on the ground. His victim had his shovel raised above his head to hit him again and you saw red.

————————————————————————————-

He should have finished him off when he had the chance, but he wanted to taunt the man. He had underestimated his strength and canny as the man had gotten loose of his restraint and whacked him over the head with his shovel.

His head spun as he looked to the night sky and the only think he could think of was what were you making for dinner.

”Hope you burn in hell you pyscho” the man said as he raised the shovel and Alastor smirked.

How ironic.

The forest grew cold and a chitter rang through the air.

Fear not my love, Ill handle it that sounded like your voice

But how?

The sound of the shovel dropped to the ground as the man whipped around.

A pair of red eyes stared at him and the shadowy figure of a grotesque beast emerged for the trees.

You let out a thunderous growl as you approached the man, your eyes shifting to Alastor to make sure he was alright.

He was breathing, but he was severely wounded.

“what the devil are you?” The man whispered frightened.

You flashed your sharp teeth at him, a wide grin on your lips

”Your worst nightmare”

Alastor groaned as he sat up, his head spinning and in pain. He saw a large creature loom over him, slowly approaching his now attacker.

It was feminine. Long wild hair, a spiky tail, and beautiful black horns.

You jumped at the man, causing him to scream, but he was soon silenced as your claws ripped him in half.

You clawed and ripped into him, gorging him of his innards and chomping into him. You plucked his beating heart and swallowed it, blood dripping from your lips, marring your face.

You let out a huff and turned around to see Alastor staring at you.

You approached him slowly and a bloody claw reached for his face

”Are you alright dearest?”

He tilted his head in confusion at the question and your form shifted back to normal.

His eyes widened “You’re a …”

You smiled sheepishly “Your kind call us demons, though it is a very broad term”

His eyes searched yours and you feared he would shrink away from you, turn tail and run.

But he smiled at you with that suave smile and leaned into your hand

”just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect”

You helped him up and began to carry him back home.

”I don’t repulse you?” You asked nervously. You had never intended to let your husband in on your true identity, for fear he would abandon you.

But the lanky man nuzzled into your shoulder “heavens no dear, but that does explain everything”

”Can a human fuck a demon?”

You laughed, your eyes flashing as you looked at him

”Care to find out husband?”

—————————————————————————————-

[irisintheafterglow]

move like an odd sight, come out at night

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: hozier - "movement"

summary: you escape to hell's kitchen, but your reputation follows you no matter where you run. the vigilante on your roof, however, believes you're more than just a weapon.

wc: 2.9k

cw/tags: black widow!reader, canon-typical violence and blood, minor injury, explicit language, pre-ddba bc i put bullseye and fisk in this as antagonists, angst with happy ending, iris loves matt murdock's ass

note: *cautiously approaches 'marvel x reader' writing tag, sets this on the doorstep like a cat with a bird, and runs away*

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <3

Truthfully, neither of you were very skilled at working with other people. It’s why you were vigilantes, not superheroes; heroes worked on teams and played nice on the playground. You preferred more direct forms of getting the job done, of swinging your pink plastic shovel and beating away kids threatening to invade your square of sandbox territory. Or at least, you did in the past. As of late, you only donned your tactical gear again because unfortunately, the best hiding place you could find was truly a shithole. 

“Got anything yet?”

“No. Whoever’s talking about you, they’re making a point to do it quietly,” he replies, his expression blank as his ears sort through the noises of Hell’s Kitchen trying to find a needle in a city-sized haystack. He’s crouched on the brick ledge your legs dangle off of, looming over the street below like a gargoyle guarding a cathedral. “What was your plan the other night?”

“The night where you crashed my surveillance spot, you mean,” you quip. “And the same night I made the Devil jump out of his skin.” He sends a heatless glare in your general direction.

“What I’m hearing is, you didn’t have a plan and you’re avoiding the question.” Smart-ass.

“My plan was to listen in on police comms and get some extra energy out, but there was a trespasser on my roof.” He hums, satisfied with your answer. To your unwelcome surprise, you ran into both of his identities within twelve hours of moving into your crummy little apartment–Matt at the deli down the street and Daredevil on top of your building. Both times, you also caught him off guard to the point where he nearly threw the nearest cylindrical object at you. The first time it was a sandwich, and the second time it was a baton, but you only had Foggy to save you in the shop. 

You can’t go throwing sandwiches at pretty ballerinas that come into the shop, Matt, you heard Foggy say when he thought you were out of earshot. 

They’re a ballerina? Foggy snorts, assuming that Matt already knew you were jaw-droppingly stunning. In fact, he was waiting for the day his best friend came out as not actually being blind and only using it to reel in women.

Yeah. You would know they were a new teacher at the studio down the street if you weren’t busy trying to assault them with pastrami. 

They caught me off guard, Matt dodges. What’d you want me to do?

Not scaring them off would be a good start. Jeez, I thought you were the charming one in this duo. 

“I can’t say I’m a fan of a spy who can slow their heartbeat,” he admits, finally cracking the smallest of a smile. “It’s a cool trick, but pretty unfortunate for a guy who relies on hearing the bad guys.”

“Good thing I’m not an opponent, Murdock.” Like you, he’s not used to people knowing both his vigilante and his civilian faces interchangeably. You pieced together each other’s alternate identities the moment you interacted on the roof for the first time; your mind clocked his gait, his height, and his voice while he sensed the faintest scent of perfume he smelled earlier in the deli. Because of the accidental encounter, a severe lack of information regarding your new home, and a few other reasons you were purposefully hiding until the need arose, you begrudgingly asked Matt if you could run surveillance with him. He agreed, shrugging and asking if there would be people trying to come after you. 

A buzzing in your pocket grabs your attention and you scowl when you see the dollar sign notification with a hefty amount of zeroes. “Problem,” you huff. 

“What is it?”

“He put a bounty on my head.” The muscle in Matt’s jaw clenches. “Said to bring me in alive, thankfully, but I guess he doesn’t like I’ve been ghosting him. He also didn’t verify how alive I had to be.” 

“He’s used to getting what he wants,” Matt explains with severe distaste. “Fisk isn’t a kind of guy you say ‘no’ to. Last guy who tried to tell him something he didn’t like–”

“Got well acquainted with a car door,” you finish unexpectedly. “Intelligence community, remember? We hear everything, including the brutal executions. It’s why he wants me in the first place.”

“A Widow in his pocket’s like having the Winter Soldier for a genie.”

“Ex-Widow,” you correct. “You know, I met the guy once. Big metal arm. Scary blue eyes. Not my type, especially the greasy hair.”

“Oh?” Matt allows amusement seep into his tone, despite the fact that your freedom just had a price tag put on it. “And what is your type?” You loose the first thought in your head like an arrow straight into his heart. 

“A blind vigilante with a ton of Catholic guilt really get me going,” you answer casually and bite back a smile when he tries to hide his speechlessness. “I figure it’s easier to explain my history to him than Martin the accountant living a few doors down. Plus, the vigilante’s got a nicer ass.”

“I’ll bet,” Matt remarks and you allow yourself to feel the flutter in your stomach at his softer tone. You weren’t used to having a friend, let alone a friend who would help make sure you weren’t used as a weapon again. It didn’t hurt to flirt with him, just a little bit. 

His head suddenly jerks to the side, concentrating. “Found ‘em.”

“Where?”

“Warehouse six blocks down. Fisk’s best prepping for a hunt.” A chill runs through your body and you exhale slowly through your nose to center yourself. It’d been months since you were freed from Dreykov’s mind control, weeks since you first arrived in the Kitchen, but the need to fight for your life was something that would never disappear. It constricted your throat, blurred your vision, and made your palms too clammy to hold a knife. Without the one-track-mind of a Red Room assassin, you found yourself able to feel fear…and it terrified you. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” you deadpan, your voice no longer melodically carefree. 

“You’re not telling the truth,” he says and you swallow thickly. “It’s the one time I hear your heartrate go up, when you’re afraid.” Up until now you would work exclusively solo and you’re unfamiliar with someone who would call you out when you were scared. Your defenses raise immediately.

“Yeah. What about it?” He takes your standoffish nature in stride, rising from his crouched position and holding out his gloved hand to help you from yours. You take it with only a moment’s hesitation and let him give it a comforting squeeze. 

“You’re not fighting alone anymore, you know. As long as you don’t shoot me, I’ll have your back if you have mine.” You nod and even if he can’t see it, it’s mostly for yourself anyway. “Unless, of course,” he continues with a shit-eating smirk, “you’ve got another blind vigilante in mind you’d rather–”

“Alright, Murdock. You’re done,” you chuckle, feeling more at ease. “Let’s get this done quickly; I’ve got class tomorrow.”

—

The confrontation could barely be considered a fight, and you easily would handle them on your own had Matt not been with you. Though, it was much faster having four fists throwing punches instead of two. 

“You didn’t use the guns at all,” he notes once you’re both done knocking out and disarming the three dozen enemies in the warehouse. Catching your breath, you stick your batons in the sheaths on your back and shrug.

“You’re the one who said not to shoot you,” you point out.

“I appreciate the thoughtfulness.” His head tilts and you watch him listen to the labored breathing of a nearby thug. “One’s still conscious. I’ll get him.”

“He’s all yours.”

He stalks toward a guy who you would’ve assumed was unconscious and grabs him by the collar to reveal him very much awake. “Why’s Fisk after them so badly? Answer,” he hisses, “and I won’t break your hands.”

“I’ve found they talk if you dislocate their shoulder,” you suggest nonchalantly, your voice muffled under your mask. The guy’s eyes dart over to you, wide and bloodshot with fright. “Then, relocate it but slightly misaligned. Makes a weird kind of friction if you swing it back and forth.” Matt visibly pauses, considering your stomach-churning advice for a good ten seconds. He wasn’t used to working with others, let alone someone with your skillset; it was like having a slightly more stable Elektra, and that wasn’t much of an improvement. He doesn’t have time to act on your words, though, because suddenly the dam of information in the guy breaks.

“He’s scared of you!” The man exclaims and your eyes narrow. 

“Scared of who?”

“Both of you,” he squeaks and looks back at you. “You were supposed to kill the Daredevil, not team up with him, you deceitful bitch!” Shit. Matt’s body goes deathly still. 

“Fisk hired a Widow to kill me?” He asks lowly. Shit!

“He tried. That’s why he’s pissed.” The scene feels frozen, like a snowglobe on a high shelf. You didn’t necessarily feed Matt a lie; you rejected Kingpin’s offer the same night you went up to your roof, looking for a way to punch out your anger. “And you weren’t supposed to get involved,” he spits on the cowl and it’s the last thing he says before Matt knocks him out cold. 

You stare at his back while he stands, your muscles tensed and ready to retreat or fight, however he reacts. 

“You can take your hand off your gun,” he says without looking at you and your attention flicks down to your hands. You hadn’t realized your fingers found the cool metal on pure instinct. They feel naked without access to any immediate weapon.

“Are you upset?”

“Why would I be?” He turns to face you squarely. Every nerve in your body wants you to run, but you root yourself into the floor because your mind can’t understand how this so-called ‘friend’ could ever hurt you. 

“Because I was supposed to kill you. Your archnemesis wants me to kill you.”

“And you didn’t,” he states patiently. “Your heart is racing.”

“I’m waiting for you to attack me, so I’m not sure what you expect,” you reply carefully. Puzzlingly, his posture remains relaxed, and it’s impossible to read what he’s thinking. “I lied to you. Aren’t you angry?” 

“Why would I be angry for actions you didn’t take?” You blink and look down, suppressing your reflex to bolt when he approaches you until his boots are in front of yours. He murmurs your name, so quietly that only you can hear it. “I’m not Dreykov. You don’t need to plan an escape if you do something I don’t agree with. You’re your own person now.” 

“Am I?” You whisper. “I get out, and yet I still feel like I’m nothing but a weapon.”

“I don’t think you’re a weapon.” Your body is still stiff as a board, waiting for a berating or a beating that won’t come.

“Then what am I?”

“A friend.” 

Your mouth opens to reply, but a flash of movement catches your eye in the doorway you used to enter the warehouse. Acting on its own, your body shoves Matt to the side as an object goes flying past you and a stinging sensation blooms on your upper arm. You duck behind a storage container and find that your self-proclaimed ‘partner’ has disappeared into the shadows. Warmth drips down your arm and you remove your gun from its holster for the first time that night, steadying yourself. 

“Alright, Widow. The boss is mad, so let’s not keep him waiting,” your assailant announces, his voice echoing off rusted metal walls. You hear him make a noise of disgust and kick something solid. “You left a shitshow to mop up, too. I thought you people were supposed to be clean killers. Quick with your target, just like me.” You fight through the adrenaline and finally piece together his identity with one word: target.

“Fuck off, Poindexter. I’m not going,” you snarl and immediately change positions to avoid a small knife that moved with the precision of a homing missile. The blade lodges itself in the metal where your head used to be and you don’t bother trying to yank it out. “Missed.”

“That was a warning, darling.” Creeping carefully from container to container, you catch the reflection of his nearly-identical Daredevil suit in the broken glass on the floor. It crunches beneath his feet as he paces leisurely, waiting for you to reveal yourself. “Let’s go, Widow. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s just you and me here.” He thinks it’s just you.

He doesn’t know that Matt is here. 

“How do I know you’re not gonna kill me when I step out?” Another phrase, another quick change of positions. 

“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be alive to mouth off.”

“You say that with such confidence.” 

“This confidence is turning to impatience, so let’s go. Don’t make me take you in struggling,” he warns.

“Fine, but don’t throw anything at me, asshole,” you say with as normal of a voice as you can muster, reholstering your gun and stepping into the exposing moonlight. “Entrance in the front’s too exposed. There’s an alley out back we can go through unseen.” Without another word, he follows you to the rear doors and, for once, you’re relieved for your heart to be beating out of your chest. You figure it’s easier for Matt to track your movement.

“Fisk is pissed about your little tantrum the other night, but enough groveling will get you back in good graces.” 

“Like I care about that,” you retort. 

“You should. He won’t stop hunting you.”

“If he does, I’ll come after him myself.” You step out of the warehouse and the top half of your face is hit with frigid air. He was lurking somewhere, you could sense it. A small rectangle of paper crinkles under the toe of your boot and you peer down at it, smiling when you recognize the familiar font of Nelson, Murdock, & Page. “I’m not an asset anymore, Poindexter,” you declare once you’re both shrouded in the dark alley. “And I don’t fight alone anymore.” 

Your stealth training takes over, slowing your heartrate and disappearing from his senses, if only for a moment. Before Poindexter can attempt to find you, there’s a whoosh of air in front of you and the sound of gravel beneath another pair of boots. Matt doesn’t give his enemy a chance to grab any projectiles, bruised knuckles striking in the darkness while you slip behind and knock out his legs. 

When your enemy regains consciousness while slumped on the wet asphalt, there is no trace of the Daredevil or the Widow to be found.

—

Your students catch wind of your fondness of the ‘hot lawyer down the street’ a few weeks after you move into his apartment, and Matt doesn’t do much to keep your relationship a secret.

“Let’s, uh,” your voice trails off when you see him enter the studio for the first time, his mere presence making your cheeks outrageously hot. “Let’s run that combo one more time and call it a day, yes?” Your students follow your eyeline to the man waiting for you by the door and they all perk up at the same time, dancing with near perfection that makes you wonder if Matt should show up at the end of all your classes. 

“Hope it’s alright I came to walk you home,” he greets with that easy smile that sends all sense of reason into the atmosphere. 

“You were a definitely a distraction, but considering that we call the same place ‘home,’ I’ll let it slide,” you reply. His hands pull you by your hips and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your forearms resting on his shoulders.

“Can we go out tonight?” 

“Don’t we always?” You ask, confused. “We’re out so much where I think our collective sleep hours are in the negatives.”

“Not on patrol,” he corrects. “Let me take you to that place you’ve been wanting to try. The one with the rotating pie stand.” Your mouth gapes. If there was someone who had a worse work-life balance than you, it was your boyfriend. Yet here he was, recommending you both skip patrol. “I wanna give you a proper date. Please?”

“Since when are we allowed to take nights off, Murdock?” You tease.

“Since I made a deal with Spiderman to swing through the Kitchen once a month,” he drawls, attempting to kiss you and frowning when you gently pull back like you’ve offended him. “Sweetheart.”

“You can’t kiss me until you tell me how you managed to pull off a deal with Spiderman.” His forehead creases above his red-lensed glasses.

“I called in a favor.” You know he can hear the skepticism on your face. He exhales before continuing, “I told the kid I’d proofread his friend’s job application. Some opening as a photographer for the Bugle.”

“You tell him you were a lawyer?”

“I told him I’m a very good lawyer.” The last of your students wave goodbye, their eyebrows waggling as they leave the studio.

“Well, counselor, if it is your professional opinion that we should go on a date tonight, I’d be happy to oblige.” 

“God, I love you as a partner,” he breathes.

“For romance or vigilantism?”

“Both.”

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[ambiguous-avery]

Untamed Soul

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You x Sam Winchester | WC: 1270

Summary: You’re down bad for two guys who aren’t even yours. Then again... they’re not technically not yours either...

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, female masturbation, no wincest, no use of Y/N, pining, PWP (Plot? What plot?), unsatisfying ending, no beta we die like men

A/N: Third piece to complete the trifecta. But clearly I can’t just leave it here. Sorry not sorry, but my brain has decided that there has to be more. Just know that I am a little gremlin behind the screen, rubbing my grubby little hands together because I'm excited about this. Read about Dean’s Sly Grins and Sam’s Careful Stares

Three Hearts, One Flame Masterlist

The job hadn’t taken nearly as long as you had expected, and for once, the only injury between the three of you was your chipped nail from the damn shovel you had passed Dean so they could dig up the grave. If the case had wrapped up any earlier, then you might’ve thought that you could’ve been enjoying your shower back at the bunker rather than the motel room with the discolored walls. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. And while you weren’t particularly covered in grime, a shower was probably going to be the closest thing you could get to having some time alone.

The problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was privacy. Specifically the distinct lack of it. 

So when the most recent hunt had wrapped up and the three of you weren’t beat up, bloodied, and skulking back to the motel room to lick your wounds, you had happily leapt at the idea of some much-needed ‘you’ time while the boys went out to the bar.

You sighed contentedly, tipping your head back into the spray and reveling in the warmth. The rhythmic sound of the water hitting the tiled floor was a steady background noise as the tension melted away from you. It was a rare luxury to have a moment of peace. A moment to indulge in your thoughts.

The other problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was your attraction. To both of them.

And being in such close quarters with them for prolonged periods of time was bound to have done some irreparable damage to the way you looked at any other guy ever in your lifetime. Not that you wanted to look at anyone else.

You had two handsome-as-hell men who were each willing to lay down their lives for you. And you’d do the same for either of them. That sort of commitment was hard to find anymore. Well... maybe that level of commitment was a bit too much. But the point still stood.

But they weren’t yours. Never had been. Maybe could be?

It didn’t help that you had a good idea of what they thought of you. The funny thing about boys was that they always thought they were so subtle. But you were a hunter. A damn good one, at that. And very little escaped your keen eye. You could see it in the sly grins Dean would flash you. In the way you’d catch Sam’s careful stares out of the corner of your eye when he thought you weren’t looking. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were a little surprised that neither of them had made a move. 

Dean and you flirted plenty, made numerous allusions to actually hooking up but never gone through with it. And the kind of chemistry you shared with Sam was the kind that Hallmark movies could only hope to capture on screen. Really, any way you cut it, the three of you were a symphony, and any sort of change might throw off the harmony you had somehow managed to achieve. Things were better off staying how they were.

But no matter how many times you tried to push those thoughts aside, they always snuck back in, especially in the quiet hours.

You slid your hand down your stomach, fingers tentatively slipping between your legs and imagining that it was a hand far larger than your own. Rough and calloused. With fingers longer than yours. The air in the shower was warm, steam rising from the water turned as hot as you could get it. You could imagine an unsteady breath near your ear.

Imaginary lips pressed against the side of your neck, and your lips parted as you dragged your fingers over your center. It should’ve been alarming how easily thoughts of your hunting partners could consume you. But here in the privacy of the bathroom, it was all too easy to lose yourself in the fantasy. You let out a shaky breath as your fingers danced over your skin, each touch more electrifying than the last.

In your mind, Dean’s strong hands roamed over your body while Sam’s soft voice whispered sweet promises in your ear. Your back arched slightly and you bit your lip, a soft moan escaping you as your fingers ghosted over your clit. You leaned back against the shower wall and propped one leg up on the edge of the tub, heart rate quickening. You could almost feel Dean’s rough stubble against your skin as he kissed you, tasting of whiskey and leather. You imagined Sam’s lips trailing tender kisses down your neck before finding your breast and teasing your nipple between his teeth.

Through the haze of desire, you could hear Dean’s voice, deep and gravelly.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve got you.” It was a promise. A promise you knew you could believe.

“That’s our girl. You can let go for us,” Sam’s voice wrapped you in a sense of safety and security.

You knew without a shadow of a doubt: you belonged with them.

You belonged with Dean, with his rough exterior and kind heart. You belonged with Sam, with his soft words and gentle touch. To Dean and Sam. Would you be too greedy to ask them to share? The universe would truly be cruel if it made you pick just one. 

You pressed two fingers into yourself. They were a poor substitute for what you really wanted, but they would have to suffice. Your breath hitched as you pressed them against that soft spot, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined two sets of eyes on you. Hazel and green. Their hands. Their mouths. Their cocks.

Holy shit.

You hadn’t even begun to imagine the way they’d feel inside you. The way they’d move in tandem. Never leaving you fully empty. The thought of them filling you completely. The thrill of it all made your head spin, and those thoughts wound the coil in you tighter and tighter. You could imagine their hands grasping your hips. Your thighs. Wherever they could find purchase to pull you closer. Their mouths devouring you as they took what they wanted from you.

So close... 

Sam’s large hands splaying across your back as he presses you down. His blunted nails scraping across your skin as he presses deeper and deeper with each slow thrust. 

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Right there... 

Dean’s green eyes, bright and in awe as he sinks into you in one fluid motion. His lips on you, tasting your skin while you come apart in his hands, around his cock.

“Look at you. Taking us so well, sweetheart.”

Closer–

A heavy knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts, and you nearly slipped as hastily pulled your hand away, startled back into reality. The abruptness of the sound echoed in the small room, shattering the illusion you had weaved in the steam.

“Got a six pack with our names on it, sweetheart!” Dean’s voice rang through the door.

“Fuck!" Your heart pounded in your chest, breaths still heavy, eyes wide from shock. "Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Could give you more than that,” he responded with a mischievous chuckle, and you could clearly visualize the shit-eating grin he wore, even without seeing his face.

“I’ll give you a black eye,” you muttered under your breath, the words tinged with irritation as you dipped back under the water for a quick rinse. The cascade of water washed away the remnants of your interrupted tranquility. 

So much for your privacy.

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Dean taglist: @aylacavebear @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @maddie0101

Both: @jollyhunter @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @sir-thisisadndserver

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[steviewashere]

I love only child Steve Harrington, but how about I suggest something else that's really angsty? Stay with me here, please.

CW Ahead: Death of a Sibling, Grief/Mourning, Minor Suicidal Ideation, Steve's Sacrifices to Prove Self-Worth

Steve Harrington had a twin. They were identical.

They'd chase each other around in the Indiana sun, when it was at its lowest, grass green in the field, lightning bugs about. Barefoot in the backroads, dust particles, laughing until their stomachs hurt. Riding their bikes up and down their street, seeing who could go faster. Swimming laps in the pool, trying to beat the other.

Their parents are happy. A good marriage. Lovely kids. Living that smooth, good life.

Both of them super young when it happens. He and his twin are roughly...12? 13? Middle school age.

It's another summer night. No school. Not a care in the world. The Harrington family go out of town for a lake house vacation. Steve and his twin swim laps and laps around in the lake.

They've got beach toys, playing in the very little amount of sand. Then, Steve accidentally drops his little plastic shovel into the water. It sinks, or at least begins sinking. His twin tells him to stay out of the water, that he'd go down and retrieve the shovel. His twin had the better swimmer's lungs after all.

But then thirty seconds pass. Forty-five...a whole minute.

Bubbles come to the surface. The water rippling like somebody's thrashing. And then...nothing.

Of course, Steve runs up to the lake house to get his parents. To get help. But he was too late. He couldn't save his brother.

After this, he can't even look himself in the eyes. Can't look into a mirror. After this, his parents grow distant from him. They leave more and more frequently, leave him alone in his guilt. Affairs and arguments...it all happens too frequently now. Steve keeps to himself. He's quiet and weird. Barely has any friends. Won't talk about that summer evening. Won't consider going around a lake again.

But...but then he goes to high school. He tries out for the swim team, just to give himself something to do. It made his dad pay attention to him. It made his parents stay. It made a small part of him proud, when he did good at his meets, when he was eventually given the co-captain spot. He worked as a lifeguard over the summers.

Barb goes missing from his backyard. He isn't aware that she was dragged through the pool. Didn't see it, never knew.

Nancy lives with the same sort of guilt that Steve did. But Steve only knows one way of coping: moving on. Busying his brain with stupid things: drinking and partying and sports and other things that seem meaningless. He seems fine, doesn't he? It's not like he's weighed any of the shit he's been through.

(He is. He won't tell anybody this.)

Dustin asks for his help that one day, the same age as Steve's twin brother was—will forever be. And Steve knows, even if he accepts reluctantly at first, that this is his duty. It's what's going to prove that he can care, that he isn't fucked up over this thing that happened, that he can do better.

Helping where he can, that's what makes him proud. Being somebody to step in, to throw themselves at the danger rather than letting anybody else experience it.

And then Lover's Lake.

He hasn't been out on a lake, not even dipping his toes in the water since the incident. But when it comes down to it, to the group he's sitting on that rickety boat with, he knows he must. He must prove that he can help, that he can swim best, that he can use his skills for good; rather than sitting by, almost uselessly.

He's being dragged back under the surface, something wrapped around his ankle. He's panicking, of course he's panicking—there's questions and broken sentences flashing through his brain: did this happen to him? is this what he felt like? am I going to die like this, too?

For half a moment, he expects to die. He's ready to die. Like maybe dying will break him free from the guilt he's been carrying. Like a cycle will be reset.

He's relieved when he doesn't drown.

Yet, when that demobat releases his throat and he can get enough oxygen to focus on his surroundings, he sees all the others around him in the Upside Down. And he's furious. Furious that they had to go after him, to save his sorry ass. Because, again, he's put himself in a position of complete uselessness.

Always the one needing help, needing to be saved.

He'd rather do it alone. Rather be the bait, the hook line and sinker.

And when the fight is over, when Dustin loses Eddie...

Steve sees himself in Dustin's eyes. Helpless, scared, vengeful—

Guilty.

He considers his new duty to be to actually help Dustin's guilt. To try and make it better. But he's fucking it up, he constantly fucks it up. Just like he did with Nancy. He still can't look himself in the eyes.

Not without seeing his brother's face. Not without seeing scars where he failed to fully protect. Not without seeing Dustin's guilty, angry gaze. Not without seeing himself.

And somewhere along the lines, he knew his self-worth was low. But it's even lower. Like it was when he lost his brother; it shouldn't have been his brother. It shouldn't have been Eddie. It should've been him.

But he doesn't tell anybody this revelation he has. He continues on, life normal, trying to be helpful where he can. No matter how little, no matter how much he must sacrifice.

————

Another version here:

Dustin is guilty because Eddie got so injured, but Eddie's saved by Steve. Steve makes it his only mission in that moment to resuscitate Eddie—he learned CPR after his brother died just in case, he's thankful for his anxious self-nagging.

But Dustin is still guilty and Steve still sees himself.

And Eddie's trying to reassure both of them, but nothing seems to get through. He's the only one who can really see through Steve's cracks, he ends up not liking what he's seeing. Under the surface, Steve is just hollow. Not hollow like he's dumb or boring or unimportant. Hollow like there's nothing keeping him tethered, nothing fulfilling him, nothing to keep him satiated and happy.

Under the surface, Eddie sees a version of a man he doesn't really know. He sees Steve constantly fighting a mental battle, some sort of self-worth argument, some prattle with his own thoughts. He sees a man barely living; he sees a man willing to die for anything.

Again, he ends up not liking what he's seeing.

[archive-of-ink]

Bite That Old Man

moodboard for the vibes ; reader has no physical description

Summary - She wants to bite Joel. for some reason, he lets her.

Warnings - biting, teeth, no actual smut, one mention of a boob (plus nipple!!) other wise no physical description, language, age gap in my head but not actually mentioned. heavy kissing. 3rd person pov

word count -1.3k

a/n - this being the first Joel fic I've posted is insane. this entire thing is sooo silly to me but I wrote it in one sitting and well, here ya go I guess.

   She wanted to bite him, maybe wrap her arms around him and squeeze. 

 She didn’t even mean it that way, nothing sexual. Well, maybe a little. It was only a fleeting, absent thought. Something that flitted through her mind that morning as they had breakfast. Following the revelation, Joel Miller was fucking adorable. 

  She wasn’t sure how she missed it this long. The way his hair would curl and fall across his forehead, the honey-glow of his eyes in the sunlight that would make her heart ache, she knew that. The heat that ran through her when his jaw clenched or the muscles of his back flexed when he peeled off his shirt, golden skin slick with sweat from the beating sun that she so badly wanted to lick off. Oh, she knew that. 

   But the giddy bubbling in her chest, she never let that take hold - never felt it hit so suddenly. 

   He sat across from her at the kitchen table, listening to Ellie’s joke. Shaking his head, failing to repress the smile that pulled across his face - the apple of his cheeks pushing up and eyes crinkling. 

      Ellie and Joel resumed their meal but she kept staring long after the moment passed. Focused on sipping his coffee, he was oblivious to her eyes.   Still focused on his face, trying to will herself to calm the school-girl crush threatening to consume her. 

      “Why’re you being weird?” Ellie said, mouth full as she swatted her on the arm with the hand not shoveling eggs into her mouth. She jerked back, breaking her trance and looking at the girl. 

       “I’m not”  It came out too rushed. Her voice was too high, guilty. She’d always been a shit liar, everyone knew it. Face burning, she looked away and busied herself with her drink.        

  “Ellie.” Joel warned.  

 “I’m not the one staring at you like you’re the meal.”  

       “Ellie” 

 “I’m out.” She stood from the table, all teenage attitude and snark. Mumbling under her breath as she walked out. “You guys are fucking gross.”

She had half the mind to beg her to stay, just to avoid being alone but it would’ve been worse. Ellie never filtered her thoughts - much to her current dismay and apparently Joel’s by the way he was looking at her. 

  “I wasn’t being weird.” Damn it.   

He didn’t respond, face blank and bored as he chewed his last bite. Asshole was siking her out, he’d done it before. The silence stressed her and he knew it. Figured it out the first time she lied to him, the day they met and she said she wasn’t armed. Shit liar, horrible under pressure. When she decided to stick around, a very serious conversation was had about not being a dumbass. She was lucky she made it this far in the fucking apocalypse. 

  The way he was staring at her, gaze gripping hers. She was fucked. It had her picking her cuticles, and anxiety replaced the dopey, girly feeling. She wanted to rip her hair out or dart for her bedroom.   

   “You’re cute” The words tumbled out. Hands flew to her mouth like she was stopping any more from falling out. 

 His eyebrows shot up, shock covered his face for a split second before he was nodding. He still didn’t talk, sipping his coffee again. Shit. 

   “And I want to bite you. Wanted.”  She was going to die. She groaned, burying her face in her arms. He was going to kick her out, call her a weird bitch and tell her to pack her things.

  She heard the clink of his mug against the table, the scrap of his chair against the floor but he never stood. She peeked over her arm. 

   Joel sat, legs spread and arms crossed. 

“C’mere then.”  

“What?”  Her head shot up. He couldn’t be serious, he was. Her hands were covering her face again. “You’re making fun of me.” 

   “No ‘M not, darlin’.” He patted his thighs. Oh god. “C’mon.” 

Her face was searing as she stood, bare feet against the cold wooden floor she padded over to him. Stopping next to him, she looked up to meet his eyes. A glint of amusement passed through them though there was something else. He motioned for her to sit on his lap. When she didn’t move fast enough, his hands were on her waist pulling her down and knocking the breath out of her. 

    They’ve never been this close. Warmth radiated from where they touched. Knees bracketed his thighs, not sitting down completely holding onto his neck to prevent her from tipping them off the chair. 

  She was a whirlwind of emotion, an amalgamation of everything she felt in his presence for years. Her heart was aching with affection and beating in her ears, a slight heat simmering low within her from where they were pressed together, and that giddy feeling, that primal urge to sink her teeth into him bloomed in her chest again. 

  “Where?”  His head tipped back, gazing at her before his hands slid down to rest on her hips, pulling her down the rest of the way. She inhaled at the new contact. Brows knit in confusion when she processed the question.

   What was he- Oh. 

        Where.  

She lifted her hand from his neck and circled his cheek with her fingertip, barely breathing. 

   “Go for it, baby.” The corners of his mouth twisted into a half-grin “” M all yours.” 

She groaned desire and embarrassment fluttering through her. Her head hit his shoulder and she buried her face in his neck. This was mortifying. She didn’t understand why he was entertaining her weirdness. 

  “Joel-” She mumbled in an almost whine, feeling his pulse jump when her lips brushed skin.  “This is stupid.” 

For a moment, calloused fingers moved across the skin between her shorts and the top that had ridden up, calm and reassuring. Only breaths filled the room as the morning sun filtered through. Then he tapped for her to sit up. She pulled back, hands resting on her knees. 

   “I can’t.” She shook her head, hands going back over her face. He peeled them away by her wrist and pinned them to his chest. 

 “You can.”  He was smiling at her, a real true teeth-showing smile that reached his eyes and had his cheeks all full. 

She exhaled a laugh, embarrassment waning as she realized he really did want her to and she let herself go. Leaning forward until they were nose to nose, she grinned as his smile grew and giggled. Moving to the right, she let her teeth graze the skin of his cheek. 

     Something ignited in her. 

Hands braced on his shoulders, she nipped at his stubbled jaw down to his neck, teeth catching his earlobe. His head dropped backward as she bit at his throat, teeth just hard enough to leave an impression, tongue darting out against to soothe the mark. 

   A strangled mix of a laugh and a grunt escaped him. His hands trailed up from her hips to her waist, raking her shirt up and stopping when his thumb grazed the underside of her breast. She gasped when he paused, waiting for her permission. She nodded against his neck, inhaling the faint scent of his soap mixed with something she could only describe as Joel. His hand slipped underneath her shirt, fingers brushing against her nipple eliciting another gasp - feeling it pebbled under his touch. 

     She was a panting, desperate mess when their lips met, a clash of teeth and tongue and years of repressed tension. He licked into her mouth, nose brushing against her cheek, hand on the small of her back pressing her flush with him. A ragged breath escaped her as she broke for breath, foreheads pressing together. 

       “Christ, I told you.” Ellie’s voice rang from the doorway, hands covering her eyes. “You guys are fucking gross.”

[obriengf]

Jubilee || Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Summary: You find moments of clarity throughout your boyfriend's birthday. Words: 1.9k Warnings: totally added tay swift references - not really a warning (: Notes: despite the photo used in the banner, the reader is non-gender specific, non-race specific, etc.

April 8th, 1995 - Happy Birthday Stiles Stilinski ・❥・

You weren't sure what it was, exactly - maybe it was simply just how his eyes would widen with excitement, a childhood gleam that twinkled so exuberantly as he smiled. Or, it could be how his body jumped with so much positive energy, the balls of his feet built with springs as he bounded around with pure enthusiasm. Perhaps, it was really the way in which he couldn't stop talking, in absolute Stiles fashion, his mind and mouth running with stories and ideas and honest happiness. Selfishly, you would like to say that it was when he encased his body around yours and provided loving kisses with every 'thank you' during his never-ending expression of gratitude. Whatever it was, it made this time of year your favourite of them all. Nothing could beat celebrating your boyfriend's birthday.

His twenty-ninth year started with a tender peck - lips pressed to his cheek as they covered a freckled canvas, his skin warm as it remained settled under the morning sun that filtered through the blinds. It twitched from such a delicate sentiment and was followed by lashes dancing as the boy began to wake. He was so beautiful, and it prompted your heart to clutch in absolute awe.

His arm was heavy as it remained slung over your waist, despite pulling you closer to his chest in oblivious movements from his still-slumbered state. He hummed lightly against the shell of your ear, a sound of acknowledgement, wordless contentedness to the complacency you helped him feel. It made you kiss him again on the upturn of his nose and he groaned as it scrunched.

"Hi." You whispered so quietly, his caramel toned eyes fluttering once again as they tried to adjust to the morning light. Stiles smiled at you, completely loving with just a simple glance. A hum pushed past your lips, "Good Morning, handsome."

"It is now." He replied, so smooth, so swift. The truth embedded in such little words and encapsulated with sleepy raspiness.

Noses brushed as you giggled under your breath, your thumb rubbing gently under his eye, "And Happy Birthday."

He leaned into your touch as if it were moulded to fit his face, love exuberating from his features with ease, "Thank you, baby."

It was amusing to watch as Stiles shovelled his face with pancakes - the breakfast dish easily branded as his favourite, and seen quite evidently as he moaned loudly in satisfaction. The plate was stacked high and you knew that the sugar rush could potentially be catastrophic, but it was his day, and he deserved everything he desired.

An incredulous look was etched deeply into the furrowed brows and confused lift of Noah Stilinski's lips as he watched his son across the table. The coffee mug in his hand was teetering on the edge of lukewarm by now, but he couldn't tear his focus away. You'd think that after twenty-nine years, the man would be somewhat immune to the quirkiness of his son. Noah's eyes glanced briefly around your small kitchen space - an area where you and Stiles spent much of your time since you moved in together. He had always admired the varied elements representing you both and how easy it was for your lives to merge. It was as if soulmates were united, and this is how your beings were destined to be intertwined.

"You spoil him." Noah's deep voice broke through the silent chuckle you expelled toward your boyfriend, eyes managing to break free as they looked to the man beside you. Appreciation filled the small smile he shone your way and you couldn't help but release an elated exhale, your head nodding in agreement.

"I know." Your reply was simple but was spoken with the utmost adoration for Stiles, observing as a childish spark embodied him with joyousness; a light that took a while to finally settle within his heart after years of trepidation and great wars. A sigh pushed past your lips, "But he deserves it, all of it, after everything he's been through."

And you would give him the world on a silver platter if you could, but you knew that all Stiles truly wanted was to be content. He craved silly grown-up routines and times when he could relax without the threat of worry. He wanted to relive mundane moments from his teenage years that were short-lived due to monsters that lurked in the shadows. He yearned for endearment and safety and just simply knowing that you would be there every morning and night, curled up in his arms, loving him unconditionally. Stiles never asked for a lot, so days like today were ones you strived to make special. Because he deserved special, every last speck of it.

Noah snickered to himself, pride filling his chest as he looked between yourself and Stiles. "He deserves you most, ya know." His words struck a chord - one with melodic tunes, strummed hard enough to get your heart beating fast as a red blush pinched at your nose and cheeks. You reached across and placed a hand over his, your eyes bright as you looked at the older Stilinski.

"Thank you." That was all you ever wanted.

Stiles could work a room, especially when the buzz was centered around him. He had bounced across your living room several times by now, excitement filling his veins as he couldn't stop talking to the friends and family who came to see him for his birthday. You were standing off to the side, half listening as Scott was making conversation about his week at the Clinic - your focus was mostly on Stiles, admiring the way he was utilising his over-energetic nature and definite possible sugar hype from his breakfast. He had never looked happier as words flowed from him, a bottle of beer clutched between the fingers of his right hand as his left arm hung jovially over Liam's shoulders in deep narration.

"You're not listening, are you?" Scott spoke up, amused as his arms crossed over his chest and he leaned back casually against the wall.

"Sorry, Scotty." You offered a smile, apologetic tones seeping through and your friend couldn't help but shake his head as he returned your smile amiably. You took a sip of your own drink, making sure to turn your body slightly, attempting to provide full attention even though your mind still wandered whenever you heard your boyfriend's laugh. "I was, I just got a little distracted --"

" -- It's all good." He intercepted your explanation, a look of knowing putting you at ease. He knew well the effect that you and Stiles had on each other, for the most part, and how you were both connected so seamlessly by an invisible string that without fail drew you back to one another. It only made sense that a part of your focus would always be on him. "But kudos on the party. You definitely decked the place out, and Stiles seems to definitely be enjoying himself."

You hummed, eyes picking up the array of decorations that you so carefully placed only a couple of hours ago. "You know more than anyone that I'd do anything to just see him happy. After all, today is Stiles Day and honestly..." You trailed off, features already beginning to scrunch up as joviality shaped your words, "I think I like it more than Christmas."

You laughed, and Scott joined you. He agreed wholeheartedly as his hand splayed over his chest, head nodding and lopsided smile growing by the second.

It wasn't too long after when the crowd gathered around your dining table with Stiles perching at the head as he sat tall. The lights were turned off and the room became swallowed by darkness - building anticipation, creating an atmosphere of smiles and eagerness for the theatrics to follow. It was the sound of hissing that made ears perk and eyes swiftly track the source as it entered from the kitchen. You had gentle hands as his cake remained in your hold; silhouettes sitting against the walls from shoots of sparking fire that sat atop his cake. His gaze grew large, and the normal caramel tone of his eyes shifted to a glowing golden hue from the reflecting sparklers.

You placed the cake in front of Stiles before planting a tender kiss against the apple of his grinning cheek, your nose nuzzling into his favourite spot under his ear, "Happy Birthday, my handsome man."

The crowd began to sing, mismatched harmonies growing louder in the small space of your apartment. It was hasty as Stiles' large hands gripped at your waist, your body falling toward his own before he sat you in his lap. Legs dangled over his knees and it made you giggle against the curve of his shoulder. Stiles pecked your template before replicating your nuzzle, his nose dragging against your hairline, "I love you."

You watched as the sparklers danced patterns across his affectionate expression, completely mesmerised by him and the fortune you felt, before you smiled up at him, "I love you too. Now blow out those candles!"

It wasn't much different from your usual Monday night; the television played some reruns of comedies from the 90's, every light in the room was turned off except the dingy floor lamp beside the couch, and the coffee table was graced by Chinese takeout containers and leftover plates of birthday cake. Stiles slumped back against the soft cushions with his feet perched upon the table, socks cladding his feet as they moved in tune with the opening credits of an old sitcom. He was in complete comfort, only made better by your frame as it was situated under his arm with your head pressed to his chest and hands curled in the material of his t-shirt. His touch was absentmindedly dragging up and down your side with dancing fingers, the sentiment just barely felt as the movements remained delicate and featherlike.

"Today was amazing." He said so nonchalantly, voice hardly competing with the television as the sound remained low.

You burrowed yourself closer to him, tiredness beginning to takeover, "I'm glad."

Stiles grinned lazily, his lips puckered before pressing kisses down the expanse of your cheek as his nose trailed after them, "But this?Right now... full of cake and chow mein, us cuddling and watching Friends reruns... this is my favourite part. Without a doubt."

"But we do this practically every night." You mused, voice laced with humor and confusion before gently pulling away from him. Your brow was raised, but the puzzled expression across your features was captured with a smile.

"Yeah, we do, but... just knowing how much effort you put into making today the best birthday, it just makes it all mean so much more."

Your heart pattered, a rush of endearment and affection. It was loud and fast in your chest, but one would never have guessed from the quiet squeak of your voice that followed, "I only ever want the best for you."

"And all I ever want is you. Period."

The light from the television casted a blue glow as you leant forward, your arms encasing themselves around Stiles' neck as thighs straddled his own. The programme was long forgotten, and his face settled against your shoulder. You could feel him breathe you in as his own arms wrapped around to your back, his large splayed hands pushing your body further against him.

You kissed the crown of his head, fingers gentle as they tangled themselves in the loose locks of his hair, "Happy Birthday, Stiles."