#drop in anchor punch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aventurineswife · 14 days ago

Note

Can I ask for aventurine with an s/o who looks really giddy and excited except they're actually really nervous and depressive inside to the point they randomly stop acting happy one day and tell Aventurine that he can break up with them anytime he wants since they don't feel sufficient for him? Like they don't think they can compete with the pretty ladies he must see at the casino?-

“You're Everything”

Summary: Aventurine has always been able to read people, but the one person he can't quite figure out is you, his partner. Though outwardly cheerful, you've been hiding insecurities beneath your bright demeanor. One evening, during a quiet moment at home, your walls finally come down as you confess your self-doubt, feeling unworthy of Aventurine’s affection. This revelation shatters the illusion that everything is fine, and Aventurine takes the opportunity to reassure you of your worth.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Romance, Emotional Support, Insecurity, Reassurance, Vulnerability, Tender Moments, Established Relationship, Confessions, Trust.

Warnings: Mild emotional distress, Insecurity/confidence issues, Mild mentions of self-doubt.

A/N: shit why does that sound like me...? 😕💔

Aventurine had always been able to read people, to sense when something wasn’t quite right, when the masks people wore didn’t match the truth lurking beneath. But there was something about you—about how you always wore that giddy, almost dizzying smile—that kept him second-guessing himself. You never seemed to show your hand, always too busy hiding your true feelings behind that infectious energy.

It had taken time, but over the months of your relationship, he’d come to know you better, catching the subtle hints when your laughter wasn’t quite as bright or your movements just a little too stiff. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t worry—his strategic mind always assumed something was amiss, but you had become his anchor. He’d convinced himself that he didn’t need to dig deeper, that everything was fine as long as you looked happy. But deep down, that little seed of doubt always lingered, nestled in the back of his mind.

And that day... that day it all came crashing down.

It started with a quiet evening at home. The two of you had shared a meal, laughed about something trivial, and as always, you had worn that bubbly, almost too-exuberant smile. But there was a shift, a subtle drop in the energy that only someone who had spent so much time with you would notice. The tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted away when he met your gaze—it was like a veil had dropped, leaving a raw vulnerability behind.

You didn’t say anything at first, as if waiting for him to notice, to say something. But then, just as he was about to speak, you broke the silence.

"I don't think I'm good enough for you." you muttered, voice strained. Your hands trembled slightly, though you tried to keep them hidden in your lap.

Aventurine’s heart twisted. The moment you said those words, the mask shattered, and the heavy truth hit him. You hadn’t been your usual self—hadn't been genuinely happy—and he knew it was time to uncover the secret you’d been holding in.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying you carefully. “What do you mean by that?” His tone was soft, but there was a depth of concern behind it.

You swallowed, trying to compose yourself, but the words kept slipping out in a rush. "I—I don’t know, I just feel... like you could do so much better. I see how you are at the casino, surrounded by all those beautiful, confident women, and I... I can’t compete with them. I don’t even feel like I’m enough for you. You can... break up with me anytime you want. I wouldn't blame you."

The words hit Aventurine like a sucker punch. He froze for a moment, his usually steady hand twitching as he fought the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms. But instead, he stayed where he was, keeping his distance, allowing the weight of your words to settle between the two of you.

His gaze softened, his eyes fixing on you with an intensity that left no room for doubt. “You think I’m with you because of how you compare to others?” he asked, his voice a little more stern than usual. But underneath it was something deeper—something fragile, as if he was trying to keep his own composure intact.

Your head hung low, and you nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know… It just feels like... I’m not enough for someone like you. You deserve someone who can make you happy without all this baggage."

Aventurine let out a small sigh, shaking his head slightly, as if processing the sheer weight of your words. His lips twitched upward into a soft, bittersweet smile, the kind that spoke of knowing something far deeper than surface-level impressions. He stood and walked over to you slowly, his movements calculated, but not with the usual sharpness of someone managing a deal. No, this was different. His steps were careful, as if afraid of shattering the delicate balance between the two of you.

Reaching out, he cupped your chin gently with one hand, lifting your face so you would meet his gaze. "You really think I care about comparing you to other people?" His voice, though steady, held a quiet intensity that resonated through you. "Look at me. Look at me, and understand something."

You blinked up at him, your heart thundering in your chest.

Aventurine exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “What matters to me, what’s always mattered to me, is you. Not the ‘pretty ladies,’ not the ones who look perfect on the outside. I’ve never cared about that. Not when it’s you who can make me laugh when the world feels like it’s closing in. Not when it’s you who makes me feel... human, not just the strategist, not just the Stoneheart. I don’t need anyone else."

You felt a pang in your chest at his words, but it only deepened when he continued.

“You think you're not enough, but you're everything. The fact that you’re here, sharing this with me, means more than you can imagine. You want to know why I chose you?” His voice was softer now, coaxing, as if breaking through a dam that had held so much back. "Because you're you. You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not. You never have to compete with anyone else, not when I’ve already chosen you."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t wipe them away. His words felt like a balm to wounds you hadn't realized were so deep.

Aventurine gave you a small, sincere smile, his gaze unwavering. “I’m not going anywhere. And if you ever doubt it again, I’ll remind you. But I’m asking you now, don’t doubt yourself. Not for a second. You’re exactly what I need, exactly what I want.”

The weight that had been crushing your chest seemed to lift, and for the first time in a long while, you breathed a little easier. You couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh, your lips curving upward despite the wetness still on your cheeks.

Aventurine laughed with you, the sound warm and full of tenderness. “There’s that smile again. I’m never letting go of it.” He wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his eyes glimmering with something you couldn’t quite put into words.

In that moment, you understood. You weren’t just his partner. You were his, completely and irrevocably, no matter what the world outside thought or how you felt inside.

And with that, you finally let the real smile break free, one that didn’t feel forced, one that was only for him.

172 notes · View notes

revelboo · 1 month ago

Note

HIIII! i just wanted to say I have been devouring your writing; you have such a lovely talent for conjuring whole worlds with such brevity.

Hope the sudden spam of likes/reblogs was okay >u<''

Thanks! I’ve gotten a bit used to short form and needing to pack a punch in brief snippets from Twitter’s vss365 writing prompts.

Everything is Alright Pt 26

Starscream x Reader

• This isn’t right. Isn’t what he wanted. You’re supposed to be happy. Thankful. And that black rage washes higher threatening to drown him as his servos curl under into fists with the need to lash out, because it’s all wrong. Then you’re looking up at him, those big eyes afraid, fingers tightening on that stuffed animal. Afraid of him? Afraid for humans you likely don’t even know because deep down you think he’s a monster?

• And he’s yanking his chair back from his desk, the legs screeching on the floor before he slings it against the wall. It’s not enough to bank that fury crackling through him. Not nearly enough. Because he understands that fear on your face. Knows too well the feeling of saying what must be said even though you know there will be repercussions. For a moment, he’s paralyzed, venting raggedly as a memory claws its way out of the dark corners of his processor. Of pain and fear so visceral and inescapable. Megatron in a fury, big hands curling into fists.

• You’d backed away when he’d slung the chair, now you’re staring as he shakes, shoulders hunched, wings trembling and hands curled into claws, servos flexing like he wants to tear something apart. This isn’t just temper, there’s something else going on that you don’t understand. Something that hurts you to watch. “This isn’t right,” he snarls, head dropping as those tremors run wild through his frame. “Why isn’t it right?”

• His rasping voice is cracking with something more than just anger, there’s pain there that lances through you as you clutch the stuffed bear tighter to yourself. You’re terrified of him like this, all too aware that one careless swipe of his hand can break you. “I’m sorry,” you call out, despite the very real fear of pulling his attention back to you. Those red optics are bloody and wild as his helm swings your way and you start trembling. “You’re always taking care of me,” you forge on wanting nothing more than to hide from that stare. He’s going to hurt you this time. You’re sure of it.

• He can’t stop shaking, torn between memories he doesn’t want and the soft sound of your voice. Apologizing even as it wavers in fear. That breaks through the confused rage, his hand slamming against the edge of the desk as he lunges toward that sound. Needing it to anchor him in the sea of pain and hate and self loathing. You stagger back, little frame tense. Scared of him. Moving slowly, he lays his helm down on the desk, unable to stand you looking at him like that. Like how he stares at Megatron in a rage. The feel of your soft, little hand on his cheek almost breaks him. You’re trying to comfort him? Shuttering his optics, he just savors the feel of your gentle touch and your voice, your words. Thanking him and apologizing even as you break. “No one was home,” he growls, because he understands. Wants to reach for you, hook a servo around you and tug you against him. But doesn’t dare. Not yet.

Previous Next

#transformers #starscream x reader #idw starscream #transformers x reader

207 notes · View notes

captainjamster · 6 months ago

Note

Hey if you're comfortable with it, do you think you write about how 141 would react to finding out you're ticklish? Preferably nsfw. Maybe they just tease you with it or maybe they have a session with you after a while and enjoy how it drives you crazy. It could be poly141 or just a drabble with each members reaction.

I love your writing sm

I'm sorry this took a while anon, thank you so much for your request!! This is the first time I've written about tickling, so I hope it came out alright. I loved researching this lmfao it's so cute

Pairing(s): 141 x reader (separately, not poly or sharing this time sorry! :p) Warnings: Bondage and restraint, tickling, tickling during sex Wordcount: 1.2k Summary: How each of the boys enjoy tickling you :p AO3 Link: Right here! <3

Full drabbles under cut <3

Price loves your laugh; just the sound can get him hard. Maybe you should’ve seen it coming from the first date. It was the first thing he complimented you on in the small bakery – heart eyes over the brim of his coffee cup that had your cheeks red, already breathless at the story between a cheeky sounding sergeant and someone’s poor dog. He stores every terrible joke exchanged amongst his boys, bringing them home just to fill your ears with them, to get anything from that exasperated little giggle to a shocked cackle at some of Ghost’s darker ones – the first time he hears you belly laugh, he writes the beginning of his wedding vowels.

For him, there’s a privilege in being allowed to bring you to such a vulnerable state, dazed and breathless, whether it’s scrabbling against the material of his shirt as you’re bent over in hysterics, hiding behind your hands, gasping for air at the comedy he’s been nagging you to watch, or between his thighs against the mattress, straining with hiccupped shrieks and pleads at his weight as he tortures your overstimulated skin. The only thing he uses is his fingers, and he’s stubborn about it, possessive of the tactile connection between his fingertips against your skin. The furthest he goes is a plug in your pussy, with a command to try and keep it there at the threat of a good spanking (though you both know you’re going to fail).

He challenges himself to make you come with just tickling – he neglects your needy pussy, wet and fluttering with arousal, until the delicate dragging of his nails down the plush insides of your thigh has you spasming around nothing.

Gaz, poor Gaz. Gaz, with blood under his nails he just can’t scrub, who sees someone’s face with every punch he throws at the bag. He’s heard the way his peers talk all throughout his service – spank their ass, slap their face, tight grip to the throat, till they ache.

There was only one part that ever stuck with him – till they ache.

The only time he raises a hand against you is to watch you squeal in anticipation before it flies down to your stomach, skittering up and down the soft skin as you twist and writhe against the sheets. It’s everything he needs – he can make you cry, beg, scream, with the whisp of a few touches, the softest of caresses. Tracing the marks that scatter your skin, only love bites and the imprints of restraint. On some nights, Gaz loves tying you up and tickling you, watching you squirm and contort against his ropes in an attempt to escape. The knots dip into your flesh, keeping your arms straight and pointed to the metal hook that meets the rope stemming from your wrists, legs spread wide with the thick bar anchoring your feet flat to the ground. His fingers dance over every inch of skin bare to him, honing to the areas you try to pull away from, watching you sway this and that way in peals of laughter as he switches between sides on your ribs.

Unlike Price, he doesn’t care for games – he’ll give you what you want. A toy, his fingers, his cock. Slow and steady, letting the rope drop a little to bend you at the waist, rocking back and forward into him, clenching down those slick and warm walls in sync with each ragged laugh. He doesn’t mind wielding a tickle wand, dragging the feathers up and down your thighs, your armpits, behind your knees. It’s not over until your eyes are puffy, cheeks tear stained as you sag under your own weight, kept suspended by the rope as your knees shake.

Soap becomes aware of your ticklish nature very quickly, being such a tactile partner. He’s always touching you – whether it’s an arm around your waist, foot rubbing against your calf, pinkies linked together – and it isn’t long before he unintentionally makes you squeal, accidentally brushing up against one of your most sensitive areas. The noise makes him jump, worried he’s hurt you, but when he sees the red of your cheeks and the shy smile on your face? Oh, it’s over for you.

“Y’ticklish, bonnie?”

He’s all a-grin every time, hands raising menacingly with wiggling fingers.

For a while it stays non-sexual, but poor Johnny can’t help himself. The tickle fights start to linger way past what’s appropriate, making home in his mind – how you get so panicked and squirmy, trying to get away from his fingers, your breathless laugh and gasps as his name whines so desperately from your lips. Your squeals rings through his ears during overdue paperwork in his late nights, so clear that he swears your lips brush across the tips of his ears, and Price avoids looking at him too closely as he turns in the files before leaving.

Sly, smart Johnny starts off slow. When the mood is playful during sex, he purposely rubs his hair and beard up against your neck, your back, feeling you pulse erratically around him with each giggle. He introduces it in increments, a foot in the door as you warm to the idea. Things really get going when he confesses, head buried in the crook of your neck as he groans how the way you flutter around his cock with each giggle brings him so close, and you can't help but laugh at that too. Poor Johnny comes harder than he ever has, and you can't help but want to indulge the glassy, lovestruck expression on his handsome face.

Unlike Gaz, he’d never restrain you - Johnny loves fighting you to stay still, caging you in or dragging you back by the ankle into his reach.

For Ghost, he loves the chase and anticipation beforehand, and his favourite way of being a pest – catch him brushing against just the right spot to make you jump and squeal as his arms slip around you, or his chin nuzzles into your neck.

But it starts with a morning of productivity, taken with your own domestic chores in a quiet co-existence. He’s finished a spot-tidy, bringing some discarded rubbish and checking on you in the kitchen. You’re unsuspecting, caught up in your respective daily activities, fixated on the job in front of you – and something hits him. The way you bob along happily to the music in your head, scrubbing at the dishes with a sway in your hips, caught up in your own world. Your happiness is magnetic, beckoning him and basking him in the same warm rush of dopamine. A light bubbles up through his body, something that forces its way from the depths of his chest more often when you’re around, and his feet are moving towards the kitchen before he thinks twice.

“Hey love?”

You hum questioningly, putting elbow grease into a particularly stuck blemish from the morning’s dishes.

“Got somethin’ for you.”

You finally turn around, soapy hands in the air as droplets cascade from them. Simon gives you a second to stare quizzically, watching your expression morph into a pleading grin as his hands creep up from his sides, fingers curling over into a leering grab.

“No! I’m washing dishes, please!”

His grin widens, fingers wiggling threateningly. “Then dry your hands.”

Your hands fall to your shirt, squeezing the material as you ready yourself to bolt. He squares up, arms outstretched, but he doesn’t close them as you swoop by close enough, out the kitchen in a mad dash. Though the chase is superficial, it doesn’t stop the thrill that jolts him with each impending step, following you through to the loungeroom. The sofa keeps him at bay, circling each other in a practiced synchronisation around the furniture as you feint left and right, keeping him guessing which way you’ll take off.

You bluff right to distract him from your plan to run the other way, but Simon lunges left anyway. He’s faster than you can think, reading the tensing of your muscles, and unable to rectify your charade as you scramble, his arms clamp around you in a swooping grab.

And as you gasp and giggle underneath him, something stirs to life.

dividers by cafekitsune

211 notes · View notes

rillils · 8 months ago

Text

There were times, back then, when Steve was sure he wasn’t going to pull through.

When the fever had consumed him for days, and the breath burned thick in the back of his throat, and Steve felt himself slip too close to the dark place that lived behind his eyelids, across the threshold of his consciousness.

Death, he thought: hovering like a loving mother at his side.

He could feel it, like a cold whisper gusting against his skin, chilling him with words of warning. Soon, it said; and Steve was too weak to do anything but lie there and listen.

He tried to tell Bucky once, drifting out of a delirious sleep.

“If… if death came tomorrow...”

“You’d punch him in the face,” Bucky shushed him softly, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. The healthy warmth of his hand felt nearly cool against the fevered heat of Steve’s skin, and Steve leaned blindly into the soothing touch, sighing his relief as Bucky’s knuckles stroked his cheek.

Bucky. The world seemed to be fading at the edges, like a sheet of paper burning from the outside in, curling ash-black and falling away piece by piece; but Bucky was still there.

Bucky was made of gentleness and sound, sweet like the sweet nothings he poured in Steve’s ear when Steve slept fitfully, swept into his feverish haze and lost to the world for hours on end.

Bucky was touch: an anchor. Bucky was color, familiar and dependable, like the blue of the sky, the yellow heart of daisies, the stain-black of charcoal.

Steve glimpsed the downturned corners of his mouth, his lovely lovely mouth, red like ripe apples. Steve had dreamed of kissing it once. Twice. Every other night.

Bucky’s cheeks were so pale. His eyes looked so tired, circled by the bruise-like purple of his skin.

He hadn’t been sleeping, Steve knew. Steve had been sleeping, though – he’d stolen Bucky’s share of it while his body burned up from the inside.

“Buck,” Steve rasped, his voice thin and crusty, like plaster peeling off the wall. “If... if I go...”

Bucky shook his head, one curl coming loose from the once careful sweep of his hair. His pretty lips quirked up, a slip of a smile found so easily like he’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.

“Nah. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, collecting Steve’s hand to cradle it in both of his.

Steve’s head lolled sleepily on his pillow, lured by the sound of Bucky’s trembling voice.

“Buck.”

“Shh. You’re staying right here, where I– where I can keep an eye on ya.”

Silence spilled in the room, just for a moment – the space of a sniffle, of a soft, shivery exhale.

“Gotta make sure you don’t get into trouble, don’t I?”

One of Bucky’s hands left him briefly, and when it enveloped him again, there was a wetness there; one little drop trickling from the bridge of his finger, to land cool on Steve’s skin.

“Just. Just like I promised.”

And Steve knew then.

If Death did come; if it seized his wrist with its bone-thin fingers and bade him to follow, Now, child, it is time, Steve would say: No. He’s not ready.

He would think of the apple-red mouth he had never kissed yet, save for in his dreams; of the love he hadn’t quite begun to shape into words. He’d think of the life he’d only just caught a glimpse of, stretched far on the road ahead of him, twined with Bucky’s own as they reached into the future, together. Simply. Always.

No, Steve would tell Death. He’s not ready.

And neither am I.

#stucky #stevebucky #not sure what this is or where it came from but you know how it is #sometimes the thingie just gets stuck in your brain and keeps on knocking until you let it out #*screeches softly*#rillers scribbles #prewar stucky #preserum steve

210 notes · View notes

thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels · 10 months ago

Text

This may be my grief (but it's you who's made a mess of it)

love is not designed for the cynical - series masterlist here

pairing: jason todd x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.7k

genre: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

warnings: reader has a panic attack, there's a lot of blood but it's the clean-up part, Jason is riddled with self-hatred and guilt but he's making progress

a/n: ok enjoy kiss kiss <3

Your heart lurches as you stare at the television, your hands clutching the couch cushions on either side of you as you listen to the presenter on the news station that you'd idly turned on for background noise. He's talking about a current fight, some scuffle between some vigilantes and Two-Face downtown. He mentions Redhood - mentions that he was seen going down during the fight and wasn't seen getting back up again.

Suddenly, the walls of your apartment feel small - too small, closing in on you as the air leaves your lungs in a punched-out gasp. He's not getting up. He's not getting up and he's gone again. You stand abruptly, knocking the TV remote off your lap and letting it clatter to the floor as you begin to pace back and forth in front of your couch, trying desperately to keep listening to the news anchor and what he's saying about the current situation.

Maybe he's wrong, you think desperately. Maybe he's alright and no one really knows what they're seeing. Maybe he's… dead. Maybe he's dead again. Maybe you'll never ever see him again. Maybe you'll have to bury him again.

You drop into a sitting position on the floor ungracefully, leaning against the couch as you reach blindly for the remote, suddenly needing desperately for the news anchor to stop updating you on the situation. You fumble with it once you have it, your hands cold and numb as you turn the television off.

The silence, you realize immediately, is worse

The thought of having to mourn him a second time, you realize, might be more than you can handle.

The city moves outside, cars honking and pedestrians shouting - the normal turmoil of Gotham. You fit right in, you suppose, amongst the panic and the pain and the death that permeates this city. You almost, almost wish you'd left all those years ago when Jason became Robin - when you told him it was a choice that would kill him and you threatened to walk out.

And now, in the dull silence of your apartment, your gaze level with your coffee table that has two empty mugs, you wish that you really had left all those years ago… and you wish that you had never come back.

The thought punches out whatever air is left in your lungs as guilt, cold and heavy and choking, settles in your gut. You bring your hands to your face, digging the heels of your palms into your closed eyes as you try to get a hold of your rattling breathing. You had, at times, considered what your life would be like if you'd never met Jason, or if you moved on and gotten over him after his death - his first death. The thought makes nausea roll through your stomach. Of course, you'd thought about it. But you'd always come to the same conclusion - you were lucky to have met him and to have known him as you did. Even if it meant carrying his ghost with you for the rest of your life, you were blessed to have been loved by him.

Now, though, it doesn't feel like a blessing. Now, it feels like a rotten, undead curse, something dragged up from some unholy pit to pull him away from you again, and again, and again. There is nothing lucky in this life and there is nothing lucky in this love.

A clattering on your balcony rips you from your spiralling thought as your head snaps around to see Redhood heave himself up over the railing, stumbling with fatigue and obvious injury. You lurch to your feet, desperate to get to him, desperate to know he's alive, desperate to stop him from seeing you on the floor of your home, grief-stricken and terrified because of him.

No, you think. He doesn't need to know about that. And fortunately, he's dazed enough from whatever god-awful fight he was in that he doesn't seem to really notice anything beyond the way you rip the door open and pull him inside, your hands flitting over his armour to gauge his injuries. Not at first, anyway. He lets you sit him on the couch, lets you shush his worries about staining the fabric with his blood. He doesn't consider the fact that your soul is already stained from him. Not yet, at least.

It's not until his armour is off, sitting in the bathtub and dripping crimson blood onto the white porcelain. It's not until you've checked him over, the large gash along his side cleaned and the blood flow staunched. It's when you begin stitching him up, your hands trembling ever so slightly in a way that sends concern shooting up his spine. It's not concern for himself - he's had you do this countless times, and he's done it to himself with much less finesse even more times. But something wrong - something must be wrong for you to be unsteady, for your shoulders to be tense and your eyes to avoid his. The pain from his side is nearly blinding, but there's nothing that sobers him and centres him as resolutely as you on your knees in front of him and afraid.

"Baby?" his voice is quiet, the breath leaving his lips in a tired sort of sigh that he can't help.

"Don't distract me," is your only response.

"Talk to me," he pushes in that gentle, guiding way of his.

But you say nothing. The silence drips between the two of you as you tie the last stitch, cutting the thread and rubbing your hands with a towel. Jason makes a mental note to buy you new ones as he watches the white fabric blooming red as you try to scrub the blood off your hands.

But your skin doesn't come clean. There are places where the blood - his blood has dried around your fingers and you rub the towel on your palms until he reaches out, worried. Then, and only then, does it hit Jason, and he's not sure if it's blood loss or fear and guilt that makes him feel lightheaded.

It's his blood on your hands. And they're not coming clean.

He takes the towel from you gently, tossing it onto the other end of the couch before he grips your hands in his own. He's not sure who's trembling more between the two of you. He's not sure who's more blood-soaked.

"I saw it on the news," you say quietly as you rub your thumb over the knuckles of Jason's hand. "They said - they said you were dead." Your breath hitches. Jason huffs, tightening his hold on your hands.

"Those reporters don't know what the fuck they're talking about most of the time - you know that, baby. They always get it wrong." He soothes, his voice low as he looks down at you. He's still sitting on the couch while you kneel before him, like an altar of violence that you pray to.

"I know, Jason. I just -" You take a deep, shuttering breath.

"What, baby?"

"I thought I'd lost you… again. I just - I couldn't take it. I couldn't bear it." You laugh, then - a humourless, hysterical sort of thing. "All this time you've spent trying to protect me and you're the thing that ended up hurting me the most and… no, I - Jason, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I was just scared."

But Jason's already lurched away from you, letting go of your hands as if you've burned him and pulling back in a way that stretches his stitches and makes him wince. You, on the floor in front of him, made the infamous Redhood flinch, made him recoil in fear and self-hatred and pain.

"I didn't mean that, Jason," you say again, a firmness in your voice as you surge up onto your knees. Your hands aren't trembling now, he notices distantly, as you lean forward to take his face in your palms and press your forehead against his.

"I hurt you," he says numbly.

"No," you respond instantly. "Life hurt me… life hurt us both. That's not your fault. It's never been your fault."

Jason sighs wearily, letting his head fall forward so that his forehead is resting on your shoulder as his eyes slip closed. There's a dull, throbbing pain in his head and his side aches and he's choking on too much hatred to stop you when you press kisses to his palms and his knuckles and the side of his head that you can reach.

There is too much weariness in him to stop you from loving him.

"Let's… go to bed," you say quietly, feeling the way he slumps against you as the fatigue begins to take its toll on him. "Come on," you coax. He lets you stand, takes your outstretched hand willingly as you guide him to bed. He lets himself sit on the edge of the mattress heavily, slouched over himself as you sit in front of him, a damp towel in your hands.

Jason thinks of the irony of it all as he watches you take his hands in yours, wiping the blood from them that you left on him. Granted, it's still his blood, but you're the one who made a mess of it. He thinks of that as you finish cleaning him up, listens to the sounds of you scrubbing your own hands in the bathroom sink as he falls sideways into bed, haphazardly tugging the covers up around him.

When you finally slip into bed next to him, reaching out so that you can cling to him like a lifeline, he wonders if maybe the blood on his hands isn't such a big deal, after all. Maybe it's the blood loss talking, maybe it's the post-fight dizziness muddling his judgement. Or maybe there is something to be said for the two of you cleaning the blood off each other's hands… again and again and again.

#smsn.writes #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd oneshot #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood fluff #red hood fic #red hood fanfiction #red hood imagine #red hood x you #red hood x y/n

236 notes · View notes

thedeviltohisangel · 7 months ago

Text

For A Fortnight There We Were (One Shot): It Fit Too Right

a/n: welcome to my all the things i did metaverse. please meet evelyn, a hollywood a-lister who falls in love with her co-star callum turner while filming masters of the air. this will most likely be a request based series so send them all in! would also love to flush out this relationship more with you guys through asks and chats. let me know what you think!!

He stood in the doorway of their hotel suite with a smile as he watched one person tug the corset of her gown tighter, another brush powder across her cheeks and a third place her hair over her shoulder in a meticulous manner.

“I promise we’re almost done, baby.”

“Don’t rush perfection on my account,” he said with a smile as he took a few steps into the room. “Let me help, love.” Callum grabbed the pair of heels from her stylist and dropped to one knee, Evelyn steadying herself on his shoulder as he slipped on one shoe and then the other. He kissed up her leg for good measure as she giggled, standing with a matching smile as she pulled him in for a kiss.

“People might get the wrong idea. You being on one knee like that.” In reality, he was just waiting for her to say she was ready and he’d be on one knee with a ring in hand in an instant.

“The right idea you mean.” Evelyn blushed as her team began to filter out of the room. There was always a moment before every event that the two of them wanted time to themselves. They had gotten used to picking up the tempo for when it was arriving. “One day,” he followed up with a whisper.

“One day. Soon.” He felt something blossom in his chest at her words. “Help me with my necklace?” The gold chain held a dainty C charm and fit perfectly snug around her neck as he clasped it securely.

“Gave you this necklace almost two years ago. So much has changed since then.” Yet so much had also stayed the same. They were still in each other’s orbit, circling the sun together and happy to live in this pattern for the rest of eternity.

“And we finally get to show the world our love story.” Callum wrapped his arms around her from behind and they swayed gently to the song playing in his head. “Tracy told me there’s already stories lined up about the timeline of it all. About the overlap of still being legally married and filming the show and meeting you.” Her publicist warned her as soon as the premiere was scheduled that all the questions were going to get dragged up again. The accusations and the whispers of infidelity.

“I know the truth and you know the truth, Ev. That’s all that fucking matters.” The truth was that her marriage was a disaster the entire last year. The fights about his job and her job and fertility issues and the occasional bump of coke all mixing into a toxic sludge she was still working her way through years later.

“You’ll punch anyone who asks on the carpet or on the press tour?” She looked at him over her shoulder.

“With a smile on my face,” Callum answered with a pucker of his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Begrudgingly, she untangled herself from his arms and interlocked their fingers together in its place. He squeezed tight as they took the elevator down to the lobby with their security, her other hand wrapping around his wrist for two anchor points at the sight of the paparazzi waiting for them on the sidewalk.

“Evelyn! Callum! Look to the left!

“To the right, guys, come on a little smile please!”

“Callum, how about a kiss?”

His hand landed on the small of her back as he helped her into the waiting SUV before sliding in next to her. Evelyn collapsed as the door shut. “Fucking brutal,” she muttered.

“I’m hoping they get what they want at the carpet and they can leave us alone when we get back tonight.” He reached for her hand and held it in his lap. “What are my lanes in the road for touching you tonight?”

“Are you feeling particularly handsy tonight, Mr. Turner?” she asked with a smirk as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed across each knuckle.

“That dress is an inspiration.” She leaned in with a giggle and kissed him square on the mouth.

“Then make sure everyone there tonight knows that.” His eyebrows raised on their own accord.

“Yeah? You mean that?” Normally, she was much more reserved. Making him settle for longing stares and soft, hidden smiles and subtle allusions to each other. She hid from all the attention and let her work speak for itself.

“Maybe…maybe the part of me that always wants to hide should work on healing herself tonight.” It also had been a piece of homework from her therapist this week.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, we’ll work on it tonight. Together.”

“Together,” she reiterated as he kissed her hand again and then her lips.

“You make me so happy. No matter what.”

“You make me happiest,” she laughed as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and left a few kisses there. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

----

The ride was over all too quickly, the SUV idling at the start of the carpet and the sounds of muffled screaming and yelling reaching their ears instantly. Ever since their relationship had been made public, there had been attention on them like neither had ever experienced.

She had been called a cheater, he had been called a social climber. Accusations of adultery and a months-long affair behind her husband’s back and questions on how valid Callum’s feelings could be as a less well-known star than her. Hell, Howard Stern had straight up asked her on his radio show how it felt to have power over the person she was in a relationship with when she had been so powerless previously. Callum certainly hadn’t taken kindly to the implication.

Quarantine had been the perfect bubble for their love to take root and flourish. Had insulated them from the outside world as long as possible and allowed her walls to come down. They were built up so high after her failed marriage. Reinforced as her mind worked through the mental fuckery of falling in love with your co-star. Evelyn hadn’t known where she began and the character ended for the longest time but she knew in her heart she wanted to figure it out with him.

The roar reached a fever pitch as Callum stepped out of the car, buttoned his jacket and waved to a group of fans on the side. He waited for her, watched her take a deep breath and square her shoulders before she took his outstretched hand and stepped out of the vehicle.

Her movie star smiled flitted across her face easily as their fingers interlocked and her own hand raised in a wave before letting her boyfriend slot his lips against hers to the delight of the camera flashes.

“Let’s do a couple autographs before interviews.” Her publicist gently pressed on the small of her back to guide in the direction of glossy photographs and posters and an endless sea of markers.

Evelyn smiled warmly as she let go of his hand and began to scrawl her name across various posters of her in Targaryen garb or an old military uniform or the occasional photo she had taken with a fan previously that they were now adding her penmanship to.

“Can I get a selfie?”

“Yeah of course!” She smiled with as many fans as she could and let them take a few photos to choose from before she was getting the signal it was time to keep it moving. “Thanks for coming!” Evelyn blew a few kisses to the crowd before Callum had her hand right back in his for the ensuing carpet walk.

“Ev, you want to go first?” Tracy asked as she was beginning to urge her to the first photomark. She hit the X and did her best to look at the cameras like she wanted to fuck them. Those were normally the only shots that kept their hunger sated and kept from yelling too explicitly at her the rest of the night.

She looked over her shoulder and watched Callum smile and show off his suit like it was second nature and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t excited to look at the photos later to see just how in love she was in this moment. He took her extended hand with a mischievous smile, falling in love all over again with this side of her that he knew well but she kept hidden from the outside world.

“Let me get the two of you looking to the right!”

“Put your hands on her, mate!” “Look right at the camera with a smile, Evelyn!”

Callum furrowed his brow and wrapped his arm around her waist a little tighter as they kept fighting for a piece of them. They had both worked so hard to keep this one corner of their lives sacred and private but they couldn’t stay that way forever. Especially when they were trying to promote the show that brought them together in the first place.

“You good?” he asked, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Hold my hand the rest of the carpet?”

“Of course, love.” Their eyes stayed locked together as he kissed the back of her hand and they made their way towards the first interviewer.

“It’s so good to see you guys again!”

“It’s good to see you too! It’s been a minute,” Evelyn replied.

“Last time I saw you, Callum, you were with George Clooney which is a hard interview companion to top-”

“Oh, I’ve done it. This one’s my companion for life.” She couldn’t help but blush at his forwardness. “This show brought so many beautiful people to my life and introduced me to this incredible story of these men and the sacrifices they made for us but I’ll never be able to articulate what meeting this woman and falling in love with her has done for me and the honor that has truly been.”

“This is why my team is always trying to keep us separate in front of a microphone because we always get a little in our feels about each other.” Evelyn rested her cheek against his chest.

“Tell me about that. You guys film this show and feel some vibes and then the premiere gets delayed for two years. Does this add to the nervousness or does it add to the excitement?”

“Definitely both,” Evelyn teases, “the characters are real people, real heroes, so there is such a desire to make sure the story is told in the most accurate, thankful way. Part of making sure that happened was fully devoting ourselves to the relationship between these two and to discover something real in the process was a really happy accident.” Her hand rested on his cheek and he kissed her palm, looking at her like she was the only girl in the entire world. For him she was.

“We had the opportunity to meet their children and grandchildren which was such a blessing because on paper I was skeptical, it seemed written for the movies, but they had letters and pictures and stories that really showed these two loved each other in a magical way their entire lives.”

“And what’s next for you two? I hear rumors we may see you, Ms. Shaw, in a movie about sand and worms…” Evelyn laughed.

“I hear Austin Butler loves worms so you should ask him. I know nothing about a movie with those themes.” She mimed sealing her lips and throwing away the key. The interviewer looked to Callum for help.

“Hey, I know even less than you do. This one’s a steel trap.”

“Alright, I’m getting the signal that the most in demand people on this carpet tonight are needing to move along. Have the best night ever you two!” They both offered their thanks before a team of security and assistants collapsed ranks around them as they moved down the carpet.

“How’d we do, Trace?” Callum asked as he swung their interlocked hands back and forth.

“You were on your best behavior. Thank you.” Evelyn was a typical client for a publicist. Did good work and got high profile projects, never caused controversy in an interview but had some skeletons in her closet. Evelyn always did exactly as she asked and took her advice as gospel. Her boyfriend on the other hand was all boisterous and laughed and sang and had not a care in the world. He wanted to hold her and kiss and let the whole world know he was in love with her and scream it from the rooftops.

“I see Mr. Butler!” Evelyn pointed directly ahead to the tall blonde man taking photos with Barry. “Oh, and Barry! I haven’t seen him recently enough to ask about bathwater.”

“Look who it is! My first and second wheel!” Austin lifted her up and spun her around before greeting Callum. “You two walking together?” While he was very familiar with their PDA behind closed doors, it was rare to see it out in the open.

“This is as close to her accepting a proposal as I’m gonna get, mate.” Ev rolled her eyes and turned to get in between them for the row of photographers currently screaming at them. She is safe in between the two of them. Had needed every ounce of it when she had arrived on set all those years ago.

She knew Callum had a ring tucked away somewhere safe. Knew he was dying with every passing day to make things between them official forever. She meant soon when she had said it earlier.

Evelyn looked up at him as the camera continued to blind her and she tuned them out. She smiled and he smiled right back. “I love you,” he whispered so it existed just between the two of them.

“I love you, too. So much.”

Yes. Soon indeed.

#callum turner #callum turner fanfiction #callum turner fanfic #callum turner fic #callum turner x oc #callum turner x reader #evelyn

226 notes · View notes

lostsyren · 1 month ago

Note

Love love LOVED what you did with the request of Sofia overhearing Rafe, could we get a part two of a groveling really desperate Rafe who does everything in his power to show her how much she means to him and begging for it not to be over

⊹₊ ✰ ⋆standards part two ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

{a/n: thank you for the request lovely and thank you for the sweet words about part 1! i hope you like it! I’m getting through the requests slowly but surely, bear with me!! feedback is much appreciated <3}

{summary: rafe goes and tries to make things right after finding out sofia overheard what he said at the club}

{part 1 here}

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Sofia wasn’t answering any of his calls. Rafe paced back and forth across the cold floors of his house, biting at his thumb. His phone screen was in the other hand, the harsh blue light shining up at him saying the same damn thing: no new notifications.

He half expected her to come back to the house– that’s what she usually did. Then the words he said to Topper and Ruthie regurgitated in his brain yet again.

I’m not living with a pogue.

He’d really fucked things up this time.

Rafe knew she wasn’t at the club– she didn’t work on Saturdays. Than must’ve meant she was at home.

Despite knowing she didn’t want to see him, talk to him or even just reply to a text, Rafe grabbed his car keys and exited the house, the sound of the door slamming shut behind him echoing across the the empty, lonesome halls.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

“Me voy a dormir,” Sofia called out to her mom, heading outside to go into her bedroom. It was late, nearing midnight. All her siblings were asleep and her parents were in the living room watching TV.

Usually she’d be with Rafe. She was always with Rafe. Like a stupid little lapdog. The realisation hit like a punch in the face– all that time…it was nothing to him. Her heart began to feel heavy again, like an anchor was dragging it down far, far into her chest. So she sat down in bed, sighing deeply. Enough tears had been shed, her eyes red and bloodshot.

Her parents had looked at her as if they already knew what happened. Sofia’s mom bundled her up into a hug, pressing a kiss on her cheek, whilst her father had a knowing look in his eye– as if he’d been waiting for this to happen.

Sofia wasn’t stupid. She didn’t start messing around with Rafe with the prospect of a future. He was the one who led her on, he was the one who’d been so loving, he was the one who convinced her he was different.

But at the end of the day he was a kook and she was a pogue. Not that she cared; she thought he didn’t either.

Sofia sniffed away another bout of tears, slipping out of her blouse and skirt, realising she’d left her pyjamas as his house. So she grabbed a random shirt from off her chair, about to throw it on, before she realised it was his shirt– that she’d accidentally taken home with her ages ago and didn’t return. Sofia’s heart lurched with sadness, as she wore it regardless, the faint smell of him making her delirious with despair.

Collapsing back in bed, she picked her phone up, skimming through the wave of messages Rafe had sent. Sofia quickly swiped them away.

Instead she squeezed her eyes shut, willing for sleep to find her. Maybe then she could forget how much he hurt her and deal with all this shit tomorrow.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Rafe had a rough idea of where Sofia lived, from dropping her off home and picking her up to drive her to work. But he still checked her location to find the right house.

He hated driving down to The Cut, with its dingy buildings and barely functioning street lights. Whenever he used to go down to see Barry, he felt the same, and now he was back again, in the thick of the night, sneaking into her house.

He parked his car down the street, so her parents wouldn’t hear the engine or see the headlights, before he snuck around past the gate and into the back garden.

Creaking cicadas and distant wails of car alarms hid the sound of his footsteps crunching across the gravel.

Rafe spotted her bedroom. Well if you could call it that– a tiny corner of the house, with peeling paint and overgrown weeds surrounding it.

There was no light spilling out the window. What if she wasn’t there? Getting closer to the glass, Rafe peered through, spotting Sofia lying in bed, her back turned to him. He let out a sigh of relief before the realisation of how creepy this was dawned upon him.

What the fuck was he doing?

He had time to turn back and go home. Respecting her wishes was the least he could do after all the shit he said. But she was right there.

He could explain. Apologise. Make things okay again. The prospect of redemption was too tempting– so he tapped on the glass.

Rafe watched as she turned around in bed, facing the door. She probably couldn’t see who it was in the dark, so Rafe decided to just let himself in.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Sleep was futile, bringing only a gaping void in which she picked and prodded at her and Rafe’s ‘relationship’.

Sofia thought about when she first met him working at the bar. She was quickly enamoured by his beauty, her silent adoration only spiking when he spoke to her, his charm and humour winning her over in an instant.

He never seem perturbed by her status as a pogue. But she should’ve known from the little throwaway comments and his strange disdain for the Cut. But Sofia would brush these things away because despite it all, he’d still treat her wondrously.

She initially thought it was just sex, Rafe using her as a carnal distraction. But when he’d let her see his vulnerability, when he’d confide to her in the late hours, when he’d cling to her as if she was the only solid thing in his life, she felt special, she felt adored. So in turn, she adored him back.

A sharp tapping sound cut through her whorling thoughts and painful reminiscing. Twisting around in bed, she saw a tall, dark figure hover outside her door. What was her dad doing at this time of night?

Sofia sat up as the door creaked open, for her to see it wasn’t her dad– but Rafe Cameron.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sofia half shouted, half whispered, aware that her parents were a room away.

Rafe stood in the doorway, his hands held up in surrender as he watched her with unblinking eyes.

“I just want to talk ok?” His words were wary and calculated.

“Come in and shut the door,” she hissed switching her lamp on.

Rafe complied, hovering awkwardly as he took in her bedroom. Discomfort prickled across Sofia’s skin. She hated to admit it, but she was embarrassed that Rafe had to see her tiny room.

“Nice shirt,” he finally said, a shadow of a grin on his face.

“Shut up,” she groused, grabbing a cardigan to cover herself and her bare legs.

“Look, Sofia I really am sorry that I hurt you–“

“You’re sorry that you hurt me or you’re sorry for what you said?”

Rafe blinked in confusion, “both?”

Sofia scoffed, wrapping her arms around herself, “what standards do I fail to live up to huh? Is it my job? Is it my house? Can you even stand to be in the Cut for this long?”

“I didn’t even know what I was saying– it was Ruthie, you know how she is, always stirring.”

“Yes I know Ruthie, I have to put up with her whenever we hang out, cause that’s all we ever do– hang out with your friends.”

“I’m sorry–“

“I’m not finished,” Sofia snapped, “and I don’t care what she says or what she does, I care about you Rafe, and instead of defending me, you just threw me under the bus.”

“I know I know, I just– I wanna make it better. Tell me what I can do to make it better.” Rafe had neared her now, his eyes resembling the ocean at night, churning and ink like, as he looked down at her.

Sofia honestly didn’t know. One part of her wanted to say fuck it and just kiss him and make it all better again, whilst the other part compelled her to make him feel as terrible as he made her feel.

“I need some space.” She said in the end, taking a step back from him.

“No,” Rafe took a step forward, “no you don’t. Let me make it better, let me show you how much I care.”

He placed two hands on either side of her as Sofia stumbled back, nearly toppling into her bed.

She motionlessly watched him, as he got lower and lower, his eyes perpetually locked with her own.

He was on his knees, his hands sliding down her body, his fingers slipping under the cardigan to ghost the skin of her thighs.

“You look so good in my shirt,” he murmured, voice low and gruff. Sofia’s stomach somersaulted at the image of Rafe on his knees in front of her, so torturously close.

“Rafe,” she began warily, unsure what to do. He took that as a sign to continue. Rafe’s grip on her thighs tightened, dragging her closer to him. He dipped his head low, to press a chaste kiss on her hot skin.

“Please Sofia,” he whispered against her, his grip on her desperate and painful.

Her brain was cloudy, a millions thoughts swirling about in a dizzying cyclone. She was on the precipice of surrender, about to just let him have her, ready to put the shit he said in the past, when her dad’s voice called out from outside.

“Sofia why’s your light on? ¿Está todo bien?”

“Shit,” she gasped, stepping away from Rafe’s lips on her thighs, using her hands to push off his fingers from her legs.

“Sí, I’m ok!” She called out. But the sound of her dad’s footsteps on the porch indicated he was coming in.

Rafe whipped his head around, still on his knees, looking up at Sofia with a panic stricken expression.

“Get up! Hide in there,” she instructed, shoving him into her closet, his long and sprawling limbs barely fitting.

Not even a moment later, the sound of her dad knocking on the door cut through her and Rafe’s little moment.

Creaking open the door, her dad half entered the room.

“Hey dad,” she said trying to level her palpitating heartbeat.

“I thought you were asleep?”

“Yeah I tried but I couldn’t.”

“Oh ok.” He eyed the room, Sofia’s heart beating rapidly when his gaze hovered over the closet.

“You alright Sofia?” Her dad asked her.

“Yeah I’m fine.” Her smile felt strained and unnatural.

Her dad looked at her with a profundity that pierced through her, as if she was under a magnifying glass. “You’re worth more than all those pendejos at the club, don’t you forget that.”

Though he didn’t mention Rafe explicitly, she knew who he was talking about.

“I won’t dad.”

“Good. Now get some sleep ok? It’s late,” He said, leaving with a small smile.

Sofia let her shoulders drop once the door was closed, sighing deeply.

Rafe clambered out the closet a second after.

“You should go Rafe.” Sofia said, taking a seat on the edge of her bed.

“What? But I thought you– I thought we–“

“I changed my mind.”

She could tell he wanted to say something, from the way his his jaw strained and his eyes hardened. But instead, he simply just nodded. Perhaps he figured out what her dad was talking about…she was worth more than that.

If Rafe had standards, well then, so did she.

“Ok I’ll head out then,” his tone was defeated, pathetic. It almost made her want to backtrack. But she didn’t.

Rafe was about to leave, loitering by the door, his back to her before he turned to face her one more time, “I’ll wait for you, yeah?”

Sofia just nodded, not knowing what he meant.

“My door is always open for you, come back soon.”

And with that he left, leaving Sofia with the memory of his lips on her thighs, and his apology lingering like mist after a storm.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

#outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe and sofia #sofia outer banks #sofia obx #rafe x sofia #drew starkey #fiona palomo #rafe cameron thoughts #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe and Sofia fanfiction #rafe and Sofia fic #rafe x Sofia fanfiction #outer banks season 4 #obx 4 #༊*·˚syren

72 notes · View notes

ninjatrashpanda · 2 months ago

Text

I'm Falling Apart (You Hold Me Together)

Written for @bucktommypositivityweek Round 2. Today's prompt is "Supportive Boyfriends!"

Read on AO3 here!

“Babe?”

Tommy blinked at his phone. He was aware of Evan’s voice, but it sounded dull to his ears, as if he was underwater. The screen had gone dark by now, but his mother’s words still ran through his mind, making his chest feel tight, as if he was wearing a corset that was two numbers too small.

“Tommy,” Evan’s voice rang up again, clearer now, definitely closer, but still muffled. Tommy could hear his blood rushing through his ears, sounding like a waterfall crashing down into the depths. A sharp pain started in his chest, almost as if he’d been stabbed right through the heart, and spread out into every inch of his body, from the tips of his toes to the top of his temples.

“Tommy, please talk to me.”

Why did this-? He hadn’t even-! He shouldn’t-!

“Tommy!”

Tommy’s head snapped over to look at Evan, who had knelt down next to him. Blinking, Tommy looked around himself. He hadn’t realized that he had dropped down to the floor, where he sat hugging his legs, the cold, hard wall of his living room at his back. His breath hitched as he took in his surroundings, but his vision blurred, turning everything around him into a bizarre mosaic. The soft hum of the refrigerator from the next room over, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, everything felt too loud, too close. He tried to focus on Evan’s face, but that proved difficult when it seemed to melt away a bit more every time Tommy blinked.

Tommy could feel Evan’s hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing it. He could feel the weight of that touch, solid and real, but it did nothing to anchor him. He was falling, deeper and faster, only waiting to finally hit the ground and shatter. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy like sandpaper.

"Tommy, what happened?" Evan’s voice started to cut through the fog in his head, slowly clearing it away, bit by bit. "You're scaring me."

Tommy tried to speak, but his mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He swallowed again, forcing himself to breathe slowly, methodically, like he’d learned to do whenever his anxiety threatened to swallow him whole. One breath in. Hold. One breath out. But it wasn’t working this time. The panic clung to him, refusing to let go.

“I… It’s…” he managed to choke out before a strangled sob broke through out of his throat, making his entire body shake. His eyes practically erupted in tears Tommy didn’t understand, but couldn’t hold back either. “My Dad. My Dad died.”

Evan’s face immediately shifted, his expression falling. Without hesitation, he pulled Tommy into a tight embrace, holding him as if Tommy would actually fall apart if he didn’t. Tommy’s sobs grew louder, raw and ragged, and he turned to bury his face in Evan’s shoulder. His body trembled violently, each shudder sending a fresh wave of pain he couldn’t make sense of through him.

“I haven’t talked to him in…in ten years,” he managed to grit out through his teeth. “He was awful! I hate him! Why am I…?”

Evan held Tommy even tighter, his grip firm but gentle, almost as if he was holding a baby. He stroked Tommy’s back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring soft words that Tommy couldn’t quite catch, but it didn’t really matter. Just knowing that Evan was here, that he was with him, made Tommy’s heart lighter, even with his everything being turmoil.

His thoughts were a whirlwind, a tangled mess of resentment, past wounds opening up again, and a strange sense of grief that Tommy didn’t want to feel. His father’s face flashed in his mind, sharp and clear, then faded into the vague, blurry images of his youth he’d thought he had worked past, but apparently hadn’t. Harsh words and cold stares pushed themselves into his head, while his skin started to ache from the punches and belt strikes he’d received decades ago. Tommy had spoken to his therapist about all of it countless times, had untangled the whole mess as best as he could. He had been under the impression that his father didn’t have any power over him anymore. But now, all of it came rushing back, Dad was just as powerful as he’d always been, and Tommy felt like he was ten years old again.

Evan’s voice broke through the cacophony, soft but insistent. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay to feel this way. Even if he hurt you. Even if you think you shouldn’t care. He was still your father, and it’s okay.”

Tommy knew that Evan was right, but he didn’t want to hear it. He hated his father. He had vowed years ago to never talk, never think about him again. He shouldn’t care that the son of a bitch was dead. But he couldn’t deny the small, painful ache that was rocking his body to the core.

“I hate him,” Tommy whispered again, his voice cracking slightly. “I hate him so much, Evan. He never…he never apologized, never cared, never said he regrets what he did. I should be happy he’s finally gone; I don’t want to cry for him.”

Evan pulled back slightly, just enough to look Tommy in the eyes. His gaze was steady, understanding in a way Tommy still wasn’t really used to. “You’re crying because it hurts,” Evan said softly. “And it’s okay to hurt, even for someone who doesn’t deserve it. It’s okay to grieve the things you never got to have with him. It’s okay to still love him, no matter how little sense it might make. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And it's okay.”

Tommy nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he fully understood or even believed Evan’s words. But there was something in Evan’s eyes, a silent promise to never leave him alone, that made Tommy feel just a little less lost. He let out a shaky breath, trying to mimic the steady rhythm of Evan’s breathing, trying to calm down whatever storm was raging inside his chest.

“I just… I thought I was done with him,” Tommy admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I moved on, you know? But now it’s like… everything’s back. All the shit he said, all the times he hit me. Fucking asshole let me join the military when I was seventeen, what fucking parent does that?! And now he’s gone, and I never got to ask him ‘Why?’”

Evan’s expression softened even more, and he let out a gentle hum, one of his hands wandering up to card his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “That’s the hardest part,” he said quietly. “Not getting the closure you need. Not getting the answers. And maybe… maybe you never will. But you don’t have to do this alone, Tommy. You’ve got me, and we’ll get through this together.”

Tommy nodded again, his grip on Evan tightening. The tears kept coming, but they weren’t a rousing waterfall anymore. He didn’t know how to make peace with his father’s death, didn’t know how to reconcile the decades-long hatred and hurt with the explosion of grief in his chest. But as he sat there, cocooned in Evan’s embrace, he allowed himself to just feel it all, every messy, conflicting emotion.

For a while, they stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, letting the silence fill the space between them. Evan’s hand never stopped its soothing motion through Tommy’s hair, a gentle reminder that he was here, and that he would never leave. Eventually, Tommy’s sobs subsided into soft, uneven breaths, and he pulled back slightly, wiping at his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” Tommy mumbled, his voice hoarse from crying. “I didn’t mean to…to fall apart like that.”

Evan shook his head, a small, reassuring smile on his lips. “You don’t have to apologize, not to me. You can fall apart all you need to. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy’s chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from the pain. He didn’t deserve Evan. Evan was so unapologetically kind, and gentle, and good, and with everything Tommy had done in the past…Evan could do better. But he had chosen Tommy, something that Tommy had vowed to never take for granted.

“Thank you,” Tommy whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Evan squeezed back, his thumb gently rubbing over Tommy’s knuckles. “You’ll never have to find out,” he said softly. “We’ll figure this out together, one step at a time.”

Tommy nodded, a small, fragile smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, a tiny spark of hope in the midst of the overwhelming darkness. And as he sat there, holding onto Evan’s hand like a lifeline, Tommy allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe, somehow, he’d be okay.

#911 abc #bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy fanfic #bucktommypositivityweek #fanfic #cw past abuse #cw child abuse #cw grief #cw grieving #cw death #but it's off screen #i'm putting tommy through the wringer here #but he has his evan to make it easier

41 notes · View notes

longwuzhere · 1 year ago

Text

Here are some cool Easter eggs that I found the newest My Adventures with Superman episode, “Let’s Go to Ivo Tower, You Say”. Links to the easter eggs post:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 1 post is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 2 post is here

My Easter eggs and references for My Adventures with Superman comic issue 3 post is here

SPOILERS if you have not seen the episode of course:

Perry assigns our intern trio to go get interviews about Anthony Ivo. I previously mentioned Ivo's deal in the comics in this post, but we'll talk more about this version of Ivo later.

Shout out to Lois' hanbok! As a kid in the 90s my first exposure to the DC was through the DC Animated Universe. Because of the way some of the characters like Lois, Clark, Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Terry, were designed, as a kid, I thought they were Asian. Very cool to see this version of Lois be Korean.

Before Lois shows up for their black tie event at Ivo Tower, Jimmy knocks down a stack of papers and magazine and Clark goes to pick it up and stumbles upon the Metropolis Star with a cover that shows him as a kid flying 15 years ago.

The Metropolis star is a rival newspaper to the Daily Planet in the comics. The publisher makes its first appearance in Superman #9 (1987) (W&P: John Byrne, I: Karl Kesel, C: Tony Ziuko, L: John Costanza).

When our intern trio makes it to Ivo Tower, Lois spots some very interesting powerful and political figures of Metropolis, the CEO of Galaxy Communications and Mayor Fleming.

Galaxy Communications makes its first appearance in Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen #133 (1970) where it was headed by Morgan Edge, the then leader of Intergang. In the comics Clark and Lois does work for Galaxy communications thanks to it buying out the Daily Planet forcing Clark to be the evening news anchor. The Galaxy Communications panels here are from Swamp Thing #68 (1988) (W&P: Rick Veitch, I: Alfredo Alcala, C: Tajana Wood, L: John Costanza).

Mayor Fleming makes her first appearance in Action Comics #894 (2010) (W: Nick Spencer, P: R.B. Silva, I: Denis Freitas, C: Dave McCaig, L: Rob Leigh) where she appoints Jimmy Olsen and Sebastien Mallory as a welcoming committee for Dalwythians aliens. Like her MAwS counterpart she is obviously the Mayor of Metropolis.

Later, Lois goes and questions Senator Sackett at the party/event.

In the comics Sackett was a councilman not a senator who makes his first appearance in Superman #130 (1997) (W: Dan Jurgens, P: Norm Breyfogle, I: Joe Rubenstein, C: Glenn Whitmore and Digital Chameleon, L: John Costanza) depicted here in the issue's panel wearing a Superman costume. Sackett in the comics is in Luthor's pocket.

I am like 99.99% sure this is Lex Luthor like who else in Metropolis is named Alex, has red hair (if this is Lex Luthor and he shows up again, I'll talk about him and what I mean by this in another post.), and works in the science and tech field.

We finally meet Ivo and he is as I was hoping he'd be a major techbro tool. The way he acts in his introduction and his meeting with Clark is very much like Lex and Clark's meeting in Batman v Superman. Both Ivo and Lex upon meeting Clark know how strong he is. In MAwS Ivo punches his chest and it hurts him and in BvS you heard an audible thud when Lex knocks on Clark's chest. Very similar vibes between both scenes.

Clark confronts Ivo about one of his deals and name drops one of Metropolis' mob families.

Bobby Gazzo, head of the Gazzo crime family in Metropolis, makes his first appearance in Batman: Dark Victory #1 (W: Jeph Loeb, P&I: Tim Sale, C: Gregory Wright and Heroic Age, L: Richard Starkings). Fantastic sequel to Long Halloween, highly recommend reading both books.

After Clark gets thrown out and Lois offers to repair his jacket, we see Lois mentioning her dad, Sam Lane a military general and if the person at the end of the second part of the first episode is Sam Lane...

...and he shows up again in the show I'll talk more about it in another post. For now this is all just speculation.

Might be reading into this but maybe a subtle nod to how the words "Superman" and "pal" are often used together. Both have been used as a comic book title, "Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen" as I've mentioned in these posts a few times.

The show here did a very clever thing with Ivo. Normally any other media pertaining to Ivo would give the audience his power and weakness stealing robot Amazo, but here the MAwS team was able to combine both Ivo and another villain in Superman's rogues gallery, Parasite.

The first Parasite, Raymond Jensen, makes his first appearance in Action Comics #340 (1966) (Cover Art by Curt Swan, George Klein, and Ira Schnapp). All iterations of Parasite have the ability to temporarily steal away anyone's energy, strength, and their knowledge. As I've said there have been other Parasites that Superman fought, the second and most recurring Parasite is Rudy Jones, the Parasite I'm more familiar with, who makes his first appearance in Firestorm #58 (1987).

Cover Art by Joe Brozowski, Bruce Peterson, and Tom Ziuko Alex and Alexandra Allston the third and fourth Parasite (green Parasite and purple Parasite respectively) first appeared in the Adventures of Superman #633 (2004).

Cover art by Gene Ha and Art Lyon

The latest Parasite, Joshua Allen, makes his first appearance in Superman #23.4 (2013).

Cover art by Aaron Kuder and Dan Brown So yeah there are similarities between the Amazo robot and Parasite and it was smart of the MAwS team to just combine Ivo with Parasite to avoid redundancies. Besides the Amazo robot is more of a Justice League villain anyways.

Near the end of the episode, after the Parasite suit wrecks Ivo's body, he begins to look more like his recent iterations in the comics now. The panel here is from Justice League of America #4 (2013) (W: Geoff Johns, P: Brett Booth, I: Norm Rapmund, C: Andrew Dalhouse, L: Rob Leigh). Hope you all had a wonderful time checking this post out. Like I said at the beginning my other MAwS easter egg posts are:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 1 post is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 2 post is here

My Easter eggs and references for My Adventures with Superman comic issue 3 post is here

338 notes · View notes

reasonsweweresinging · 18 days ago

Text

Dean couldn't believe he was doing this. But it was impossible to resist his kid when his kid was crying, and Chase had been crying for twenty minutes. Chase’s favorite doll, an alien-bird-human hybrid thing drawn up by some kid in another country and created by IKEA that Chase had lost his mind over at the store, was desperately ill according to him and Dean didn't have the credentials to fix it.

"We have to see Dr. Cas!" Chase cried, beseeching his father to help him get whatever was wrong with Wallace fixed. Dean had no idea where the name Wallace came from, but Chase was insistent that was the damn thing's name.

It was almost 9 pm on a Sunday night and Dean doubted his pediatrician neighbor two doors down needed an unexpected visit to cure a...Wallace. "Bud, maybe Dr. Cas can't even help fix Wallace. He's not fully human."

"Dr. Cas sweared to me he could fix anything! I know he can fix Wallace, we have to go see him!" Chase’s big hazel eyes, courtesy of his mother and still somehow so similar to Dean's brother, swam with tears that rolled down his cheeks in fat drops. "Please, Dad!"

Dean couldn't resist. He couldn't deny his son. Maybe because he was a pediatrician, Dr. Cas would at least be patient enough to turn them away kindly. His neighbor hating him was a risk Dean was willing to take for his son. So Dean helped Chase bundle Wallace in a blanket, got both he and Chase into their coats, and walked them to Dr. Cas's door two houses over. The front porch light was still on, and through the rectangular frosted glass panel alongside the door, Dean could see other lights were on in the home. Maybe it wasn't too late. While Chase hugged Wallace tightly to his chest, Dean rang the doorbell and hoped once more his neighbor wouldn’t be a jerk for being disturbed so late.

The lights blurring together behind the glass panel brightened, as if a light near the door turned on. A moment later, the locks on the door turned and Dean took a deep breath. But it was punched out of him the minute Dr. Cas appeared in the doorway. Dean had only caught glimpses of the man in the few months since he'd moved in, but never seen him fully and up close. Chase had talked to him when his mother was dropping him off one evening, as Dr. Cas was returning from a run. Seeing Dr. Cas now, Dean was certain it was because his ex-wife was trying to stop Dr. Cas to hit on him. Dean could not blame her. The dark, wild hair, the bright blue eyes, the full, soft pink lips set against warm skin and dark stubble. He was gorgeous. He was damn near perfect. And he was saying something and Dean was just staring at him.

Dean snapped out of it, just in time to hear the tail end of Dr. Cas asking his son what was wrong in a voice that was too gentle to be so deep and worn. Was Dr. Cas even real?

"Wallace is sick!" Chase cried, shoving the doll in the face of Dr. Cas. "You can fix him, right?"

Dr. Cas looked at the doll, understandably perplexed, then set those incredible blue eyes on Dean. He started to say something but stopped short, staring back at Dean for a long, unnerving moment. Dean felt himself getting lost in those eyes, but Chase crying again beside him kept him anchored to the moment. He cleared his throat, which snapped Dr. Cas back into the present as well.

"Sorry, Doc," Dean started, "Chase insisted we come see you so you could help cure Wallace." He gave Dr. Cas a small, apologetic smile, ready for Dr. Cas to turn them away with some excuse; it was late and he had any number of things to do, he had a family to tend to, he didn't have whatever tools he needed to help Wallace and they could try again later. Something like that.

Instead, Dr. Cas gave a small smile and looked back at Chase, taking a gentle hold of the doll. "Well, Chase, you did the right thing. I can help Wallace, but you're going to have to be my nurse, is that okay?"

Chase looked up in awe at Dr. Cas and gave an eager nod. "I can help! I'm a good helper!"

Dr. Cas smiled wide, his gums showing, nose wrinkling, and Dean felt his heart stutter. "I'll bet you are. With your help, I'm sure we'll make Wallace all better. Why don't you do me a favor and take Wallace inside. If you go straight back, you can wait with him on the couch."

Dr. Cas gingerly handed back Wallace to Chase, and with a loud "Thank you!,” Chase ran into the house and, as Dean noted, peeking around Cas to watch him go, followed the directions and ran straight back.

"I'm Castiel Novak," Dr. Cas said, extending hand with a little smile.

Dean took it and gave it a firm shake. "Uh, Dean. Winchester. That's my boy Chase. Sorry to just interrupt your night like this. Please apologize to your wife for me "

Dr. Cas tilted his head to the side, that soft smile still on his face, curious. "No, no wife," he said with a shrug. "Or husband."

Enlightenment dawned on Dean's features and that last little statement had his brain running a mile a minute. "Oh. Sorry, didn't mean to assume."

"It's fine," Dr. Cas assured him. "Please, come in. I'm sure Chase is growing antsy. Has he told you any of Wallace's symptoms?"

Dean, stepping inside, paused at the question, at the genuine way Dr. Cas was regarding him, waiting for a response. He wasn't just humoring Chase, he seemed to be genuinely trying to help fix a weird, stuffed doll. Dean couldn't decide if that made the guy a weirdo or an angel masquerading as a doctor.

Fully inside, Dean waited for Dr. Cas to close the door and began to follow him back towards Chase. "He said something about Wallace having fireskin and a knotty belly."

"I see, that does sound serious. But I'm sure with Chase's help, we'll get Wallace fixed right up." Though his tone was genuine, there was still a curl of a smile on Dr. Cas's lips. "Does Chase have an active imagination?"

"Crazy active," Dean said with a hint of mirth. Chase was always battling some evil or winning some championship or saving some planet from destruction; usually Dean was the evil, the loser, the destructor that needed defeating, but every now and again he got to be his kid's sidekick, and those were the best times.

"That should come in very handy," Dr. Cas said as they neared the living room where Chase waited. Seated on the couch, as asked, his doll held close to his chest, Chase watched them both enter, looking earnestly at Dr. Cas as if waiting for a miracle. Dr. Cas approached the couch and knelt down in front of Chase. "Are you ready to assist me?" he asked. "It's going to be hard work, but I know you can do it."

Chase nodded, the bangs of his sandy blonde hair falling over his eyes. He brushed them haphazardly off his forehead and Dean could only shake his head. "I just wanna help Wallace."

It was decided Dean had to wait in the waiting room (the living room) while Chase and Dr. Cas used the operating room (the kitchen), just to Dean’s left and a few feet above. Dr. Cas helped Chase prepare by cleaning the counter with him and washing their hands, while gently and easily explaining the need for cleanliness, not just in surgery, but in life. They laid Wallace out on the kitchen counter and Chase was just tall enough to help without needing something to boost him up.

Dean did his best to play up his worry, especially when Chase looked over at him. But he was mostly watching Dr. Cas, mesmerized. While he was in control of the happenings, every choice they made was made by Chase through a series of related questions from Dr. Cas. That night, Chase wasn't saving a planet or scoring the final points to win it all, but he was still a hero.

When it was all said and done, when Wallace's fireskin had been cooled and his knotty belly untangled, both Chase and Dr. Cas came to share the results with Dean. Dean hammed it up a little in his relief, but his effusive praise of his son's ingenuity and quick-thinking was genuine. And he noticed Dr. Cas seemed to be watching him now, much the way he'd been doing with the pediatrician earlier.

With Wallace bundled back up tightly in his blanket and feeling much better, Chase was in a hurry to leave so they could read a book and get all the rest that Dr. Cas said Wallace would need to help him recover. Dean got both he and his son back into their coats and Chase led the way to the door, Dr. Cas following them all.

"Thank you," Dean said quietly, so that maybe only Dr. Cas could hear him. "I hope we didn't ruin your night."

Dr. Cas just gave him a smile and shook his head. "On the contrary, you livened it up quite a bit."

Reaching the door, Chase turned and threw his arms around Dr. Cas's waist. "Thank you for helping Wallace."

Though surprised at first, Dr. Cas's face melted into something softer, and he ran a hand over the back of Chase's head. "I could only help because you were such a great nurse. I hope you and Wallace have many happy days together."

"We will!"

With a chuckle, Dr. Cas reached for the door handle and opened the door, and Dean realized very suddenly that even though he had barged in on his poor unsuspecting neighbor with a crying child and a weird doll, he was disappointed they were leaving.

Following Chase out the door and echoing the same quiet good night Dr. Cas gave them, Dean paused. He turned, looking back at Dr. Cas who had not yet started to close the door. "Is uh, there any way I could maybe take you out for a drink one night? You know, to say thanks."

The smile that curled onto Dr. Cas's face was slow and maybe even a little shy, but his features were alight, as though maybe he was glowing. "How about you just take me out for a drink, no thanks necessary?"

Dean grinned, nodding. "It's a date."

#destiel #destiel fic #here tumblr have this thing i wrote god knows how long ago #i have a part two in my head but probably won't write #chase's name is chase because dean wanted to name him chevy #but wasn't allowed #so he settled on chase #because at least there's a chevy chase #it was a little win #cas has jack in the part two also #obviously the kids become besties #and dean and cas have no choice but to get married #what else are they supposed to do at that point?#not get married?!#cha right #happy destielversary to all who celebrate #lee writes

34 notes · View notes

pekoehoneyncream · 30 days ago

Text

Ghoaptober # 25

Prompt: Alone

Words: 1200~

TW: Unkind Mental Dialogue, Hamfisted Flower Metaphors (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

I've no idea what else to tag this as, but if you've any ideas please let me know

Enjoy!

Soap had been informed that he was being granted a freeday. That Friday would be entirely his, to do with as he pleased. If what pleased him was within regulations, of course. He’s been dreading it from the very moment he was first told and while he was stuck-still fearing it, it came.

He’d gone to bed Thursday night with one last bit of traitorous hope still crying ‘maybe this time will be different’ from a dandelion clock in his soul’s weedful garden, and had awoken this morning to find hope’s stem bare. His garden grown wild with windflowers, plume thistle, hairbells, and nettles once more.

Staring up at the ceiling tiles of his bunk, Soap tried to convince himself to get up, to sit up at the very least, to make that first step towards facing the day, but found himself unmoving. Laying there with a dull sense of despair as he fails and fails again. Purposelessness slackens his limbs, feels sunk into his very bones, unaccountability a leaden weight that anchors him where he is.

Alone, with nothing to do, no one counting on him, and not a soul to be disappointed by his inaction, he finds himself unable to unstick himself from his rut.

Just as he'd known would happen.

His phone dings and he finds it in his hand within the next moment, without any conscious decision to pick it up off the floor from where it stays just under the edge of his cot while he’s sleeping. It’s Ghost, he’s texted over one singular question mark.

Checking the clock, Soap realizes with impotent urgency that breakfast time had blown past while he’d been busy festering in his bed. He doesn’t know how to respond, he has no explanation, no excuse, he hadn’t turned off his reminders, he’d heard his phone buzzing with the silent alarms he’d long ago set to help keep him on track. It had just felt so unimportant to him at the time.

What had been the point of going to breakfast when he had nothing to do after breakfast, what would he be eating for, why should he fuel a body that was going to be languishing in inutility all day. It was pointless, so he hadn’t. Hadn’t even bothered to stop the alarm, just letting it vibrate itself out.

But he’d worried Ghost, or else he’d confused him enough by not appearing for breakfast that his L.T had felt obligated to seek an explanation. Soap mustered himself and sent back three thumbs-ups. One would be too abrupt, two was too eager, but three felt inoffensively joking enough to be worth sending.

Another question marked dinged onto his screen within the same minute of Soap responding. He stared, puzzled. What could Ghost be asking about now? After scrolling back up to check if he’d missed a question Ghost had sent or something, Soap could have smacked himself, and did let his phone drop despairingly onto his chest. He’d forgotten that he never sends Ghost emojis on their own, he only does that with his siblings. With Ghost he barely ever uses them, and when he does it's mostly as tone indicators for difficult to parse statements. Soap liked actually talking to Ghost too much to ever be so taciturn as to just use emojis, normally that is.

“Sorry LT. Didnt feel up to bkfst” He types out and forces himself to send, after watching precious minutes keep ticking by while he agonized over it.

“Whats wrong” Ghost's response pops in, then “Sick?” in a separate text immediately after.

Soap knows he’s really worried Ghost now, if the man is skipping apostrophes and sending stacked texts. He's devastatingly tempted to agree, to say he’s sick, instead of just a useless layabout.

“Johnny?” Ghost’s concern bleeds from the screen as Soap’s fingers hover over the keyboard and with a grimace he punches in his response.

“No. Just didnt feel up to it”

Knowing that Ghost knew of his sudden onset of redundancy was a horrible sick feeling that sloshed about his gut, but Soap also knew that lying to him would have felt worse.

A simple “Okay” from Ghost and Soap lets his phone drop again, hanging his hand off the bed to abandon the device back onto the floor.

Losing himself to the ceiling tiles and the yawning pit that's echoing all his many failures back to him from the depths of his heart, Soap wallows. If rot and decay weren’t progression his garden would be wilting and blackening. Instead it follows his lead and stagnates. Unmoving as still-water and twice as toxic. Time is meaningless to him on a normal day, but now he torments himself with guesses at how long he’s spent just laying there, doing absolutely nothing.

It can’t have been more than five minutes, but what did he know, full hours could have run by him now and he’d be none the wiser to it.

A rap at his door pulls him from that spiral and he stumbles off his cot to open it. Ghost is stood there, a banana in hand. Carried with the same reverence he gives mission objectives.

“L.T?” Soap steps out of the way and lets Ghost stalk into his bunk, flushing when Ghost’s scan of the room lingers on his cot with its freshly disturbed sheets.

“Brought you this,” Ghost presses the fruit into Soap’s hands,

“Uh, ‘hanks, Ghostie. Ye didnae-”

“An’ this,” Ghost wields a bottle of Lucozade now, and Soap hasn’t a singular clue where in fuck he could have pulled it from.

An incredulous snerck of laughter jolts free of Soap’s chest. He folds over, bracing his hands on his knees and staring hard at the floor as he tried to suppress his giggles. A glance over at Ghost ruins him, the energy drink was being pointed at him with intent, Ghost’s serious eyes staring Soap down from just above. Gales of semi-hysterical laughter pour free of him and Soap collapses to the floor as his knees give out. Dropping onto his back, he presses the back of his hands to his eyes, careful not to blind himself with the banana he’s still holding. He can feel his garden blooming under the sun Ghost’s brought in with him, running over with ivy, snowdrops, primroses, and wild arum.

“Where awn god’s green earth,” He giggles out, dropping his hands to look up at Ghost with a humored smile, “Were ye keepin’ tha’?”

“Need to know info, Johnny,” Ghost rebuffs him, “You don’t have that kind of clearance.”

More incredulous giggles wrack through the Sergeant and he rocks himself a little on the floor as he tries to rein himself in. Joyous tears leaking from the corners of his squeezed shut eyes.

“It’s blue flavour,” Ghost advertises, waggling the bottle at him.

“Well iffin it’s blue,” Soap jokes, his voice bouncing with the remnants of his laughing fit. He leans up, taking Ghost’s extended hand to lever back to his feet, then sits himself back onto his cot and accepts the drink that is a truly lurid shade of blue, as promised.

Soap pats at the open spot beside him and rides out the subsequent tremor when Ghost plunks himself down with no aplomb.

“‘hanks, Si.” Johnny mumbles as he starts peeling his Ghost allocated banana, keeping the Lucozade pinned securely between his knees, so he wouldn’t lose it somehow.

“All good, Johnny.” Ghost assures, watching him spend his full concentration on opening the banana with the least amount of stringy bits left behind. The unspoken warmth that Ghost carried in his soul for this man, finally banking from the blaze it’d been stoked into by Johnny’s uncharacteristic morning.

Whatever Johnny was going though, Ghost was determined to not let him face it alone.

Thank You For Reading!

Yep, Scots call dandelion puffballs 'clocks', apparently.

Here's the flower meanings, I've a book of them that I took these from, if looking them up tell you something different ┐(•_•)┌

Windflowers - Forsaken Plume Thistle - Misanthropy Hairbells - Grief/death Nettles - Cruelty Primrose - Eternal love/I cannot be without you/Obsessive love Ivy - Happy Love/Affection/Fidelity/Marriage Wild Arum - Ardor/Zeal Snowdrop - Consolation/Hope/Hope in sorrow

All of these should grow wild in Scotland or Britain, if my bit of surface level research didn't steer me wrong.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

#ghoaptober #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #pekoehoneyncream #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley #john soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap cod #john mactavish

40 notes · View notes

daryltwdixon · 1 month ago

Text

The Promise of Us: Chapter 13

You

You have to admit, it’s surprising how quiet your mind is in this moment. Watching the boys you love stand in the center of the arena, about to fight to the death, you think your mind would race, but there’s only numbness. The snarls of the walker beside you fill your ears, its putrid breath thick in your nose. You can’t tear your eyes away from Daryl. I’m so sorry I got us into this mess.

His gaze finds yours, but his expression is unreadable as he turns back to face Merle.

��Y’all know me,” Merle yells, holding up his hand, a deep frown etched across his face. The crowd roars in response. “I’m gonna do whatever I gotta do to prove—”

Merle’s fist sinks into Daryl’s gut, and Daryl doubles over, collapsing to the ground. Your scream rips through the noise, but your arms are held tight behind you, restraining you in place. You struggle uselessly as Merle presses on.

“That my loyalty,” he kicks Daryl while he’s down, “is to this town!”

The walkers circle closer, their decaying hands reaching toward the brothers as they continue to fight. Punch after punch, Merle ends up on top of Daryl, their hands locked around each other’s throats. You can’t bear to watch—but you can’t look away, either. Every fiber of your being screams out that this isn’t right. They aren’t supposed to be fighting each other like this.

Then, just when it seems like Merle has the upper hand, something shifts. Your heart hammers as Merle yanks Daryl to his feet, and suddenly, they stand back to back, facing the advancing walkers. Your eyes go wide as you realize the change. Daryl’s hands are raised, ready to strike, while Merle leans forward, slicing clean through a walker’s head at the temple. Daryl’s fists crash into another walker’s skull, blood splattering as his knuckles meet bone. The hand gripping your hair tightens painfully, yanking your head back as the Governor watches, a twisted satisfaction on his face. He shoves your face closer to the walker, whether out of cruelty or carelessness, and your heart races wildly in your chest. You grit your teeth, muscles straining as the walker’s rotten breath brushes your skin, its decayed fingers just inches from your face. Your pulse pounds so hard you can barely hear over it.

Gunshots suddenly ring out, shattering the air and sending shockwaves through the arena. The walkers drop one by one, including the one that was about to tear into you. The Governor’s grip on your hair slips, and you collapse forward, barely catching yourself on trembling hands as smoke bombs explode all around you. Your eyes burn from the acrid smoke, your vision blurring, but the panic clawing at your throat won’t let you think clearly.

“Daryl!” you scream, your voice cracking with fear as it tears from your throat, echoing through the chaos. Your chest tightens with desperation, the need to find him more urgent than the breath in your lungs.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Daryl’s rough voice cuts through the haze, and suddenly he’s there, gripping your arms. The solid touch of him feels like an anchor in the storm as he pulls you upright. “Let’s go!”

Your hands shake violently as he releases you, and the world spins in a wild blur. Somewhere nearby, a body hits the ground with a sickening thud. The smoke is so thick it feels like it's choking the life out of you, but then Daryl is back, his silhouette materializing out of the fog, a new crossbow in hand. “Let’s go!” he shouts again, his voice full of urgency. You can see it in his eyes—he's fighting to hold it together, for you.

Your mind barely registers what’s happening when Merle suddenly grabs your wrists, his rough hands sawing through the ropes binding you. The rope snaps free, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to move, your wrists throbbing from the pressure. But Merle doesn't give you a second to breathe—he yanks you forward with a force that nearly knocks you off your feet. The smoke swirls violently around you, thick and suffocating, but through the chaos, a familiar silhouette emerges—Rick. His figure cuts through the haze like a lifeline, his arm waving frantically for you to follow. Without thinking, your legs move, running on instinct, though your body feels like it’s been drained of all energy. Your lungs burn with each breath, the air thick with dust and smoke, and all you can hear is the pounding of your footsteps and the panicked rush of your heartbeat.

With Daryl on one side, Merle on the other, the three of you sprint toward Rick, the nightmarish chaos of the arena fading behind you—but the terror still clenched in your chest like a vice, tightening with every desperate step you take to escape the madness at your back.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You reach the outskirts of Woodbury, lungs burning, chest heaving, every step feeling heavier as you push forward. The walls loom behind you, the distant shouts and chaos of the arena fading, but you know you’re far from safe.

“They’re all at the arena, this way!” Merle shouts, his voice cutting through the night air.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere with us,” Rick growls, his voice sharp and furious, glaring at Merle with open distrust.

“You really wanna do this now?” Merle snaps back, his tone just as fiery. The tension between them flares, threatening to slow everything down when you can’t afford it.

Maggie moves to your side, her breath coming fast, a gun in her hand as she looks you up and down. You’re panting hard, hands on your knees. She pulls a knife from her pocket and hands it to you without a word.

You nod, giving her a small, breathless “thanks,” gripping the blade tightly in your hand. It’s small, but it’s better than nothing.

Merle clanks around nearby, scanning the rows of cars lined up against the metal fencing, trying to find a way out. His grunts of frustration grow louder as he pushes at the panels in the fence, the tension of time slipping away gnawing at everyone.

“C’mon!” Daryl calls out from the other side, his voice strained as he motions for everyone to move through the opening in the fence where Merle was able to push through, and your heart skips at the sight of freedom so close—but it’s not over yet.

Just as you rush out of the opening, walkers are on you, drawn by the commotion. Their guttural snarls fill the air, and you react on instinct, lunging forward and driving your knife into the nearest one’s skull. It goes down, but another is right behind it, stumbling closer.

“We ain’t got time for this!” Merle shouts, grabbing your arm and yanking you forward, his grip rough but steady. You barely keep your balance as he pulls you past the walker’s grasp, the knife still clenched tight in your hand, dripping with blood. Your legs burn, your breath ragged, but you push forward, the adrenaline driving you as the sounds of walkers fade into the distance. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the group slows, the immediate danger behind you.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Morning light now guides your path back to the road, where the car waits. You spot a woman and Glenn turn at the sound of Rick’s voice as he calls to them. Relief floods you at the sight of Glenn, though his face is swollen and crusted with blood.

As you approach, the tension rises.

“We got a problem here,” Rick says, stepping forward with his hand raised in a gesture of peace. The woman instantly draws her sword, the blade gleaming as it catches the light, and you tense, your hand instinctively going to the knife Maggie gave you. “I need you to back up,” Rick demands, his tone controlled but firm.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Glenn’s voice cracks with fury as he pulls a gun, eyes wild with anger. Daryl grabs your arm, yanking you back as chaos erupts around you. Merle lingers behind, a shadow of trouble while the woman’s panic rises.

“He tried to kill me!” the woman screams, her sword trembling as it points at Rick. Your heart races, and your grip tightens on the knife, unsure of who this woman is, but ready to defend the Dixons—ready to defend Daryl.

“He helped us get out of that place!” you shout, voice shaking with a mix of fear and frustration.

“Yeah, after he beat the shit out of Daryl,” Rick growls, his eyes narrowing as they cut toward Merle.

“We both took our licks, man,” Merle says, as if it were nothing, his voice casual, almost bored. You grind your teeth, the irritation boiling in your chest. Jackass.

“Jackass,” Glenn spits, his gun still aimed at Daryl. Before Merle can get a word in, Rick’s voice thunders over the chaos, shouting in Merle’s face to shut up. The noise of it all feels like it’s closing in on you—voices overlapping, anger erupting, everyone on edge except for you and Merle, who stands beside you, irritatingly calm.

“Get that thing outta my face!” Daryl snarls, swiping at Glenn’s gun. There’s more chaos as everyone is shouting all at once except you and Merle.

Merle chuckles. “Man, looks like you’ve gone native, brother.”

Daryl’s face twists with anger. “No more than you hangin’ with that psycho back there! And what the hell happened to her?” He jerks his head in your direction, his frustration spilling over as he gestures at you.

Merle shrugs like it’s nothing, like the sick game the Governor played didn’t nearly break you. “We just had a little conversation, right, baby?” His voice is flippant, his tone grating against your last nerve. You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, irritation clawing at you, but you nod reluctantly, trying to keep the situation from exploding any further.

“Not his fault,” you mutter, though the words leave a bitter taste in your mouth. Merle’s smugness is the last thing you need right now, but you know any escalation could make this worse.

Daryl glares at you, disbelief mixed with frustration, but his focus shifts back to Merle, his jaw clenched tight with anger. Merle doesn’t help matters when he speaks again. “That man’s been with your girlfriend, Andrea,” he says, licking his lips with a knowing smirk, his eyes sliding toward the woman across the group.

Your patience snaps. You slap him on his face, the sound cracking through the tense air. “Shut up, Merle. This isn’t the time.”

For a moment, everything stops. The group falls silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Glenn’s eyes widen, the shock evident on his face. “Andrea’s in Woodbury?”

“Right next to the Governor,” Daryl growls, his voice rough with anger and frustration.

The woman steps forward again, her sword raised threateningly, but Rick moves in front of her, blocking her advance. “I told you to drop that!” His voice drops, more controlled now, but still firm. “You know Andrea?” he asks, his eyes narrowing, searching for answers. She glares at him, stubborn, but eventually nods.

“Oh yeah,” Merle chimes in, his voice grating on your already frayed nerves. “Cuddled up all winter in the woods, Andrea was so sick she was ‘bout to keel over and die. My Nubian Queen here had two pet walkers. Kind of ironic now that I think about it,”

Your fists clench at his words, and for a second, you feel the surge of anger rising, ready to swing at him again. But Daryl steps in, cutting off your chance. “Shut up, bro!” Daryl snaps, his patience clearly worn thin.

Merle’s expression remains irritatingly smug as he explains how they found Andrea sick, nearly dead. The casual tone in his voice, like he was recounting a stroll in the park, only fuels your frustration.

“Is that why she’s with him?” Maggie asks, her voice sharp with suspicion, cutting through the tension.

“Yeah,” Merle says with a shrug, not bothering to hide his indifference. He turns to Rick, smirking. “So, Sheriff, what now? You’re surrounded by liars, thugs and cowards.”

Rick’s face darkens, his jaw clenching. “Shut up,” he growls, his voice tight with barely contained anger.

But Merle just laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “Pathetic! All these guns and no bullets,” he sneers, throwing fuel on the fire, knowing exactly how to provoke everyone.

You feel your control slipping, your frustration bubbling over, and before you can even stop yourself, you snap in unison with Daryl. “Merle, shut up!”

The tension skyrockets, the chaos teetering on the edge of breaking, but Merle keeps pushing, his voice cutting through the group like a knife. Just when you think you might snap, Rick moves swiftly. He slams the butt of his gun into the back of Merle’s head with a dull thud. Merle drops to the ground, silence falling over the group like a heavy blanket. For a moment, no one moves, the weight of the tension hanging in the air, the stillness deafening after the relentless noise. You exhale, your body trembling slightly from the pent-up anger and stress.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

“It won’t work,” Rick says, his voice quiet, measured. The silence of the road seems to make his words heavier, hanging in the still morning air.

“It’s gotta,” Daryl shoots back, his eyes hard but laced with the same exhaustion that clings to all of you. The tension sits between them like the mist rising from the cold ground.

“It’ll stir things up,” Rick presses, but Daryl shakes his head.

“The Governor’s probably on the way to the prison right now. Merle knows how he thinks, we could use the muscle.” His voice has that grit, that determination that never wavers when it comes to his brother.

“I’m not having him at the prison,” Maggie cuts in sharply. She’s standing a few feet away, her arms crossed tightly, as if holding herself together. Her eyes flick to you for a moment before locking back on Rick.

“Do you really want him sleeping in the same cell block as Carol and Beth?” Glenn adds, his voice tight with anger as he steps closer, his eyes burning with all the unspoken things weighing him down.

You grimace, “He ain’t a rapist.”

“Well, his buddy is,” Glenn spits out, quick and sharp.

“They ain’t buddies no more, not after last night,” Daryl counters, his tone defensive, but you can tell he’s holding back the anger that’s simmering under the surface.

“There’s no way Merle’s gonna live there without putting everyone at each other’s throats,” Rick says, his patience wearing thin, his voice growing more impatient.

You feel the conversation unraveling around you. The quiet road, the looming woods, the distant sounds of birds—it all feels too peaceful compared to the storm swirling inside your chest. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to block it all out for just a moment, to tune out the voices arguing back and forth over Merle and what to do next.

You knew Merle was abrasive, an asshole on the best of days. But after what happened last night, after he turned on the Governor, you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him out here alone. You and Daryl had finally found him, something he’d been talking about for over the past year. Not with the Governor’s men hunting you, possibly already on their way, you needed to stick together. The uncertainty presses down on you, mixing with the overwhelming grief of knowing what’s coming next.

“Merle’s blood,” you hear Daryl say, his voice carrying through the fog of your thoughts.

“No, Merle is your blood,” Glenn argues, his voice cracking. “My blood, my family, is standing right here and waiting for us back at the prison.”

You lower your hands from your eyes, and your gaze shifts to Daryl. You see it in his eyes—he’s made up his mind. He’s not leaving his brother. You swallow hard, feeling that sinking realization. Where Daryl goes, you go. The weight of what’s coming presses on your chest like a boulder.

“You’re part of that family,” Rick says softly, looking between you and Daryl. “He’s not.”

“Fine,” Daryl grumbles, glancing at Rick before looking down. “We’ll fend for ourselves.”

“That’s not what I was saying,” Glenn says gently, reaching out with his hand in a gesture of reassurance. But Daryl doesn’t let him finish.

“No him, no me,” Daryl says, finality in his voice.

“And no me,” you add quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. Daryl’s eyes glance at you, relief flashing across them before he moves forward. Maggie’s head snaps toward you, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Y/N, no,” she pleads, stepping forward. “You don’t have to do that.”

You look at Daryl, feeling the silent connection between you, and then back at Maggie. “It was always us three before this,” Daryl says, and you nod, knowing that it’s true.

The road feels cold under your feet, and the woods that surround you seem like a silent witness to the decision you’re about to make. Rick’s eyes are full of grief, the same grief that’s been sitting like a weight in your gut since this argument started. He knows it, too.

“What do you want us to tell Carol?” Glenn asks, his voice strained, not wanting to accept what’s happening.

Daryl hesitates for just a second, his jaw clenching before he answers. “She’ll understand.”

The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Daryl looks at you again, reaching for that unspoken bond between the two of you. You look down, nodding, your heart heavy, knowing there’s no going back now.

“Say bye to Hershel for us,” you whisper, turning to Maggie. The sorrow in her eyes mirrors your own, but there’s no room for argument left.

“Guys!” Glenn shouts, his voice desperate, as if he can still pull you back from the edge. Maggie is saying something, trying to reason with you, but you’ve already made your choice.

Rick jogs up, stopping both you and Daryl. “Hey—hey,” he whispers, his voice low, pleading. “There’s gotta be another way.”

You meet Rick’s gaze, the regret weighing down on you like lead. “I’m sorry, Rick. Don’t ask us to leave him.” You turn away, starting toward the car. Daryl follows without a word, the heaviness in his step matching your own.

Rick is right behind you, still trying to reason. “We started something last night, you realize that, don’t you?” he says to Daryl as he pops the trunk.

But Daryl doesn’t break stride. He looks back at Rick and simply says, “No him, no me. No her.” He pulls his backpack from the car and adds quietly, “That’s all I can say.”

You gather your things from the car in silence, the finality of it hitting you like a wave. The woods feel too quiet now, like they’re closing in, as if even the trees are witnesses to the breaking point of this family.

“Take care of yourself,” you say softly when Daryl quiets, stuffing his pack.

Rick’s voice is tight with emotion as he pleads again. “Y/N, there has to be—”

“No, Rick,” you interrupt, your voice firm, turning to him though your heart is breaking. “There’s not. I’m sorry. Merle is my brother too.” Your eyes are full of sadness, of grief. It feels like a breakup, only worse. “Take care of little Ass-Kicker for us,” you whisper, turning away.

“And Carl,” Daryl adds, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “He’s one tough kid.”

With that, Daryl’s hand finds the small of your back, grounding you in this decision, and the two of you start toward the woods, where Merle waits by one of the trees. The road behind you is quiet now, but you feel the weight of every step as you leave behind the people you’ve fought so hard to survive with.

#the promise of us #daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl #the walking dead #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl one shot #daryl dixion imagine #daryl fanfiction #daryl twd

26 notes · View notes

yuanology · 1 year ago

Note

Hey, i love your writing! Could you please write for

M!reader, a seemingly innocent guy, though appearances can be deceiving. Then there's Geto, who initially dropped subtle hints about having feelings for Reader. But frustration mounts as Geto's attempts go unnoticed, with Reader simply viewing their interactions as friendly. Eventually, Geto's patience wears thin, especially since Gojo and reader have been getting along well. As jealousy and frustration brew within Geto, he unknowingly directs it at reader through snarky and bratty comments. Reader, though patient, can only take so much. They finally snap, (Geto is surprised because reader is always so soft spoken and sweet) giving Geto a piece of their mind and putting him in his place.

Can i please be 👁️ anon?

welcome 👁️ anon! i forgot to actually write smut in this! so have a really long build-up and hopefully a part two in the future, holy shit. i am so sorry. (suguru's characterisation is also a bit weird here . i can't put a finger on it but my brain is not clicking rn. i am so sorry, 👁️ anon. i'll do better next time. please forgive me for this failure just this once.)

geto suguru was not an impatient man but you were an entirely different matter. you always had been.

there was something about you that drove your existence apart from all of the others— a steadiness in your presence, a constance in your friendship with him. you kept him grounded, an anchor and a light in the darkness that came with being a jujutsu sorcerer. had it not been for you, suguru thought he might have gone rogue so many times ago in the past.

"suguru."

ah, speak of the angel (yes, he knew that wasn't how the saying went, but you weren't the devil. how could you be, with your smile and your careful hands? you were an angel, sent from above to keep him from drowning), you slid into the seat next to him. as usual, you smiled at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you did, before you dug into your meal.

suguru let his gaze linger on you for a few short seconds before he turned his face to eat his meal, too.

lunch was a contented affair, filled with small talk and the occasional sound of your laughter. there was something domestic, suguru would like to think, about the way you stole his chicken and he snatched your meatballs in compensation. suguru could hardly think of a time he had ever been this comfortable with anyone but you. you had him lowering his guards without ever having to ask him at all, an inane talent he doubted you even noticed. but it was there, and you were a miracle worker that never failed to hold him through his worst and his best.

so, really, it shouldn't come as a surprise that suguru would have to share you with others, too.

specifically, one fucking annoying gojo satoru.

don't misunderstand him, he loved satoru. satoru was his best friend, his one and only, his steady companion. they had been through hell and back together, shoving each other to further heights and hauling one another out of the deepest pits. he cared for satoru, loved him in every way a man could love his best friend. suguru loved his friend.

but jesus christ, could satoru get on his nerves sometimes.

because the thing is. the thing is that satoru knew—he knew the way suguru looked at you, he knew the way suguru spoke about you, he knew the way suguru's heart beat and ached for you. satoru knew all about the depths of his affections for you, every single beautiful and ugly thing, because that was what you do with your best friend, right? you trust them.

backstabber, suguru thought bitterly, shoving a now-acrid tasting meatball into his mouth.

because there satoru was, his arms thrown around you in ways that suguru could never touch you, his jokes making you laugh in a way that left suguru feeling ripped between wanting to watch your smile and punch satoru in the face hard enough that he'd be bleeding for days for stealing that sight from you and leaving suguru nothing but the left-overs to pick after.

in spite of everything, suguru was hardly ever really envious of his best friend. yes, there were moments where he wished satoru would get off his high-horse and someone would knock some sense into him (and that responsibility, more often than not, fell on suguru's shoulders), but he was never really jealous of satoru. there was never a need for it, not when he knew the worst and the lows of being gojo satoru.

however, in that moment, watching satoru cling onto you and make you grin, suguru understood what it meant to truly be seething with jealousy. that should be me.

the rest of the day passed by in a hazy blur after that. suguru vaguely recollected leaving lunch early, reciting robotically that he had somewhere to be urgently and ignoring the knowing grin satoru shot his way or the downwards curl of your lips. he thought he might have given you the cold shoulder at some point or another, the words leaving his lips a little sharp and a little cruel, but he didn’t remember what he said. you might have recoiled, you might have not. suguru couldn’t remember.

(and he didn’t want to remember— he didn’t want to remember the way he had turned his face away when he heard the sound of your voice calling out his name. he didn’t want to remember the way his shoulders had knocked against yours a little too hard as you passed each other by in the hallways. he didn’t want to remember the way your face dropped when he took a seat on a table across the room from your usual one. he didn’t want to remember because if he did, then he would have to remember all the tiny ways he hurt you. papercuts still stung like a bitch, after all.)

then, one day became another, and another became a week, and a week became a month—

and the end of the month brought you.

a beautiful, brilliant, furious apparition of you—one that stormed up to him and, without warning or another word, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him bodily after you. his feet dragged against the floor, his toes catching onto the heels of his own choes before he could struggle to right himself.

“what are you—” he began.

“shut up,” you interrupted him.

cleverly, suguru did.

he didn’t say a damn thing even as you slammed the door to your dormroom open, shoving him inside without another word. his lips parted in confusion when you began to lock the door behind you, but he still said nothing as you grabbed him by the wrist to direct him further into your room. he didn’t say a single word until you shoved him onto your bed, his back flat on the mattress.

“what?” he tried again.

“you’ll shut up and listen to me when i talk,” you said, your voice leaving no room for arguments. suddenly, you were looming over him, straddling his waist as your open palm pressed over his chest; right above his pounding heart. “do you understand?”

suguru swallowed thickly as he nodded. this was a side of you he hadn’t even known existed; rough and unafraid, your hands on him meant to firmly rule rather than to guide gently as you usually would. even in your anger, you had never been anything else but firm—steady and stubborn.

fuck, he thought wisely to himself. i'm in deep trouble.

but when your hand found the collar of his shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, he finds that he didn't mind it. not in the slightest.

because you had always been beautiful, but you were damningly ephemereal now, peering down at him with something burning carved into your irises; bold and brilliant, striking and inescapable. suguru had never felt so wonderfully trapped before, caught in your stare and unable to look away.

"satoru told me everything," you began, your assessing gaze never once leaving him. "i'm disappointed, suguru."

static clogged his head immediately, all thoughts clearing from his head into an unbearable haze. dirty little traitor. his throat felt tight, his heart stopping in his chest. excuses climbed up the back of his mouth, tasting like bile and the curses that he swallows, and every single little ugly thing that had ever crossed his mind. explanations defining his inner-most thoughts, apologies creasing into the space between his teeth. nothing came out, nothing but a strangled sound; caught between a whimper and a whine. weak, pathetic.

your head tilted at the noise, your gaze sharpening into something vicious. "you should have told me yourself," you said. "i never took you for a coward, suguru."

suguru couldn't help the weak, strangled thing that escaped his throat. he thought that it might have been a piece of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispered, before he could think better of it.

the sigh that you let out was low, almost vicious in its nature. suguru hid his wince by turning his head, the side of his face half-buried into the sheets. before he could succeed, however, your hand caught his chin, forcing him to turn his gaze to meet your eyes once again.

"look at me when i'm talking to you, suguru." your voice sent a series of goosebumps rippling up his skin. he shuddered, trying to shake it off, but he couldn't when your grip on his face was firm. he still tried to nod a bit, wanting to appease you.

"i'm sorry," suguru rasped out once again.

"stop apologising."

all of a sudden, his forehead was flicked. the motion was so familiar in the face of such an unfamiliar circumstance that suguru couldn't help but blink, startled. for a moment, suguru couldn't think, couldn't do anything—much less suppress the faint smile that appeared on his lips. perhaps not much had changed after all. perhaps you could still have him as your friend, still care for him the way you cared for him before.

"so," he started slowly, "you're not angry at me?"

"i'm pissed at you," you told him bluntly.

before he could wilt, though, your grip on his chin became a gentle caress to his jaw, and suguru felt his whole world tilting upside down once again. your face was close to his, too close, and suguru felt like he couldn't breathe at the proximity.

"i am so, so angry at you, suguru. you should have told me everything sooner. i can't believe you made me wait so long just for this. all your attitude as of late, all your snark and sass, that was just a defence mechanism, wasn't it?" your voice was cutting as you picked apart his brain, dissecting all of his secret truths with all the precision of a surgeon's knife. "you got jealous—and instead of talking to me, you decided to push me away."

your voice was a low murmur, not meant to be anything seductive but still sending a sharp thrill up to suguru's monkey brain all the same. all he could think of was the curl of your smile—secretive, knowing, like you were in on some secret joke that he wasn't—and the way you were looking at him now—like a predator who had his hunt cornered—and how suguru couldn't do anything but take anything that you doled out.

fuck, that's so hot.

"i'm sorry," he said again, dutiful and polite.

and for a moment, simply a nanosecond, he caught a fissure in your exterior; that softness bleeding out for a moment before the cracks smoothened itself out. even so, that split-second was enough for suguru to realise oh. he's not actually angry at me. because all of this, he knew now, was part of the game that you were playing with him; a theatrical dramatic act to compensate for the weeks of silence you got from his end.

your head tilted slowly, dangerously, as if you're assessing him, and the newfound knowledge that you like were made a shiver run down his spine. because you wanted this, you wanted him too, even if you haven't said those words out loud. you craved him, and that single piece of knowledge was enough for suguru to feel like he was going to break himself apart and meld himself together until he fit all and every single one of your wishes; until he became perfect just for you.

suguru's smile was small, placating in the way he knew you hated it. "forgive me?" he asked, practically simpering.

you caught onto what he was trying to do—of course, you did, you always did—and you threw your head back in a sharp laugh. "i don't know, suguru." your smile was mean, dangerous, and suguru almost fainted on the spot. fuck. "do you think you deserve my forgiveness?"

all of suguru's bravado melted in that moment as he felt like a miserably delighted pile of limbs and bones and a beating heart that thumped and echoed and lived just for youyouyou. "no," he said, his voice coarse, rough with his own admission. his hand moved to rest on your knees, not reaching higher because he knew better than to touch you more at a time like this. he didn't deserve it yet. "but let me show you." let me deserve the taste of you, let me deserve to feel what it means to worship you.

your lips curled into a smirk, and suguru felt as if he was going to die right then and there. miraculously, he managed to stay alive just long enough to watch you crawl off of him, standing by the edge of the bed, your gaze still following him like you were going to eat him alive.

"hands and knees, suguru," you said. "you better earn it."

geto suguru was not an impatient man but in order to satisfy you, no time in the world was ever enough.

#WHAT IS THIS HOT MESS #my head hurts . what is happening in this fic . i don't even have an explanation anymore . i am so sorry .#👁️ anon i swear i will do better next time #as my apology pls send in another request i'll be sure to treat it with proper care and reverence this time around im so sorry i'll vip you #HHGRHH I'M SO EMBARRASSED #geto suguru x reader #male reader #dom reader #sub geto suguru #there isn't even p*rn in this holy fuck #( thirsts. )#( asks. )#( 👁️ anon. )

282 notes · View notes

mymoonagedaydream · 1 year ago

Text

Part 3

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Language

Part 1 / Part 2

—

The sky was darkening by the time the two of you reached your apartment, streetlamps illuminating one by one and melding with the warm glowing light that spilled from the windows above you. Bucky released the arm that had been firmly anchored around you and took a step back while you rooted around in your bag. He obviously figured that, after the absolute shitshow the last twenty-four hours had been, there was a pretty good chance he wasn’t going to be invited in. You pulled out your keys, letting him sweat right up until the last second.

Before you could unlock the door, however, it swung open to reveal Lily, jarringly backlit by pale, fluorescent bulbs. She looked disappointed.

“Oh, my dear, you’ve just missed them.”

“Who?” You glanced back at Bucky and gave him a reassuring smile, knowing this interaction was bound to put him on edge. “Have your family been visiting?”

“No, your friends. They only left a few minutes ago.”

“My friends?”

“Yes, the young men with the birthday cards for you. Very sweet. I sent them upstairs but my word they were noisy, they must have had some trouble working out how to use the letterbox.”

Well, now you were on edge too, partly because your birthday wasn’t for another three months and partly because you didn’t have a letterbox.

Before you had the chance to respond, Bucky charged through the gap between you and sprinted up the stairs, swiftly disappearing out of view. You asked Lily to lock the door before racing after him, pausing halfway up the stairs when it hit you that entrusting security detail to her might not have been the best idea. You weren’t even sure if she could remember who did and didn’t live here anymore.

After inwardly deliberating for a second, you shrugged and carried on, deciding that you’d actually quite like to see someone try messing with you while Bucky was nearby and this irate. Might even cheer you up a little.

You were out of breath by the time you reached the top of the stairs, but the sight you were met with somehow still managed to pull the last dregs of air from your lungs.

Your door was hanging off its hinges. There were splinters of wood littering the hallway and holes of varying sizes punched into the drywall. A vague path of cigarette burns in the carpet led from where you were standing to the spot where your doormat should have been.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of your throat, you slowly approached, tears welling in your eyes as they scanned over the inside of your apartment. It was worse than you could have imagined. The couch had been torn to pieces, the TV screen was smashed, the curtains had been ripped from the wall and strewn over the floor. You dreaded to think how the rest of the place looked and you weren’t sure you had the emotional capacity to find out right now.

Thundering footsteps approached from inside and Bucky stormed into view, his voice more deep and stern than usual as he addressed you.

“They’re gone. I can’t see anything missing but you should check around too.”

“Buck-”

“Fuckin’ cowards, man,” he kicked a nearby couch cushion and stuffing exploded out of it, “couldn’t even stick around to face us.”

“Buck, please.”

A warm tear spilled onto your cheek. He seemed to soften when he spotted it, quickly moving over and pulling you into a tight embrace. You buried your face in the shoulder of his suit jacket, letting a few more drops soak into the rough material, choking back hiccuped breaths. His hand smoothed down the hair on the back of your head.

“I’m sorry, baby. Take as long as you need.”

You turned your head to the side so your voice wasn’t muffled. “Is it bad?”

“It’s fixable.”

“Are you lying to make me feel better?”

“A little,” he took hold of your hands and gently prized them away from his chest, squeezing them firmly as he moved into your eyeline, “but we’ll do it together, okay? S’gonna be alright. C’mon.”

With a deep breath, you finally stepped into your devastated apartment and looked around. Some things were fixable. Most things weren’t. Slowly, tenderly, Bucky led you from room to room and helped you find all your valuables. Your laptop was still in your bedside drawer, camera still on your desk, even the emergency twenty dollar bill you kept in the key bowl by the front door was still there. It was bizarre, but you were actually starting to feel a little relieved- that was, until you walked through to the kitchen.

You spotted it immediately. Your grandmother’s necklace, the one that had hung from the corner of her picture on the wall ever since you’d moved in, was gone. You were in disbelief. It wasn’t even valuable, it was just a brass locket with a photograph of your grandfather inside, why the fuck would anyone take that?

You spun round and pointed it out to Bucky. If you’d been in a less disoriented state of mind, you might have noticed how his face dropped into something resembling dread, how his jaw suddenly clenched and his eyes squeezed shut, but you were far too busy spiralling.

“Christ, I haven’t even called the cops. I don’t even know what crime this is. Destruction of property? Vandalism? Shit burglary?” Your shaking hands pulled your cellphone from your pocket. “Who the fuck would even do this? You think it could be that guy that was following me before?”

“No.”

“It makes sense, I mean he must have been working for someone, maybe they-” Your train of thought came to an abrupt stop as you realised what he’d said. “What d’you mean, no? Buck, do you know something about this?”

“No, I swear. It’s just- something my brother said earlier. It’s been bothering me. ”

“What did he say?”

“I might be overthinking it.”

“Buck. Tell me.”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Most of the conversation was fine, really, I just told him about how much of an ass I’d been and how guilty I felt and he nodded along. But after we’d spoken, just before he left the room, he said, doesn't she know it’s a dangerous city for a girl all on her own?”

You felt the blood turn cold in your veins.

Bucky’s brother had only ever been to your apartment once, a long time ago, when he dropped off your invitation to his wedding. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you vividly recalled him sipping coffee from your favourite mug and asking about the picture of your grandmother hung up in the kitchen. He listened intently while you reeled off all the reasons you idolised her, even putting a comforting hand on your shoulder when you told him how much you missed her. A pinprick of white hot rage started in your stomach, slowly expanding and filling your whole chest.

“That motherfucker.”

“I can’t believe he’d do something like this,” Bucky looked genuinely shellshocked, “I thought I could trust him. I’m so sorry, I-”

“Jesus, would you stop fucking apologising?"

The air between you stilled. It seemed like neither of you had been expecting such an abrupt snap, but you knew he needed to hear this, so you swallowed back your hesitation and continued.

"You know who they are. You know what they do. How the hell is this a shock?”

“They also know how I feel about you. This isn’t how we treat family.”

“Oh, come on.” You were doing your best not to scream at him. “How many fucking times have we been told that I’ll never be accepted as part of your family? Well, now we’ve been shown, too. I don't feel like waiting around to find out what's next.”

“Nothing’s next, cause I’m gonna sort it out.”

You scoffed. “You’re gonna stand up to them?”

“Of course I am.”

“Whatever.”

You walked out of the kitchen, quickly wiping away your frustrated tears before he saw them. You needed to busy yourself or you’d end up doing a Bucky and punching the fucking wall. Dodging shattered pieces of table and couch, you made your way over to the TV and crouched down, starting to gather shards of smashed screen from the floor. He appeared after just a few seconds. His face was flushed and every visible muscle was tensed, a few beads of sweat starting to form just below his hairline.

“I’m gonna make this right, I just need to think.”

“The fuck is there to think about?”

“Well, y’know, I need to, to figure out- Fuck.”

He let his arms go limp at his sides, looking utterly defeated. Noticing what you were doing, he picked up a blanket from the floor and shuffled over, crouching beside you and emptying the sharp pieces from your hand into the soft material. You didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know what to do. My head feels like it’s falling apart. I’ve got a helluva lot of shit to sort out, I know that, but for now all I care about is that you’re not safe here.”

“No shit. What gave it away, the lack of a front door or the visits from your insane family?”

He placed the blanket down. “Look, I know you hate me right now, and you have every reason to, but I need you to stay at my apartment tonight.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t have to talk to me or even look at me, just let me make sure you’re somewhere safe.”

You spent a minute thinking about it whilst picking tiny splinters of glass out of your palm, but eventually gave a reluctant agreement. What the fuck else were you gonna do? You couldn’t stay here with no door and an increasingly unhinged downstairs neighbour, and you sure as hell couldn’t afford a hotel room for any significant length of time. Besides, even with him there, Bucky’s apartment would probably be the only place you’d feel secure enough to actually sleep.

He called a cab while you packed, collecting all your remaining valuables and yanking your clothes out of the wood pile that used to be a rickety chest of drawers. Both of you stayed quiet during the journey. The city rolling past the window became gradually less and less dilapidated, crumbling apartment blocks replaced by upscale residences and gleaming metal infrastructure, a whole different world than the one you were used to. Bucky’s world.

You hadn’t been to his apartment for a while, but it was still just as ridiculously opulent as you remembered. You dropped your bag on the floor and glanced around. Between working and seeing you, he never really spent any time here, so obviously never felt the need to properly decorate. It was sterile, like an overpriced showhome.

He set you up on the squeaky, white leather couch, flicking on the TV and wrapping you in a blanket before ordering takeout. You listened to him rushing around out of view, marching between the bedroom and the bathroom, running water and spraying cleaning products. You let slip an exhausted chuckle at the cacophony of panicked noises.

One thing you didn’t hear, however, was him picking up the photograph of him and his brother that he kept propped up on the bedroom mantelpiece. You didn’t hear him fold it in half and you didn’t hear the heavy breath that escaped from his lips as he tore it into two clean pieces.

He eventually reappeared and collapsed into the armchair to your left. The TV was blaring but he somehow managed to ignore it, instead staring at the wall all night, deep in thought and slowly tapping his fingers against the leather upholstery.

He was definitely planning something, you just hoped to god it was something rational.

---

Story taglist: @mdpplgtz03

Permanent Taglist: @touchstarvedforbuckybarnes @sjsmith56 @supraveng @thewackywriter @coffeebooksandfandom @littlemiss-yeehaw��@buckystevelove @happinessinthebeing @steeph-aniie @nialiuwanderlust@froggyloora @nervousstrangersandwich @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @pono-pura-vida @crzyplantladyvibes @vickie5446 @cremebruleequeen @wthisbucky @marvel-wifey-86 @alesabisou @blueraspberryreader @casa-boiardi

Untaggables are italicised, will be removing after a few attempts so let me know if spelling is wrong.

—

228 notes · View notes