#gonna wind up flicked off to the side somewhere

[hummingbird24220]

Ello, I'm back to respectfully request Sanji with a reader who smokes. Reader has been stealing smokes from Sanji while also keeping their bad habit a secret from the rest of the crew. Once the rest of the crew find out and a light scolding from sanji (especially if you wanna do fem reader because he'd never yell at a lady in anger) Reader and Sanji become smoking buddies and it becomes a kinda unspoken thing that when sanji steps out for a smoke break reader will follow.

(A very fluffy request after the the flith I requested as a palette cleanser <3)

Yuus!! Something about Sanji smoking is just so..GODDAMN...HOT. Unfair, really.

Hope you enjoy!

Smoke Signals

Sanji x Reader

You didn’t mean to start stealing them. It just… sort of happened.

At first, it was one—snuck from a box left out on the counter while Sanji was distracted bickering with Zoro. You were planning to toss it. Honestly. But it sat in your pocket all day. And when the sun set low and the crew was distracted by a loud game of cards, you found yourself behind the galley, crouched next to a barrel, lighting it with shaking hands.

One became two. Then five. Then… well. You were practically on a schedule.

No one knew. At least, you thought no one knew. But Sanji? Sanji always knows.

It came to a head one quiet afternoon.

You were perched behind the Sunny’s mast, tucked away in your secret spot between some crates, the butt of a half-finished cigarette between your fingers. You hadn’t even gotten three puffs in before:

“That’s my brand, y’know.��

You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning to see Sanji leaning on the railing just around the corner, one eye visible through his fringe, narrowed with something between amusement and quiet judgment.

“…Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tilted his head, slowly approaching with a cigarette of his own tucked behind his ear. He didn’t look angry—if anything, he looked… smug. Too smug.

“Thought I was losing my mind,” he said. “Box after box, lighter always warm. You think I don’t keep track of my own stash?”

You blew smoke to the side and muttered, “Thought you were just chain smoking more than usual.”

He huffed a laugh at that, crouching beside you.

“I do chain smoke,” he admitted, “but not that much. You’ve got light fingers.”

Silence.

The breeze tickled the hair at your temples, but you didn’t look at him. You focused on the cigarette instead, avoiding the way he was watching you.

“…You gonna tell the others?” you asked, tone low. “It’s a bad habit. I know. I don’t need Chopper or Nami getting on my ass.”

Sanji was quiet for a beat. When he finally spoke, it was gentle.

“No. Not unless you want me to.”

You blinked, glancing at him. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “I get it. Sometimes it’s not about the smoke. Sometimes it’s just about the moment.”

He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, flicking the lighter once before handing it to you without looking.

You didn’t speak, just took it with a small nod.

The two of you sat like that for a while—quiet, back to the mast, knees pulled up. The smoke curled in lazy spirals, drifting off into the wind.

Then Sanji added, a little softer, “But I am cutting you off.”

You blinked. “What?”

“If you’re gonna keep the habit, you’re buying your own packs. I’m not your dealer, sweetheart.”

You snorted, laughing for the first time all day. “Fine. Stingy.”

He smirked. “Damn right I am.”

“You know, if I were anyone else, I’d be giving you a damn lecture,” Sanji said, flicking ash over the rail as you exhaled beside him. “It’s a filthy habit. Bad for your lungs, your skin, your stamina—”

“Your teeth,” you added, puffing smoke toward his head with a sly smile.

He side-eyed you. “I was being mature, thank you.”

“You’re being hypocritical.”

“Tch.”

You both went quiet for a moment, listening to the soft creak of the ship as it rocked against the sea. A gull squawked overhead. Somewhere in the distance, Usopp shouted something about a “sea beast with too many eyes.”

You took a long drag, eyes half-lidded. “How long have you been smoking anyway?”

Sanji gave a small sigh, his lips curling into a crooked smile. “Since I was about fourteen, actually. Zeff used to catch me behind crates and throw bread at my head.”

You laughed. “Sounds like something Nami would do.”

“She’d use a shoe,” he muttered, and you both grinned.

Then—

“WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!”

You froze. Sanji swore under his breath. You turned to see Chopper, eyes wide, nostrils twitching like he’d just walked into a burning pharmacy.

“WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE BURNT POISON?!” Chopper shouted.

You panicked, immediately stuffing your cigarette behind your back (like that would help), while Sanji coolly tried to step in front of you. It didn’t work. Chopper had already seen everything.

“You’re smoking?! YOU’RE BOTH SMOKING?”

“Calm down, Chopper—” Sanji tried.

“CALM?! CALM?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES TO A DEER’S LUNGS?! OR A HUMAN’S?! OR A HALF-HUMAN-HALF-GIRAFFE—?! Wait. No. That’s Kaku.”

The shouting attracted everyone.

Luffy dropped down from the upper deck. “Smoking? Who’s smoking?” Usopp and Franky came bounding over. “Yo, what’s the drama—whoa. Are you smoking behind the barrels?!” Nami’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You? You’re smoking?”

You looked at Sanji. He looked at you.

“…Traitors,” you muttered.

“WE KNEW SANJI SMOKED,” Nami said, pointing a very betrayed finger your way. “You were supposed to be the healthy one! The one who eats fruit voluntarily!”

“I still eat fruit voluntarily!”

“NOT ENOUGH IF YOU’RE PICKLING YOUR LUNGS!”

Franky leaned on the railing, looking impressed. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Secret smoke ninja. Suuuper stealth.”

Usopp gasped. “You’re the smoke thief! I told Sanji he wasn’t just losing them!”

Sanji, still trying to play it cool, waved a hand. “Alright, alright—everyone back off. I already gave them a hard time. They know it’s bad. They’re cutting back.”

You snorted. “No, I’m not.”

He kicked your shin. You elbowed his side. The two of you bickered until Luffy finally said:

“Wait. Are cigarettes like candy sticks?”

“NO!” “YES!” “Sanji—!”

The cook sighed, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Fine. Don’t be like me.”

Nami crossed her arms, and Robin, from the stairs above, smiled with that ominous softness. “We could always hide the cigarettes.”

Sanji and you both paled.

“Try,” you challenged, only half-serious.

“Please don’t,” Sanji added. Fully serious.

That night, the two of you lit up behind the kitchen’s back wall, now exiled to the furthest edge of the deck. You both inhaled quietly, the stars above you, the sea whispering soft shushes around the ship.

Sanji spoke first, blowing smoke toward the moon.

“…You’re gonna quit someday.”

You didn’t answer.

After a long pause, you replied, “Maybe. But not tonight.”

He bumped your shoulder. “Yeah. Me neither.”

It became a rhythm. Not one either of you planned, exactly. It just… was.

If Sanji stepped outside after a meal, still rolling his sleeves up and sighing like the weight of the kitchen was dragging him down, you’d be about thirty seconds behind him, arms crossed, pretending you were just happening to be out on deck at the same time.

If you stood up mid-conversation and brushed a hand against Sanji’s arm, gave the lightest nudge to his side or shoulder, he’d sigh with the fondness of a long-suffering boyfriend, reach into his breast pocket, and wordlessly follow.

Eventually, Sanji stopped bothering with words. He’d pat your head twice—tap tap—and head toward the usual spot near the edge of the galley, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were following.

You always did.

It was quiet time. Not for venting, not for planning. Just existing. Just breathing the same poisoned air together while the Sunny glided across blue.

And to everyone else on the ship… it was maddeningly, weirdly cute.

One afternoon, Nami was laying out her maps, trying to concentrate while Luffy snored on the floor beside her. She didn’t even look up as she muttered:

“There they go again.”

Zoro, from the other side of the deck, raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

She jerked her chin toward Sanji, who had just padded across the deck. Tap tap. Two fingers on your head. You blinked, stood up, and followed him with zero hesitation, the two of you slipping around the corner like practiced dancers.

Zoro blinked slowly. “They really do that every day now, huh.”

Robin turned a page in her book. “Every afternoon, post-lunch, and before dinner prep. Like clockwork.”

Usopp groaned from above, dangling off the mast. “They’re like pigeons. Pigeons that blow smoke rings and flirt without knowing it’s flirting.”

“I can hear you,” you called over the wind.

“THEN STOP BEING CUTE ABOUT IT!” Usopp yelled back, voice cracking.

That evening, as the stars peeked out of the inky sky, you and Sanji leaned against the railing, barely speaking.

He offered his lighter, but you were already flicking yours.

“Beat you,” you said.

“Only ‘cause mine’s temperamental,” he muttered, puffing smoke from the corner of his mouth.

You were quiet for a moment, letting the silence settle.

Then: “Why do you pat my head like that?”

Sanji blinked. “Dunno. Habit now. Easier than calling out.”

“You do it in front of everyone.”

“Is that a problem?”

“…No.”

You leaned forward on the rail, elbows braced, head tilted slightly to the side. The way your hair caught the breeze made something tight curl in his chest. He quickly looked away.

You didn’t say anything else.

Neither did he.

But when he flicked the ash from his cigarette and nudged your elbow with his own—lightly, just once—it felt like a wordless secret. A shared ritual. A pact of smoke and quiet and weird affection.

Back in the kitchen later that night, Zoro shoved a dish into Sanji’s arms.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Sanji blinked. “What did I do this time?”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You’re turning smoking into flirting. It’s disgusting.”

Sanji just smirked, lighting another stick.

“Jealous?” Zoro growled. You walked past. Tap tap. Sanji followed you with a grin.

Zoro muttered, “I’m gonna start setting their cigarettes on fire with my swords.”

-

You didn’t always smoke anymore.

Sometimes, when Sanji stepped out for a break, you followed just to be there—hands in your pockets, leaning beside him in the breeze, letting the silence hum between you while he lit up. No cigarette in your mouth. Just presence.

He noticed the first time.

“You forgetting something?” he asked, tapping the box in his hand.

You just shrugged. “Nah. Just wanted the company.”

He blinked. Looked at you for a second too long. Then turned away, ears just barely pink.

“…‘Course,” he murmured, smoke curling around his lips.

It happened gradually. You’d disappear after docking on a new island and return with little brown-paper-wrapped bundles tucked under your arm. Sanji would be in the middle of slicing something or stirring a sauce, and you’d toss them onto the counter with a casual, “Got your favorites. That one vendor in the alley with the beard. He remembered you.”

The first time, he blinked, looked down at the pack, and tried not to smile too obviously.

“You didn’t need to,” he said, voice soft.

You just shrugged again. “Did anyway.”

Even if you weren’t low. Even if he had cartons stashed away. Even if you were technically trying to cut back.

Didn’t matter. You always brought him more. Unprompted. Like a quiet habit.

He always thanked you. But over time, the thanks started slipping into things like “You’re too sweet for your own good,” or “How’s a guy supposed to stay cool when you do stuff like that?”

The words came with little touches. A nudge of knuckles. A pat to your head that lingered half a second too long. His thumb smoothing a wrinkle out of your sleeve.

The crew noticed.

“Oh, they’re worse now,” Usopp muttered one day, watching the two of you return to the ship side-by-side, matching stride for stride.

“They’re not even smoking!” Nami whisper-hissed. “What’s the point of sneaking off together?!”

Robin didn’t look up from her book. “The point is each other.”

Franky whistled. “That’s suuuper soft.”

“Do we say something?” Chopper asked, fidgeting.

“No,” Zoro groaned. “If we say something, they’ll stop. Let the weirdos have their little smoke-date thing.”

“…You’re just mad no one shares cigarettes with you.”

Zoro turned to Usopp slowly. “You want to go through what their lungs are going through?”

“…Touché.”

That night, you leaned against the galley wall, eyes closed. Sanji was beside you, watching the stars. He was halfway through a smoke, and you were sipping a cold drink instead, exhaling like you’d just finished a long day.

He glanced at you. At your relaxed posture, the way your eyes flickered open to look at him without urgency. The way the corners of your mouth pulled just slightly upward.

He wanted to kiss you. He didn’t.

But he said quietly, “Thanks for the pack earlier.”

You just smiled and said, “Don’t mention it.”

He didn’t. Not out loud, anyway.

But when he knocked the ash off the end of his cigarette and brushed your pinky with his own, holding it there for a heartbeat longer than usual…

You understood.

-

Sanji wasn’t watching you. Not intentionally.

He just… happened to be looking in your direction. And happened to see you talking to some flashy vendor with too many rings and not enough shame. You were laughing—shoulders bouncing, face bright in a way he hadn't seen all week. And you leaned in close—too close for his comfort.

He felt something cold twist in his gut. It wasn’t rage. Not the kind that flared and shouted. It was quiet. Burning slow, like the cigarette pinched between his fingers.

He turned away.

Didn’t even finish his smoke.

Later that afternoon, you returned to the Sunny with a bounce in your step and a suspiciously smug grin.

He was cleaning up the galley, moving a little more sharply than usual. His sleeves were already rolled, jaw clenched slightly as he chopped onions like they’d personally offended him.

You came in with a paper bag and chirped, “Sanji!”

He grunted, not looking.

You held the bag out with two hands. “Look what I got. I don’t even want to smoke these—I just wanted to see your face.”

Still silent.

You dramatically opened the bag with a flourish, revealing a golden box of premium black-label, sea-aged cigarettes, the kind Sanji would never buy for himself.

His knife paused mid-chop.

You beamed. “They’re limited run! Normally like—five times the normal price! But the guy was a fan of the Straw Hats and gave me a discount!”

Sanji finally looked up. His eyes flicked from the box to your excited face, and something in his chest twisted in a completely different way.

“…You dumbass.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He sighed, putting the knife down and walking over. He took the box gently, fingers brushing yours—just for a moment—and examined the seal with an incredulous look.

“You bought me the stupid expensive ones,” he muttered, voice softer now. “Just ‘cause you like seeing me happy.”

You shrugged, a little bashful now. “Well. Yeah.”

Sanji snorted. Then laughed. Then reached out and flicked your forehead.

“You really are a dumbass.”

You rubbed your forehead, pouting. “Rude.”

He didn’t deny it. But the way he looked at you—lingering, fond, helplessly endeared—it said more than words.

That evening, you didn’t even get a chance to step outside.

As the crew gathered for dinner, Nami finally put her chopsticks down and stared across the table.

“Alright,” she said. “What’s going on with you two?”

Silence.

You paused mid-bite. Sanji froze, halfway through pouring water into Luffy’s cup.

Robin looked amused. Usopp leaned forward eagerly. Zoro sighed with a muttered “Finally.”

Chopper blinked between you both. “Wait—are they not together?”

Luffy tilted his head. “I thought they were married.”

“MARRIED?” you both exclaimed.

“Emotionally,” Robin clarified. “It’s a very domestic vibe.”

Nami crossed her arms. “So?”

You looked at Sanji. He looked at you. There was a beat of quiet. A little laughter bubbling at the back of your throat. You nudged his foot with yours.

Sanji scratched the back of his neck, exhaled slowly through his nose, and said—

“…I like them. A lot.”

Your heart thudded once, loud.

You smiled, slow and sure. “Yeah. I like you too, cigarette hoarder.”

Luffy let out a victorious whoop. Usopp choked on his drink. Franky pumped his fist and yelled “SUUUUPER FINALLY!” Zoro raised his glass wordlessly. Robin smiled behind her book.

Nami leaned toward Chopper and whispered, “Pay up.”

He groaned and handed over ten berries.

That night, Sanji stepped out for a smoke.

He didn’t say anything.

He just tapped your head—tap tap—and waited with a crooked smile until you followed.

You didn’t smoke. You didn’t even bring a lighter. You just leaned on him while he puffed quietly, the two of you close enough to share warmth. He reached over and laced his fingers through yours.

“…This counts as a date, right?” you asked, voice low.

He chuckled, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “Dumbass.”

But he was grinning.

And you knew he meant yes.

[nitroish]

one plus two isnt three if you've no value

[psformybss]

Warm Sand, Soft Hearts

series masterlist

pairing: drew starkey x secret fiancee!reader

warnings: sun-kissed softness, golden retriever joy, beach day fluff

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

The morning was already warm by the time they turned off the main road and onto the winding, tree-shadowed path that led toward the beach. Oaks arched overhead like guardians, Spanish moss trailing lazily from their branches. She reached out the window, fingers trailing through the moving air, letting the breeze tangle in her hair.

In the back seat, Teddy let out an excited bark, tail thumping hard against the upholstery as he caught his first whiff of salt in the air.

“You think he remembers this place?” she asked, glancing over at Drew with a small smile.

He shrugged, shifting gears with one hand and resting the other on her thigh. “He’s either got a photographic memory or he just knows that when the cooler’s packed, we’re headed somewhere good.”

She laughed, leaning into the quiet comfort of his touch. “Same logic I use.”

Drew grinned at that. “Then it’s working.”

Kiawah opened up in front of them like a secret. They hadn’t come here in a while—work, life, and the chaos of everything in between kept pulling them in opposite directions—but the second she saw the glint of water between the dunes, something in her shoulders let go.

They parked in the nearly empty lot tucked behind a wall of sea grass. It was the kind of day that didn’t need planning. Just sunlight, an open sky, and time to kill.

Drew grabbed the cooler and umbrella from the trunk. She clipped Teddy’s leash and slipped off her sandals, wiggling her toes into the warm sand.

“You know,” she said, watching Teddy pull ahead eagerly, “he’s stronger than me now. You might have to carry me next.”

Drew looked over at her, one brow raised and already grinning. “Say the word, baby.”

She rolled her eyes, but her laugh betrayed her. “Let’s get through the umbrella setup before you throw your back out trying to show off.”

They found a quiet spot just past the dune line, far enough from the few families scattered down the beach that it felt like their own stretch of paradise. Drew set everything up while she spread out the towels and plopped down into the sun, letting it soak into her skin like medicine.

Teddy dug himself a shallow hole next to them and flopped into it with a sigh, tail flicking sand onto Drew’s leg.

“You better not be getting sand in the snacks, man,” Drew warned the dog, popping open the cooler and tossing a bottle of water her way.

She caught it, cool condensation slicking her palms. “Don’t act like you’re not gonna give him half your sandwich.”

“I’m a sucker, not a monster,” Drew said, falling back beside her. “There’s a difference.”

She turned onto her side, resting her head on her elbow, watching him through her sunglasses. His hat was pushed back just enough to show the edges of messy, sun-bleached curls. There was a little wrinkle between his brows from the sun, and his chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths. At peace.

“You look good here,” she murmured.

He turned his head toward her, squinting. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leaned in, close enough that her voice softened. “You should get more days off.”

“Only if they all look like this.” His hand reached over, brushing lightly across her hip. “And start with you saying I look good.”

She smiled and nudged his shoulder with hers. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are.”

Before she could reply, he leaned in and kissed her—slow and unhurried, the kind that tasted like sun and salt and quiet mornings. She melted into it, hand curling lightly into the collar of his T-shirt.

When they broke apart, Drew rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve been wanting to do that all morning.”

She smirked. “You act like you don’t do that every morning.”

“Not with the ocean soundtrack and you in that bikini.”

She shoved him playfully, and he laughed, catching her wrist and pressing another kiss to the inside of it before jumping to his feet.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “Let’s cool off.”

“I’m reading,” she teased, though she let him pull her up anyway.

“You’re reading the same paragraph you’ve been on since we got here.”

“That’s because someone keeps distracting me.”

He didn’t deny it. Just grinned and reached behind her legs in one swift motion, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

“Drew—” she yelped, wrapping her arms around his neck. “No, no—put me down, it’s cold!”

“Too late, sweetheart,” he said, already walking toward the water.

She kicked her feet gently, trying to avoid the inevitable splash. “I swear if you drop me—”

“You’ll love it.”

“I’ll kill you.”

He laughed, slowing as the tide lapped at his ankles, then knees. When the water was up to his waist, he met her eyes. “You ready?”

“Not even a little bit.”

With a grin, he dropped them both into the water.

She came up sputtering, shrieking, swiping at her soaked hair while Drew howled with laughter beside her.

“You jerk,” she gasped, splashing a wave of water in his face.

He retaliated, chasing her through the shallows, hands catching her around the waist. She screamed and laughed and fought him half-heartedly as they toppled into the waves, tangled in arms and sunlit joy.

Teddy barked from the shore, pacing anxiously, unsure whether he was being left out or invited in. He eventually barreled in, sending another splash over them as he leapt between them.

They stayed out there until her fingers wrinkled and her teeth chattered from the chill. Drew kept an arm around her the whole time, even as the tide tugged at their legs. When they made their way back to the towels, dripping and breathless, he handed her a dry one and kissed her cheek, lips lingering like he wasn’t ready to let the moment go.

“Worth the kidnapping?” he asked.

She nodded, grinning. “Fine. You win.”

“Told you.”

They dried off in the sun, sipping lemonade and sharing bites of whatever they pulled from the cooler. She curled into his side while Teddy collapsed again into the sand, exhausted and happy. The afternoon stretched out around them, golden and slow, each minute warmer than the last.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” she murmured as the sun dipped closer to the horizon.

“Then let’s stay,” he said. “We’ll drive home in the dark, let Teddy dry off in the back seat. I’ll stop and get you ice cream on the way.”

“You say that like it’s not the perfect plan.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, slower this time. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise.

By the time they packed up, the beach had quieted to a hush, the sun dipping low and painting the sky in soft pinks and hazy gold. She tugged her hoodie over damp skin, the fabric clinging slightly, still warm from the sun. Drew swung the cooler into the back with a grunt, and Teddy—wet, sandy, and living his best life—shook once more for good measure, sending a spray of saltwater everywhere.

At the passenger door, Drew paused, looking at her with that familiar, crooked grin and eyes still glassy from the ocean. “So,” he said, voice low and teasing, “you gonna warm me up now, or what?”

She raised a brow, lips twitching. “That depends. You planning on tossing me into any more large bodies of water?”

He leaned in a little, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. “Can’t make any promises.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned up anyway, brushing her lips against his—slow and unbothered, like they had all the time in the world.

“Lucky for you,” she murmured, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he kissed her again, like he already knew that.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

an: currently living through them because the weather it’s still too cold to go to the beach 😔

[especially-obsessed]

Hoodie

Summary: Jeremy gives you his hoodie <3

Pairing: Jeremy Gilbert x reader

Warnings: fluff! a little spicy if you squint at it <3

Word count: 4.4k (whoopsie)

Masterlist | Jeremy’s Playlist

Tyler Lockwood really didn’t know how to throw a small party.

The mansion was packed — people spilling out into the backyard, the music thumping loud enough to feel in your chest. Fairy lights twinkled from the trees, and the bonfire crackled somewhere in the distance. It would’ve been perfect… if it wasn’t so cold.

You hadn’t exactly dressed for the weather. When you left the house, it had been warm enough for a cute top and jeans, but the night air had turned sharp, and now you were regretting everything. Hugging your arms around yourself, you tried to focus on the party — on the laughter, the music, the people dancing in the grass — but your teeth were on the verge of chattering.

“You okay?”

You looked up, and there was Jeremy, appearing at your side like he always did when you needed him. His dark hair was a little messy, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie and his eyes flicked over you with that familiar mix of concern and softness.

“Yeah,” you said, trying to play it cool even though you were visibly shivering. “Just… you know. Little cold.”

Jeremy didn’t say anything — just raised an eyebrow in that way he did when he wasn’t buying your nonsense. And then, without a word, he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and held it out to you.

“Take it.”

You blinked up at him. “Jeremy, you’ll freeze—”

“I’m not the one who’s turning into an icicle,” he teased, his eyes twinkling. “Come on. Just put it on.”

You hesitated for maybe half a second — and then the wind kicked up again, and you weren’t about to let pride keep you from warmth. You slipped the hoodie over your head, and the second it settled around you, your whole body relaxed.

It was warm. And soft. And it smelled like Jeremy — like pine and soap and something you couldn’t quite place but was undeniably him. The sleeves were so long they fell past your hands, and the hem brushed the middle of your thighs. You tugged the hood up, half to hide the fact that you were blushing and half because you didn’t want to take it off.

Jeremy watched you with a barely hidden smile. “Better?”

“Way better,” you mumbled, tugging the oversized sleeves over your fingers.

He grinned, and you noticed the way his eyes softened when they lingered on you. “Told you.”

For the rest of the night, you didn’t take it off. You stayed close to Jeremy — partly because you were warmer with him next to you, but mostly because… well, you just wanted to.

At some point, you ended up by the bonfire. Jeremy’s arm stretched along the back of the bench behind you, and when the wind kicked up again, you felt him shift closer until his shoulder brushed yours and stayed there. At some point, his hand found its way to yours inside of the hoodie sleeve, sending a rush of butterflies through your chest.

“You know,” you teased, “now you’re the one who’s gonna freeze.”

Jeremy smiled, his dimples showing. “I’ll survive.” His voice dipped softer, the firelight dancing across his face. “Besides… you look better in it than I do.”

Your face went warm, and it wasn’t from the fire. You ducked your head again. “Jeremy—”

“What?” he laughed, his knee bumping against yours. “It’s true.” 

The fire crackled softly in front of you, and the night air was still cold. But with Jeremy’s hoodie wrapped around you and his hand loosely tangled with yours inside the oversized sleeve, you barely noticed.

Neither of you spoke for a while, the music from the party fading into the background. You watched the flames dance, but your mind was fixated on the way his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles. Slow and soft. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

“You’re quiet,” Jeremy said eventually, his voice low and warm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You smiled, though you didn’t look at him. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

You hesitated, because how were you supposed to admit that your thoughts were mostly about him? About the way his hoodie smelled like him, the way his hand fit so perfectly around yours, the way he always noticed when you needed him without you even having to say a word.

“Nothing important,” you teased instead, glancing up at him with a little grin.

Jeremy rolled his eyes, but there was a soft curve to his lips. “Sure.” His gaze dipped down, taking in the sight of you in his sweatshirt, and his smile grew. “Y’know, you could keep it. If you want.”

Your heart skipped. “What, the hoodie?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but there was a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. “I kinda like seeing you in it.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Because what were you supposed to say to that? Your face went warm, your fingers tightening around his without thinking.

“You’re blushing,” Jeremy teased, his voice dipping lower.

“Shut up,” you muttered, tugging the hood lower over your face to hide the fact that he was absolutely right.

He laughed softly, and before you could react, his hand let go of yours just so he could tug the hood back, brushing your hair away from your face. “Don’t hide,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “I like looking at you.”

That did nothing to help the whole blushing situation.

You were sure your heart was going to beat right out of your chest. And then, because your brain apparently wasn’t fully functioning, you whispered, “You’re being awfully sweet tonight.”

Jeremy’s smile softened. “Maybe I’ve got a good reason.”

Your breath caught. “Yeah? What’s that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers brushed against your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The air around you felt warmer, like the fire had crept closer, and you were suddenly very aware of how close he was.

“You should wear my stuff more often,” he said softly, his eyes flickering down to the hoodie you were practically swimming in. “Kinda like knowing you’re warm because of me.”

You were definitely not breathing anymore.

And then — because Jeremy Gilbert was apparently trying to kill you with sweetness — he pulled the sleeve of his hoodie back over your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in the process. “There,” he said softly. “All cozy now.”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Jeremy…”

He smiled — that soft, warm, perfect smile — and his eyes searched yours like he was waiting for something. And maybe you would’ve said something, maybe you would’ve done something…

But then someone called Jeremy’s name from across the yard, and the moment broke. He sighed, his thumb brushing your hand one last time. “I should probably go see what that’s about.” You nodded, trying not to look as disappointed as you felt. But before he stood, Jeremy squeezed your hand. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Okay.”

You watched Jeremy disappear into the crowd, your heart still hammering from the way he had just looked at you, the way his fingers had lingered, the way his voice had turned soft and warm like you were the only person that mattered.

The hoodie still smelled like him. That stupid, wonderful mix of cologne and something distinctly Jeremy. You curled further into it, biting your lip to keep from smiling too much. 

“Hey, you.”

The voice was familiar, slightly slurred, and way too close for comfort. You knew Matt was drunk before he even sat down next to you. He plopped down on the stone bench, his blue eyes glassy and unfocused. The scent of beer clung to him.

“Hey, Matt. What’s up?” You smiled at his state, knowing he didn’t usually get this drunk at parties. He was usually the DD. It was good for him to have some fun once in a while.

“You’re cute, you know that?” he murmured, his breath tinged with booze.

Your stomach twisted. Maybe he was having too much fun.

“Matt, you’re drunk,” you said lightly, shifting away, but his arm wrapped around the back of your shoulders lazily.

“‘M not that drunk,” he mumbled, a grin on his face.

Matt wasn’t usually like this. Sure, he could be flirty, but it was always in a friendly, harmless way. But this? The way his knee knocked against yours, the way his arm stretched out behind you, the way his words were just a little too slow and a little too bold? This wasn’t Matt. 

You glanced around, hoping to see someone you knew nearby, but the party was still in full swing, and no one was paying attention. Even the couple across the fire from you were sucking faces. 

“I mean it,” Matt continued, his voice dipping lower. “You look… really good.”

He reached out, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Jeremy’s hoodie. “Even in this thing. What, Gilbert let you steal his clothes now?” He smirked. “Kinda cute, actually.”

You swallowed, resisting the urge to shrink back. “Yeah, well… I was cold.”

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need his hoodie. I’d keep you warm if you’d asked.”

This was wrong. You weren’t scared, exactly, but you were uncomfortable. This wasn’t the Matt you knew—this was just the alcohol talking. But that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

You tensed, every instinct telling you to leave—

And then, suddenly, Matt was gone.

You barely had time to register that Jeremy’s hand was fisted in Matt’s shirt, yanking him off the bench.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jeremy’s voice was low but furious.

Matt stumbled, blinking up at him in hazy confusion. “Dude—what?”

Jeremy shoved him back, not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough. “Back off.”

Matt scoffed, swaying slightly. “Relax, man, we were just—”

“No,” Jeremy’s body tensed up immediately. His jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists, clearly trying to contain himself. His gaze hardened as he stepped forward, eyes locking with Matt's. The tension in the air thickened, and his voice cut through it like a knife when he spoke to Matt. “You’re drunk, getting in her space, and not taking the hint.” His entire body was radiating anger. “So I’ll say it again—back off.”

Matt let out an annoyed huff, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Whatever.”

Jeremy didn’t move until Matt turned and disappeared into the crowd. Only then did he let out a slow breath, his hands still clenched into fists.

You were still frozen in place, heart racing—not from Matt anymore, but from Jeremy.

The look in his eyes when he turned to you wasn’t just frustration. It was something deeper. Something messy.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Jeremy exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“I was fine,” you attempted to reassure him.

Jeremy gave you a look, and you sighed.

“Okay, maybe not totally fine,” you admitted.

His lips pressed into a thin line. He was still pissed—you could see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept flexing his fingers like he was forcing himself to relax.

And yet, beneath all of that, there was something else.

Something that made your stomach flutter.

You tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie, still wrapped around you, trying to ground yourself. Jeremy only shook his head, running a hand over his face. “C’mon,” he muttered, turning toward the edge of the property. “Let’s get out of here.”

The walk away from the party was quiet.

Jeremy still looked tense, his gaze fixed ahead, hands shoved deep into his pockets. You wondered if he was replaying what had happened—if he was still fighting the urge to go back and deck Matt for good measure.

You hesitated, then stepped closer, bumping your arm lightly against his. “You don’t have to be so mad.”

Jeremy let out a breath through his nose but stayed quiet. Your heart did a stupid little flip. You stopped walking, grabbing his wrist to stop him. “Jeremy.”

He sighed, finally looking at you, his expression softer now, but conflicted.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence between you two, stretching out like a wall you’re not sure how to break through. Then, his eyes met yours. There’s a softness in them; a crack in his usually guarded exterior. He opens his mouth, and his voice comes out quieter than you expected, barely above a whisper. “I don’t like seeing guys act like that with you.” The admission, so raw and unguarded, catches you off guard. It’s a side of him you didn’t expect, vulnerable and honest in a way he hadn’t been before.

Jeremy quickly looked away again, staring down at the pavement like he regretted saying anything. 

Silence stretched between you.

You bit your lip, warmth curling in your chest.

“You know,” you mused, voice teasing but gentle, “for someone who keeps trying to hide his feelings, you’re really bad at it.”

Jeremy huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

This time, you definitely caught the faintest hint of a smile before he ducked his head, his ears just barely tinged pink.

“Just shut up and keep walking,” he muttered.

You grinned.

And you did.

The quiet walk away from the party took you back to Jeremy’s house, neither of you speaking much.

Jeremy’s hands were still shoved in his pockets, his jaw tight. But the tension between you hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had shifted—turning into something heavier. Something unspoken.

By the time you reached the Gilbert house, the air between you was thick with it.

Jeremy pushed open the front door, stepping inside first. The house was dark and silent—Elena must not be home yet.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unsure. “I should probably—”

“Stay.”

Jeremy’s voice was quiet, but firm.

Your heart skipped.

He turned to look at you, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. “Just for a little while.”

You swallowed, stepping inside. Jeremy shut the door behind you.

The air felt different in here; warmer, heavier. Maybe it was just because the outside chill had faded. Maybe it was because your heart was racing.

Jeremy let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck before looking at you again. His eyes flickered down—just briefly—to where his hoodie still hung loosely on your frame.

You hugged it closer, suddenly hyper-aware of how it smelled like him.

“You want something to drink?” Jeremy asked, his voice rougher than before.

You shook your head. “I’m okay.”

Silence stretched between you again.

You knew you should say something light, something normal, to break the tension, but your brain wasn’t cooperating.

Because Jeremy was looking at you like that again.

Like he was fighting something.

Like he was dangerously close to losing.

Your pulse jumped.

Jeremy exhaled sharply and turned away, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t let guys talk to you like that,” he muttered, his voice tighter than before.

“I didn’t let Matt do anything,” you pointed out, watching him carefully.

Jeremy huffed. “I know. I just…” His shoulders tensed, his hands clenching at his sides. “It pissed me off.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Jeremy let out a breath through his nose. “I don’t want guys thinking they can just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t want him thinking that.”

The air felt impossibly thick.

You took a cautious step closer. “Jeremy.”

He turned, eyes locking onto yours, and that was when you saw it. 

The frustration, the tension, the lingering anger from earlier. But mostly, you saw how much he wanted you.

Something in your chest tightened.

You barely had time to process it before he was suddenly right in front of you, his fingers brushing the hem of his hoodie where it hung loosely over your thighs.

“Looks better on you than it does on me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your pulse quickening. “You said that already.”

His fingers curled into the fabric, his proximity almost overwhelming. You could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering hint of beer from the party.

His eyes flickered down to your lips.

Your breath hitched.

And then—finally—his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was heat and frustration, all the pent-up feelings spilling over in an instant.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as he pressed you back against the hallway wall. You barely had time to react before he was crowding into your space, his body pressing against yours.

You tangled your fingers into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, as his groan vibrated against your lips. His grip on your waist tightened like he was afraid to let go, his desperation evident.

Maybe he needed to prove something to himself.

Maybe he needed to prove that you were his.

Maybe he was done pretending otherwise.

Your heart hammered, and a warmth bloomed deep in your stomach as you kissed him back, eager, breathless.

Jeremy finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was dark and intense, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice rough.

You swallowed, your breath still unsteady. “About what?”

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer.

“About not wanting other guys to think they can have you.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but you refused to look away, locking eyes with him as you bit your lip.

“And what if I don’t want them?” you teased, voice barely a whisper, daring him.

His eyes flickered, his fingers tilting your chin upward as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

“Then you should probably tell me who you do want,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped, your heart thudding in your chest as you met his gaze, your voice low, barely a whisper.

“You.”

Jeremy’s eyes darken and his hands move to your waist, lifting you effortlessly. You gasp into the kiss as your feet leave the ground, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. The motion is quick, almost instinctual, and you can't help but wrap your arms around his neck, holding on as he walks toward the stairs. His lips trail down to your jaw, kissing you in soft, heated bursts as he ascends, each step a reminder that this is real, that you’re here in his arms.

The warmth of his body against yours, the feeling of his lips moving against your skin, it makes everything else feel distant, like nothing else matters but the two of you. His lips press against your neck, and the sensation sends a shiver through your spine, your heart pounding in your chest.

By the time you reach the top of the stairs, his lips are back on yours, hungry but still gentle. He turns and kicks the door open to his room with his foot, never breaking the kiss. You feel the soft cotton of his hoodie wrap around you more securely as he carries you over the threshold and toward his bed.

As he reaches the edge of the bed, he gently lowers you onto the soft blankets, his lips lingering against yours for just a moment longer before he pulls back. His hands slide to your waist, making sure you're settled comfortably. The bed creaks slightly under your weight, but you hardly notice, lost in the depth of his gaze as he looks down at you, eyes dark with desire, but softened by something tender.

He hovers above you, his thumb brushing along your cheek as he leans down and kisses you again, slower this time, savoring every moment. His voice is barely a whisper, heavy with emotion, "I’ve wanted this... you, for so long."

His hands slid under the hem of the hoodie he’d given you, brushing the bare skin of your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You barely had time to react before he was kissing you again, slower this time, more deliberate.

Like he wasn’t just proving a point anymore. He was making a promise.

Jeremy’s hands were everywhere, his lips trailing down your jaw, kissing the side of your neck as if he were trying to memorize you, claim you in the most intimate way. Every touch sent a spark through your body, every kiss deepening the hunger you felt, the desire you’d never been able to name.

“Jer,” you breathed, your voice trembling.

Jeremy pulled back slightly. His lips moved down your neck, a trail of heat in their wake, and you shivered under his touch. His hands roamed lower, brushing below the waistline of your jeans, his touch careful, testing how far you were willing to go.

The tension was unbearable, but neither of you wanted to break it.

"Jeremy," you whispered again, your voice a mix of desire and hesitation.

He pulled back slightly, his lips just a breath away from yours. His gaze was dark, his pupils dilated as if he were barely holding on. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice strained.

You met his eyes, heart pounding in your chest. “Are you?” you whispered, grinning up at him.

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of vulnerability—you both knew there was no turning back.

"Yeah," he breathed, his hands pulling you closer. "I’m sure."

You didn’t want to stop.

The world around you faded away as your lips met his again, desperate, fervent, as if this was the only thing that mattered. The kiss is deeper, pulling you closer as his tongue gently brushes against your lips. You don’t hesitate to respond, your breath mingling with his as his kiss grows more insistent, coaxing you into the moment. His tongue moves slowly, carefully, exploring.

The air between you is thick with desire, charged with something neither of you wanted to deny. Slowly, his shirt tugged up and was pulled over his head, and you could feel the warmth of his chest press against you. He pulled away slightly, his breath heavy as he looked at you—his lips swollen from the intensity of your kiss.

His hands slide up your back, this time pushing the hoodie off your shoulders, and it falls to the floor without either of you acknowledging it. His lips moved back down your neck, each kiss leaving a mark, a promise that you would both carry with you.

"God, you're killing me," Jeremy murmured, his voice strained with barely restrained desire.

Your heart thundered, and you leaned forward, capturing his lips with your own, placing your hands on both sides of his face. 

You could feel the intensity building, each movement more frantic as you tried to pull him closer, your fingers trailing down his chest. Jeremy’s hands roamed lower, his touch teasing, brushing against the waistband of your jeans before his lips moved to your collarbone, kissing with intent, leaving marks.

But then—

You both froze.

The sound of the front door closing downstairs reached you, followed by the muffled sound of voices.

Jeremy tensed immediately, his breath catching in his throat. You pulled back slightly, eyes darting to the door as the voices filtered up the stairs.

“Do you hear that?” Jeremy muttered, his voice thick with frustration.

You nodded, feeling the pressure of the moment slip through your fingers. His hands slowly dropped from your waist, and the tension between you thickened.

“My sister’s home,” he murmured, his voice tight. “I don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you could feel his hesitation, his conflict.

You stayed silent for a beat, just staring at him, chest still rising and falling with every breath. His gaze flickered between you and the door, but he didn’t move closer. He stayed a respectful distance away, the space between you now thick with unspoken words.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whispered, your hand brushing his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

He glanced down at your hand, then back up at you. “Me either,” he confessed, his voice soft but rough.

But the distance between you both lingered, the moment shifting as reality encroached once again. You smiled softly, your fingers brushing his jaw as you locked eyes with him. 

Jeremy let out a frustrated sigh, resting his forehead against yours for a second before reluctantly pulling away. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn't ready to let go.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lingering ache of want as you tried to sit up. "I should probably go," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeremy's hand caught yours before you could move. "Wait," he said softly, his fingers tightening around yours. His eyes, still dark with unspoken emotions, searched yours. "Stay. Just for a little while."

You hesitated, heart hammering as you looked at him. His shirt was still off, his hair messily tousled from your hands, lips swollen from your kisses. But beneath all of that, there was something deeper in his gaze, something raw, pleading.

Wordlessly, you nodded.

Jeremy exhaled, as if relieved, and gently pulled you back onto the bed. He wrapped an arm around you, tucking you close against him, his bare skin warm against yours. His heartbeat was steady now, a comforting rhythm beneath your palm as your fingers traced lazy circles over his chest.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

His fingers skimmed up and down your back, slow and soothing, as your body relaxed against him. The tension from before still lingered in the air, but now it was softer, quieter. You felt the weight of his arm drape over your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

Eventually, your breathing evened out, your body melting into his warmth. Jeremy felt it happen, the moment you gave in, the way your grip on him loosened as sleep took over. 

He didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the moment.

Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, holding you just a little tighter.

"Just for a little while," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Masterlist | TVD Masterlist | Jeremy playlist

a/n: I literally have so many Jeremy x reader fics drafted! I want to post them all so badly <3

Likes, reblogs, and follows are never expected but greatly appreciated! These let me know I should keep on doing what I’m doing! (:

Taglist: @imanewsoul @s0urw00lf

Let me know if you would like to be added to a taglist <3

[loves4ge]

close your eyes

toji fushiguro x reader

established relationship

injured toji!!!!!!!!!

if you were already asleep, you wouldn't hear the soft click of the front door. it was quite late, actually, so it wouldn't be a stretch to assume you'd be sleeping. but you couldn't. not without toji. he had certainly spoiled you, wrapping you in his arms each night, rubbing palms into your back, lips against your hairline.

you sit up in the bed, waiting for toji to climb upstairs and get into bed with you. but minutes pass without any appearance of the gruff man, worrying you. slipping into fuzzy slippers the two of you bought at a flea market months ago, you trudge downstairs. there's a pink bow on the band of one of your slippers, reminding you that you took off the bow from the other one to make a little hairclip. for him.

you slide down the stairs, feet heavy with sleep.

"toji?" you call out, his name leaving your lips smoothly, dripping honey and warmth. a groan sounds in response, somewhere from the kitchen.

that doesn't sound promising at all. grimacing, you manage your way to the kitchen in the dark.

you fumble around, gliding your fingers across the wall in an attempt to find the light switch. successful, you flick it on.

“god, toji.” there he is, in all his glory, slid up against the cabinets lined under the kitchen counters. his face is bruised, shirt torn with haphazard and bloodied bandaging peeking through. his face is screwed up in a grimace, and his scar glimmers in the dim, amber light of the kitchen bulb.

"didn't mean 'ta," he shifts, hand tightening over a particular spot on his abdomen, "didn't mean 'ta wake you up."

your frown deepens, a sad sigh leaving you. dropping to your knees, you place your own hands on his forearm.

"love, what… don't say that." you exhale a breath, kissing a seemingly devoid of any hurt spot on his shoulder. he doesn't twitch at the contact; a good sign. there's a first aid box somewhere over in the kitchen which is probably why he dragged himself here in the first place.

you crawl to the cabinet storing the box, retrieve it, then return to where toji is. he is hardly ever this quiet. it scares you.

"what happened?" you murmur softly, using scissors to cut up his shirt. you remove the scraps, and examine him with tender eyes.

"nothin'. just got hurt. it happens." he is short, curt. you expect it; he's not the type to sing kumbaya and hold hands when it's time to open up.

"alright. i'm gonna remove these bandages, okay?" he manages a short nod in response. his hands are limp at his sides as you unravel the gauzy strips. it's hard not to flinch at the red, ugly gash large as a kitchen knife. god, you are gonna be sick. although, you are glad it is shallow, not requiring any stitches.

you work in silence, pressing a cotton pad soaked in disinfectant. toji groans, his hands curling up into fists until his knuckles turn white. after prepping the wound, you start to unwind the roll of medical gauze.

"sit up please." he tries to.

you start winding the bandage around his torso, leaning in close, your face pressing against his bare chest. you snip the bandage, securing the end.

"thank you." his voice is scratchy, and when you look at him, all you can see are the whispers of purple blooming against his cheekbone. your body is sagging in exhaustion, though your mind is running in overdrive.

"i'm so," you start, cutting yourself off as a sob creeps up your throat, "i'm just so, so worried about you, toji. i just- i can't," tears gather in your eyes while he looks at you, expression unchanging, "i don't want to. scratch that, i can't do this without you." there's a watery crack in your sentence but the both of you disregard it.

"i love you." toji says, pain and admiration swirling in those eyes of his that you love so much. you crack a rueful smile at his statement.

"i love you too."

toji smiles, though it probably hurts to do so. his hand that was at his side now travels to yours. you entwine your fingers, softly. he looks at you.

[ttdamian]

Hold on till may

⸺ summary ; How would Dick react to his lover being in a vulnerable state?

⸺ Authors note ; Dick Grayson x gn ! reader. Mention of alcohol, reader is drunk here, depressive thoughts, angst with comfort. english isnt my first language. feel free to send req while i figure out how tumblr works. Wc : 1,1k drabble. Not beta read.

The bottle was almost empty.

Your fingers were frozen around the neck of it, knuckles pale, like letting go might break you. The wind tugged at your clothes as you sat slumped on the edge of the balcony, one leg over the side, the city yawning open beneath you. You weren’t thinking. Not really.

Or maybe that was the point.

The streetlights blurred. Neon halos. Your eyes burned.

Something inside you was splitting down the middle—loud and quiet all at once. You didn’t want to die. You just didn’t want to be here anymore. In this skin. This life. This body that held too many memories and too little love.

Glass clinked against metal as you tilted the bottle, watching the last few drops splash onto your knee. Then the door behind you opened.

You didn’t turn around.

You didn’t have to.

You could feel him in the shift of air. In the stillness. In the presence.

Dick.

Of course, it would be him.

He always showed up when you were your worst. When you looked like the version of yourself you swore no one would ever see. But he never turned away. That almost made it worse.

He didn’t say your name. Not at first.

Didn’t scold. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t storm.

Just stepped closer.

He was careful with the way his boots hit the floor. Not daring to make a sound.

You’re curled sideways, one knee up, body propped against the railing. You’re trying not to fall—but you’re close. Teetering.

he's seen this before. The sight was not unusual to him. He pretends he doesn’t see it

But he sees you.

He always does.

Your voice is slurred when it breaks through the silence.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He blinks once. “Like what?”

“Like you’re gonna pick up the pieces.” You turn your head slightly, and even in the half-light, he can see how glassy your eyes are. “I’m not broken. I’m wrecked. There’s a difference.”

The words land with a hard finality. Like you’ve rehearsed them.

You shift, and the movement is clumsy. Your elbow slips off your knee. You catch yourself with a laugh that makes his stomach twist.

“Don’t,” he says softly, stepping closer, crouching down a few feet away.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t move like that. You’ll fall.”

“Maybe I already did.”

Dick exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m free.” You smile without humor. “Same thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Not yet. Just watches you. Because this isn’t about him. It never has been. This is about whatever pain brought you here—again.

“I didn’t call you,” you add, almost accusing.

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

He pauses. “Because I was scared you wouldn’t.”

That hits you somewhere deep. Somewhere behind the alcohol and the exhaustion and the fake smiles you’ve been wearing for weeks.

He sees the shift in your expression.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, eyes flicking to the bottle again.

“You’re on the edge of a twelve-story building.”

You let out a dry laugh. “So what? You gonna scold me?”

“No,” he says, almost instantly. “I’m not here to scold you.”

“Then what?” You shift to face him better, legs still dangling over the drop, your weight still leaning toward the open air. “You think you can save me? Is that what this is?”

“No.”

You laugh again, too sharp. “Then what do you want from me, Dick?”

Silence.

The city hums beneath you. A siren in the distance. The whistle of wind between buildings.

Finally, he stands and takes one step closer. You tense—just enough that he notices. So he stops.

He lowers his voice.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Your expression flickers. He presses on.

“I just want you to stop looking for answers in places that only ever hurt you.”

You blink.

And then, before he can stop you—you ask the question.

The one he’s been dreading.

“Then where the hell do I look?”

He doesn’t have a clean answer.

Instead, he steps forward slowly—deliberately—until he’s beside you. Not reaching for you. Not dragging you away. Just being there.

Letting you feel the weight of his presence.

“I don’t know,” he says after a long beat. “But not down. Not off the edge.”

You glance down anyway.

You always do.

The city looks different from up here. Like it might catch you if you fell. Like the air would wrap around you and hold you softly on the way down.

You know better.

He knows you know better.

And yet—

You murmur, “It’s so quiet up here.”

He nods. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Sometimes I wish I could just… fall asleep and stay in the silence.”

He doesn’t respond with platitudes. He doesn’t tell you it’ll get better. He doesn’t try to force light into your darkness.

He just… waits.

And when he speaks again, it’s so soft it almost disappears into the wind.

“Can I sit with you?”

Your eyes flutter open. You glance at him.

He’s not asking to pull you inside. He’s not asking to fix you.

He’s asking to sit beside your pain.

You nod.

He lowers himself to the concrete slowly, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then, your voice comes—raw, barely there.

“Why do you keep showing up?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Because you matter to me.”

You scoff. “Even like this?”

“Especially like this.”

That’s the one that cracks you.

The tears come so suddenly, you almost choke on them.

You turn away, ashamed, but he’s already leaning forward—arms gentle, body warm. Not holding you. Just offering.

You lean in.

And this time, you let him.

Your head finds his shoulder. Your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t say anything when your body starts to shake.

He just holds you.

Lets you be small.

Lets you be real.

After a while, when your sobs fade into hiccups and silence, he speaks again.

Quiet.

Steady.

“I know it’s hard. I know some days feel like a trap. Like you're walking through glass barefoot and everyone else is dancing on clouds.”

You nod.

He runs his hand slowly along your back.

“But you’re still here.”

A pause.

“You’re still you.”

You close your eyes.

“Just… hold on,” he whispers. “Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s quiet. Even if all you can do is breathe.”

You don’t say anything.

But your breathing slows.

Later, he brings you back inside.

Covers you with a blanket.

He sits on the edge of your bed while you sleep, eyes flickering toward the balcony now and then.

The bottle’s still out there. Empty.

But you’re not.

You’re breathing.

You’re here.

And that’s enough—for tonight.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

[cambankromyy]

THE ISLAND LOOKOUT (pt.11): midsummers! - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

an; this and next few chapters will irl heavy bc everythings kinda happening... and theres sorta? smut in the next chapter....

part 10 - part 11 - part 12

the road stretches ahead, bathed in the last streaks of sunset, golden light pooling over the asphalt as sarah presses the gas a little harder. the wind rushes in through the open windows, thick with salt and summer heat, tangling in your hair, mixing with the sharp bite of tequila still burning on your tongue.

cleo’s in the passenger seat, fixing her earrings in the mirror, grumbling when the car jolts. she’s still half-dressed, one strap of her dress slipping off her shoulder, her lip liner uncapped in her lap.

in the backseat, you and kiara are a mess of limbs, leaning into each other, tipsy and flushed, passing her phone back and forth. the film shots from earlier flicker across the screen, hazy and golden. champagne glasses clinking, dresses caught mid-spin, sun-bright flashes of bare shoulders and smudged mascara.

“this one,” you say, tapping the screen.

“nah, this one,” kiara counters, flicking to another.

cleo twists around to look at you both, unimpressed. “you’re both annoying. just post both.”

sarah scoffs, fingers tight around the wheel. “she was gonna anyway.”

music thumps through the speakers, vibrating through the seats, drowning out the distant sound of waves. your legs are tangled up in kiara’s, your body humming from the drinks, from the speed, from the restless, breathless feeling building in your chest.

midsummers is waiting, and for now, everything is endless.

midsummers always had a way of feeling the same, no matter what. same people, same expensive drinks, same air of quiet competition disguised as effortless luxury. you knew exactly how the night would go before it even started.

you walked in with jj, your arm hooked through his like it belonged there. it wasn’t a statement, not really, but island lookout made it one anyway. the group chat lit up before you even made it past the entrance.

the night moved fast after that—jj, john b, and pope caused a ruckus, stealing a golf cart and nearly getting kicked out before kiara smoothed things over. champagne refills. cleo stealing a sip from your glass when she thought no one was looking. jj grinning like he knew something everyone else didn’t, still buzzing from their little stunt. pope deep in conversation, probably against his will.

and somewhere in the mix—rafe.

not with you, but never far. standing with sofia, leaning against the bar, watching you. always watching.

at first, you almost expected him to say something. maybe a comment when you walked in with jj. a look, at the very least. but he didn’t.

he just stood there with her, not even pretending to be interested in whatever she was saying. not touching her. not really listening.

his attention was elsewhere.

on the way you leaned into jj’s words, laughed at something stupid he said, let your fingers graze his arm without thinking.

you ignored it. pretended you didn’t see the way his jaw tightened. pretended you didn’t notice him at all.

a few hours in, the ballroom started to feel too crowded, too loud, and john b and jj wouldn’t shut up about needing a smoke. so you all slipped outside, onto the club’s back patio, where the air was warmer, thicker, but at least quieter.

the joint passed easily between all of you, laughter blending with the distant sound of waves. for the first time all night, things felt easy. like none of it really mattered.

but then your drink was gone.

so you went back inside.

you took the long way back inside. not on purpose, really—just following the same path your feet had always known, the one that led around the side of the building, past the quiet stretch of lawn where the party sounds faded into the hum of cicadas.

it wasn’t the first time you’d ended up here.

when you were kids, this was your hiding spot. the place you and rafe would duck into when your parents were about to drag you home, out of some sense of obligation to make you sleep at a reasonable hour. it was where you learned that if you stayed quiet long enough, they’d eventually give up looking.

but you weren’t the only one who remembered.

rafe was already there.

three weeks. that’s how long it’s been since you last spoke. the longest either of you had ever gone without saying something, anything.

he looked up at the sound of your steps, eyes flickering over you in the dim light.

“what are you doing out here?” you blurt out.

he doesn’t answer right away. just rolls his glass in his palm, ice clinking against the sides. then, low and unreadable, “needed a minute.”

you walk toward the ledge, sitting next to him and leaning back against the stone, shoulder brushing his for half a second before you shift away. “you and maybank a thing now?”

the question is too casual. too offhand.

you glance over at him, raising an eyebrow, unsure how to answer. “would you care?”

his jaw flexes. he leans in slightly, closing the space between you just enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath.

“i asked you a question, mac.”

your stomach flips.

he only calls you mac when he’s trying to remind you that he knows you better than anyone.

you tilt your chin up, feigning nonchalance. “i mean, we showed up together. people talk.”

“that’s not an answer.”

you smile, slow and knowing. “neither was yours.” you know exactly how to tick him off. you know him better than he knows himself.

his nostrils flare, but instead of getting irritated like you expect, he just… laughs.

it’s quiet, breathless, like he hates himself for finding you amusing.

you tilt your head slightly. “where’s sofia?”

his lips twitch, like he’s amused you even asked. “probably looking for me.”

“hm.” you say, maybe a little too joyful.

he doesn’t respond right away. just watches you for a second, then looks off, like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be.

and then, quiet, almost like he’s not sure he should say it

“you look good.”

your breath catches. it’s the kind of thing that would’ve meant nothing coming from anyone else.

but it’s not anyone else. it’s rafe.

you don’t say anything, just watch him, waiting to see if he’ll take it back. if he’ll smirk, make some half-assed joke to brush it off.

but he doesn’t.

your phone buzzes before you can process whatever that was.

you have 3 text notifications from jj.

you don't respond, you can feel rafe’s gaze on your screen. so you just turn your phone off. you glance back up, half-expecting rafe to look pissed, but he just smirks, slow and easy.

“its ok. don’t keep your date waiting.” nodding. like hes trying to convince himself it's actually ok.

and with that, you're gone. you're spiralling as you walk back into the club.

you walk back into the event room, and JJ’s already looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night. he’s grinning, eyes slightly glazed, cheeks flushed from whatever he’s been drinking, and he waves you over like you’re supposed to know exactly what he wants.

You don’t hesitate. you know whatever jj’s on is guaranteed to take your mind off of whatever weird tension you just had with rafe.

by the time you reach them, sarah and john b are already scheming.

"we’re leaving," sarah declares, like it’s not even up for debate.

"tannyhill, " john b adds. "the function continues."

jj slings an arm around your shoulder, casual, warm, familiar. "c’mon, kook. no way you’re tapping out now."

you scoff, shaking him off but not stepping away. out of habit, you glance over your shoulder—rafe’s back inside, back together with sofia. but you don’t give yourself the time to figure out why, or if the previous interaction with him was even real.

You disappear with your friends into the night, laughter bouncing between you.

tags: @italk2god @angelicameron @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera @yesshewrites1 @inlovewithchriss @ethanthequeefqueen @amterasuu @popou61 @drewsstars @yannew @anothertimegirl @flvredcas @yootvi @mrsdrewstarkeyy @niaunofficial @cooper8224 @rafegetinmybed @pogueprincesa @6r4cie @adalia-lovelace @bee-43 @drewrry @masongetinmybed @defnotayonna @lcversvoid @my-name-is-baby @lolasangelz @polli05927 @laniirackssss @rafecameronswifeyy @starsval @hypnotizedstarkey @wintercrows @d-daxx @dontknow3m @jjasmiineee

[sweetiecutie]

Part four: outdoor sex~ 🩷 Kinktober Masterlist 🩷

Pairing: John MacTavish x fem! Reader

Warnings: NSFW, mdni, outdoor sex, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, creampie, I have no idea abt Scottish English sorry (I have no idea abt any English actually)

It was no secret that Johnny was a horny motherfucker. No matter the time, day, weather or any other conditions - he always wanted to fuck. Of course, if you said no he’d grumble and back off, but it was hard resisting his shitty pickup lines and enticing eyes, always managing to lit a small spark of want within the pit of your stomach which very soon turned into a wildfire.

So when Johnny wrapped his strong meaty arm around your waist while you were out for a walk in the forest - you didn’t think much of it. My, my, you should’ve known better.

Now your chest was pressed against patchy bark of tall pine tree, your leggings pulled down hastily to your mid-thigh as John’s throbbing leaking cock was sheathed deep inside your cunny, calloused fingers digging into exposed skin of your hips, leaving pale marks there.

- Fuuuuck, this pussy sucks me right back in, - Johnny moaned, throwing his head back at the intensity of the feeling.

You couldn’t help but jolt from every single noise - a crack of a branch, sound of cool wind rustling leaves somewhere above. The thought of getting caught like this was straight down embarrassing, but also - exciting. You couldn’t suppress a small mewl as Johnny’s nimble fingers came downward to flick the nub of your clit, making your legs go weak - if it wasn’t for Scot’s strong hold on you - you’d be tumbling down onto the damp earth.

- Fuck, Johnny, getting close, - you whined, eyebrows furrowing as your hips snapped back repeatedly, fucking yourself back onto your man’s length.

- Gonna cum inside this pretty pussy, yeah? Don’t want to make a mess of you, do we? - Johnny rumbled, obviously pussydrunk. It only brought you closer to your high - realization of how much control you had over this man, how wrapped around your finger he was.

With a string of muffled profanities mixed with groans and sighs Johnny came, emptying his fertile load deep inside of your needy pussy. You could feel his cock twitch inside of you, your walls clenching around him instinctively upon feeling his cum spill within.

You felt John’s clammy from sweat forehead resting against the side of your neck, heaving chest pressed against your back, keeping you close. You whined impatiently, wriggling your ass against Soap’s hips, making him groan from overstimulating. The hand on your clit resumed its movements and not long after you were shuddering and moaning, tight cunt spasming around Johnny’s softening cock, bringing him deeper into his bliss.

After a few minutes of silence you heard Johnny’s airy chuckle which vibrated through his chest and onto your back. - God, lass, yer gonna be the death of me, - he said, pulling out and fixing your panties back up in place as quickly as possible so that his cum won’t spill out of your fluttering cunt.

- It was your idea, remember? - you said, pulling your legging up and turning around, watching Johnny tuck himself back into his boxers and sport shorts, grinning all the while.

- An amazing one, isn’t it? - you just rolled your eyes, straightening up and cringing at the pain in your lower back from uncomfortable position.

- Yeah, sure. But you owe me a massage now, - you complained, feeling your boyfriend’s cum spill out of your pussy, dampening your already ruined panties even further.

- Of course, love, - Soap replied with a wide grin, hugging you with one arm, his brain already working on a plan of fucking you under the guise of “deeper relaxation”

[formula-fun]

‘He all but saunters across the room, eyelids heavy and mouth soft, and it’s nearly enough to make Max laugh. This is a routine they both know well: sultry omega, conniving but harmless. It’s never worked on Max a day in either of their lives.’

they know each other so well 😭😭😭 i love if i had words so much it’s so special to me

hhhh tyyy im gonna give you the rest of that scene but it's truly just them being horny

Charles was hungry for more; it was obvious just looking at him. He spent hours training out on the balcony every day, or running around Monaco—hours with Andrea, working himself up into a lingering soreness that he’d come whining to Max about much later in the night. He had a cream for it that turned hot-cold-hot against his skin. Max’s fingers tingled from the heat when he rubbed it into his muscles at night.

Charles springs up off the treadmill in an easy little bounce and plants his feet on either side of the belt, waiting until it stills before hopping off. His face is glistening from sweat. It’s rubbing down his chest too—leaving lines down his stomach and his pecs, trailing down his throat, pooling in his collarbone and kissing across the imprint of Max’s teeth that lingers on the curve of his trapezius.

Max’s mouth goes dry. His gums throb; his teeth ache.

The door slides open. The sound is lost to the wind outside—the wind, tousling Charles’ hair and lifting the pages of the data set that Max is pretending to leaf through as it gusts into the living room, hot and briny like summer. Charles raises his eyebrows.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he says. He sounds annoyed, but Max knows him inside out. His dimple is showing. “Trying to spy on my routine?”

“I don’t need to spy on you,” Max snorts immediately, just to see Charles’ eyebrows jump. He leans back against the sofa, flicking his pen between his fingers. “I’ll beat you anyway.”

Charles’ lips curl up into a slow, dangerous smile. He all but saunters across the room, eyelids heavy and mouth soft, and it’s nearly enough to make Max laugh. This is a routine they both know well: sultry omega, conniving but harmless. It’s never worked on Max a day in either of their lives.

Charles slides into his lap. The backs of his thighs are clammy below the line of his shorts when Max palms at them, the pen slipping from his fingers and disappearing somewhere between the couch cushions. His breath catches in his chest as Charles leans close enough for their lips to brush together. He forces himself not to move.

“I’m leading you by thirty points,” Charles breathes against his mouth. His fingers knead the back of Max’s neck. His eyes slip closed from the blissful pressure. Cloth shifts; Charles’ lips brush the shell of his ear. “I think you need every advantage you can get,” he whispers.

Max lets out a shaky breath. He trails his hands up, past the curve of Charles’ ass and across the dip of his bare waist. “You think so?” he murmurs.

“I know so. This is my year, just like last year was my year. Just like next year’s my year.”

Max snorts before he can stop himself, a grin breaking out across his face. “I love how optimistic you are.”

“I think—”

But Max straightens up before he can speak, twisting sideways and letting the two of them fall against the couch cushions. Charles’ breath leaves him in a whoosh as his back hits the pillows. He’s wide-eyed all at once, and the flush in his cheeks is suddenly that much darker for a much different reason than exertion.

Max gets his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and tugs them downward. Charles squirms a little, but it only makes it easier to slide the fabric down and off his hips. His biceps jump as he clutches at the cushions. He makes no move to push Max away.

“What was that you were saying?” Max asks sweetly as he drops his shorts over the side of the couch. He hooks a shoulder below Charles’ calf and leans in close, his hoodie brushing Charles’ bare chest, folding him in half. 

Charles glares. “I think you’re washed,” he spits.

Max barks out a laugh. He leans down and licks a long stripe up the soft heat of him and then dives in for more—breathes him in and laps him up until Charles’ sharp words turn to mumbles and then to breathless moans.

[satanslovergirl]

° *SOFT BURN * °

"No one blames you for having hope. We all need it sometimes."

— Dean Winchester, Supernatural Season 13

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (She/Her)

Tone: Protector!Dean, Caring!Dean, Soulmate Romance, Fluffy, Sweet-and-Spicy!Dean

Rating: M (Language, Light Intimacy, Supernatural Themes, Makeout Session, Minor Injury)

Word Count: 6,231

Written by: Little Devil ♥

Based on: Supernatural — Season 13 (canon compliant, original scene)

---

Synopsis:

Dean takes a solo hunt with Y/N when reports of a cursed church in Wyoming reach the bunker. Between crumbling altars and whispered spirits, the two get tangled in more than just lore. When Y/N gets injured, Dean is forced to face a truth he's been running from: she's not just another hunting partner. She's it. His soulmate. And if he loses her now, he doesn’t know who he’ll be when the dust settles.

---

Chapter One: Hollow Ground

The church looked like it belonged in a horror flick—abandoned, paint peeling, stained-glass windows shattered from time and God knows what else. Somewhere between nowhere and dead-end, Wyoming. Classic.

Y/N leaned against the Impala’s passenger door, shotgun in one hand, journal in the other. Her eyes flicked up at the clouds, heavy and low.

“Storm’s coming,” she said quietly.

Dean’s boot scuffed the gravel as he came to stand beside her, eyes narrowed at the looming church. “Yeah, well, we’ve seen worse.”

His voice was low, thoughtful. Protective.

Their fingertips brushed when he reached for the door, and Y/N tried not to react, but her heart skipped like it always did. Dean pretended not to notice, like he always did.

Inside, the building was darker than it looked from the outside. Pew benches lay in broken rows. A stained cross, cracked straight through the middle, hung crooked behind the pulpit.

“Creepy as hell,” she muttered.

Dean smirked, flashlight beam bouncing off marble tile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The EMF went wild in the chapel. Something was here.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “You feel that?”

Dean nodded, shoulders tensing. “Yeah. We’re not alone.”

Before she could reply, a scream tore through the air—thin and wailing like a banshee. Then a gust of wind, unnatural, slammed the chapel doors shut.

“Dean!” she called, raising her shotgun.

He was already moving—quick, focused. “Behind me.”

The spirit manifested with a vengeance—white dress, black eyes, mouth stretched in a soundless scream. Dean fired first, salt rock sending it scattering. But not before it flung Y/N into a stone column.

She hit hard.

The world swam.

-ˋˏ✧｡*✡

Chapter Two: When the Dust Settles

He found her crumpled against the base of the pulpit, blood at her temple. Not moving.

“Y/N—” Dean dropped to his knees, voice cracking. “Hey. No, no, no—come on, sweetheart, don’t do this to me.”

He pressed trembling fingers to her neck. Pulse.

Weak, but there.

His relief punched through him like a wave. Still, he couldn’t stop the tremble in his hands as he brushed hair from her face. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. I got you.”

Dean lifted her carefully, taking her weight against his chest. “You’re not dying in some busted-up church, sweetheart. Not on my watch.”

And as he carried her out into the rain, he whispered every prayer he’d never believed in.

-ˋˏ♡ˎˊ˗

Back at the motel, she stirred hours later.

Dean sat in a chair beside the bed, head in his hands.

She groaned softly, and his head shot up. “Y/N?”

Her voice was rough. “Dean?”

He was by her side instantly, brushing her cheek. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She gave a weak smile. “That’s usually my line.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

After making sure she wasn’t concussed, he let the silence settle. But it was too loud. Too heavy. He had to say it.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured. “And I—I couldn’t take it. Y/N… I’m not just worried because you’re a hunter or you’re part of the team.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “Then why?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Because you’re it. For me.”

The air between them changed. She sat up slowly, wincing, then reached out and took his hand.

“I know,” she whispered. “You’re it for me, too.”

He leaned in before he lost the nerve.

And when their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks or lightning—it was warmth. Home. His hand slid to her jaw, her fingers tangled in his jacket, and for the first time in years, Dean let himself feel safe.

Loved.

-ˋˏ♡ˎˊ˗

°* SOFT BURN — END *°

"No one blames you for having hope. We all need it sometimes." — Dean Winchester, Season 13

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

[tacticaldiary]

Hey there! Love your stuff! I was just reading some of your work for our favorite Scotsman and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to feed me more.

Picture this, Soap and Reader have been a thing since like forever. On the “Alone” mission or something, reader goes on a rampage to find her sweet sweet Johnny.

A Still Beating Heart

Pairing: Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"Like hell I was leaving you." Clicking her tongue, she shifts her focus on his wound that's bleeding through the hasty patchwork. "Not letting you bleed out now."

"You gonna kiss it better, hen?" A poor attempt at a joke.

"I'll kiss you all you want once we're safe."

A/N: This turned out way longer than I expected-

Masterlist

Rain obscures her vision as she runs, the image of Johnny hitting the ground after being shot playing over and over again in a dreadful loop.

He got away. He's gotten away. He's alright.

She chants it in her head over and over whilst navigating the winding streets of Las Almas.

"Watch it." Ghost barks yanking her to the side roughly when she almost crashes head-first into a crumbling brick wall. "Get your head on straight, Sergeant." Muted anger coats his words as he spits them out.

She grits her teeth in response, taking a second to survey her surroundings. They've stopped in an alleyway a good chunk of the way into the town. There's no doubt that Graves would be on their heels, they couldn't afford to stop for long.

Leaving two deadly soldiers who are witnesses wouldn't be a risk he'd take.

Three. She reminds herself with a fierce determination. Three soldiers.

How dare he. How fucking dare Graves turn around and betray them like he hadn't been their brother in arms for the last few weeks. The fact that he'd turned on them without remorse, shot her boyfriend without batting an eye was unforgivable.

Rage, hot and fierce scalds the blood running through her veins. Her mind is a storm of conflict, a desperate chant of Johnny's name on repeat. Between the anger, there's the blinding worry that accompanies it. It had all happened so fast she didn't get a chance to see where exactly he got shot, just that he'd fallen with a pained grunt, then Ghost was shouting at him to go.

Part of her rages Ghost him as well, for the way he'd roughly stopped her from lunging into the open to get to Johnny. It's not justified. Ghost had done his job as Lieutenant, had gotten them both and Johnny out of there in time.

Just barely in time.

While Ghost ventures farther into the alley, she clicks on her radio, switching through different channels. "Transmitting in the blind, does anyone copy?" She says into the device, frustrated when there's no answer, she flicks through the channels again and-

A raspy cough, a weak, familiar Scottish drawl.

She switches to it immediately, bringing the radio up to her mouth. "Johnny? I read you." The relief is palpable in her voice, a creature that settles with its claws still out. "What's your location?" She holds her tongue and her questions upon hearing heavy, raspy breaths from the other side. "Johnny?"

"Aye. 'S good to hear your voice." He manages. "I'm in...at the corner of a street. Edge of the town somewhere." There's a grunt from the other end, the rustling of gear and clothing as he sits up. "Is Ghost there?"

"Affirm." Her eyes snap to the man as he talks through his own radio. "There's a Church north side of the city. We'll recon there." His scouting must have resulted in something, then. It's a good plan, she'll admit. A structure with a solid vantage point gated off and less likely to be surrounded with its many exit points. Smart.

"Copy." Johnny's short response makes her frown.

"Can you make it?" She presses him. The short beat of silence has her heart sinking.

"'Course I can." He laughs but it's hollow. "Don't worry your pretty head about it. You'll see me in no time."

"Get moving, Soap." Ghost shuts down the conversation tightly, peering into one of the cracked open doors that lead into what looks like a clothing store. "Stay on my six," He tells her. "It's a straight path there, but we don't have a count on-"

"I'm going fetch him." Ghost exhales slowly, not turning around. "You and I both know he's lost an unknown amount of blood. I'm not risking losing him to that motherfucker." She snarls.

"You don't have his location."

"I'll scour the outskirts until I find him. You provide overwatch from the church. I will find him."

The fire in her eyes, the tight-strung posture...Ghost has little doubt that she would. They meet eyes, but she doesn't back down for a second, daring him to order her otherwise.

Finally after what seems like ages, he jerks his head behind him in silent, begrudging approval. "Thirty minutes, Sergeant."

"I'll only need ten."

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tucked behind the counter of a grocery store, Soap clenches his jaw as footsteps pass through the window above him. This entire situation was a shit show.

The sting of betrayal was almost as painful as the insistent throbbing on his shoulder. He's already sure the bullet is lodged in there from the quick once-over he gave himself. Admittedly, it had taken him longer than he expected to get his bearings. Judging by the puddle of blood he woke up in, he'd already lost a good amount of blood before he'd roughly packed the still gushing wound.

Guerrilla warfare was bloody and made something vile crawl through Soap's veins. Every time he ties together rope and metal to pry open a door, or fashions a bomb out of a mousetrap, he can't help but think of the bodies he'd encountered on his path to the church. Children, women, men...nobody was spared by those fuckers.

It was vile, a kind of justice he didn't enlist to take part in. The very thing he's sworn to protect people against...

Soap is snapped out of his thoughts by Ghost's voice. They'd had some back and forth whilst they were moving, and Soap knows it's partly to keep him alert and present. Underneath Ghost's rough words, there was always a twinge of worry lacing his tone only someone familiar with the exact lilt of his mannerisms would pick up.

Once the footsteps recede, Soap groans quietly, pushing himself up to his feet with help from the wall. His legs protest, his arms ache and a deep exhaustion infects his mind, begs him to sit down for a few minutes and let go.

In an attempt to shake off the thoughts, he takes a deep breath and reaches for his radio to hear the one voice that always makes him snap to attention.

Soap's been thanking whoever was up there that she'd ended up safe with Ghost. It didn't ease his worry but it soothed it into something more bearable. She wasn't incapable by any means, but even the strongest person benefitted by someone equally capable by their side.

God, he hopes he reaches the church before he collapses.

Swaying suddenly, Soap curses under his breath and reaches to grab the counter to steady himself. In his haste, his arm crashes against a vase, sending it crashing to the ground.

The noise is accompanied by the yells of Shadows outside the store. Soap barely has time to curse himself out and make a lunge for the stairs before the soldier from before peers into the store, rifle at the ready.

Gunfire rains down on him, grazing his arm when he presses himself behind a brick pillar for cover.

Fuck. Fuck.

Sweat beads down his back as he struggles to keep himself upright, shaky fingers patting down his pocket for the knife he'd yanked out of a soldier's head an hour ago...has it been an hour? He doesn't know anymore.

Cautious steps approach him, his heart pounding against his chest as adrenaline pushes itself through his system.

It was strike now or get struck down. The element of surprise was the only advantage he had. His shoulder aches like a bitch but he sucks it up and tightens his grip around his knife.

It all happens at the same time.

Soap lunges out of his hiding spot, weapon raised as much as the fuzz around his vision will let him.

And he watches as someone else tackles the Shadow to the ground.

Soap stops in his tracks, tensing at the vicious way she slits the man's throat. Familiar hair, a body he's mapped out with his hands and mouth over and over again.

Her gaze snaps up to meet his, a shock down his spine.

"For someone so loud, you're good at staying hidden." She huffs, wiping the blood off of her cheek.

No. No, she couldn't be here. She was supposed to be with Ghost, not roaming the streets crawling with Shadows for...

For him.

The thought warms him from the inside out despite the situation. Who the hell is he kidding? He would have done the exact same thing for her.

The moment her hands touch his arms, all the energy seems to snap out of him. Johnny's knees give out, her hands barely catching him to lower him gently to the ground.

"Shit, Johnny?" Panic laces her voice. A hand slick with blood cups his cheek, slaps it gently to prompt his eyes to flutter open. "You gotta stay awake, okay baby? Come on." She doesn't relent until he listens, a hazy gaze focused on her.

"Ya shouldn't be here." He rasps out.

"Like hell I was leaving you." Clicking her tongue, she shifts her focus on his wound, bleeding through the hasty patchwork. "Not letting you bleed out now."

"You gonna kiss it better, hen?" A poor attempt at a joke.

"I'll kiss you all you want once we're safe." Hooking his uninjured arm over her shoulder, she helps her stand. Her heart clenches at the pained groan he tries to muffle. It's good that she had the sense to come back for him.

She doesn't want to think what might have happened if she'd been a second too late.

"That a promise?"

"A threat." She corrects as they stumble towards the backdoor. The weak snort she gets in response is more than enough to loosen the knot in her chest an inch.

Soap's laugh dies in his throat when they hit the streets.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He mumbles, looking around at the roads bathed in crimson.

Bodies and bodies of Shadows lay scattered around almost every alleyway they hobble through. Peeks through to the main roads show the same results. Black masked figures slumped over, limbs twisted and odd angles, necks slit open brutally.

"Had some fun getting to me, did ya?"

There's no response from her but a shrug.

There's no sorrow or remorse for what she had to do to get to him. A mantra of his name playing through her head, the desperation of getting to him and the rage of the situation mixed together had made each swipe of her knife, each broken bone easy.

She's painted the town red.

Johnny. She needed to get to Johnny and whoever was standing in her way had met their demise by viscous hands and an unforgiving sentence.

"I'm surprised you made it that far on your own." Keeping him talking was important. "Graves will face hell for what he's done." They duck into a street, the church in plain view.

"It's a bleedin' a war crime." Soap says. "Makes me want to commit a few of my own." His voice dips down to a growl. She shares the same sentiment.

"Amen." She mumbles back, peering out into the courtyard in front of them. A couple of figures patrol the area, breaking off of each other to peer behind parked vehicles and doors to different shops.

"Four hostiles in our path." A grimace. She gently lowers him down against the stone wall. "Stay here while I clear our path... not that you can go anywhere, actually."

Soap seems displeased about her going off on her own, but he knows that he's more of a liability than an advantage in a situation where stealth is valued. "Take 'em quietly."

"Copy." Her bloody knife spins in her hand. "Be right back, baby." Pressing a kiss to his temple, she slips out of the alley.

Johnny breathes out a shaky sigh, and lets his head hit the stone behind him. Itchy and restless from being able to do nothing, he loathes feeling so...useless. He's confident in her, how could anyone not be? But that doesn't quell the need to shield her from everything he can spare her from.

She was fiery and bright, everything he'd always wanted. She came into his life as a force to be reckoned with, butting heads with him and throwing insults back at his face as easily as he uttered them to her.

Love had hit him hard.

Stuck in his head, his eyes flutter shut against his wishes as he thinks. Just for moment, he tells himself. Just until she gets back.

Just a second of rest wouldn't hurt, right?

Somewhere in the depth of his mind, he knows that letting himself fall unconscious was the worst possible case in this scenario, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. The blood loss makes him tired and lethargic and before long he's fallen into the inky depth of sleep.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It had all gone to shit.

Three of the four guards she'd taken down quickly. It had been almost easy how fast and quiet they went down, gurgling on their own blood as her knife slid across the chinks in their armour, the skin of their necks.

The third guard had been a little too trigger-happy, though. A twitch of his finger while he was choking had set his gun going off with a bang, a bullet embedded into one of the cars nearby.

It had been enough to alert every goddamn person in the vicinity.

She's glad she left Johnny behind, at least his position wasn't compromised.

Just as the street started filling up, her radio had crackled to life, Ghost barking that the church had been compromised and overrun, ordering them to meet him at the end of the street to secure a vehicle.

She was already there, all she had to do was keep her position and stop the Shadows from flanking her until Ghost got there.

"Copy." She mutters into the radio, setting up the rifle she'd swiped from one of the corpses over the hood of the cars she's ducked behind. "Eyes on a possible vehicle." She relays over comms upon setting sight on a blue truck close to her, relatively unscratched. Firing off round after round, the soldiers drop like flies. The armoured ones are a little tougher to deal with, and need a more precise aim but she manages somehow.

She curses under her breath as more of the pour from the stores and alleys into the streets.

Just a little longer. Ghost was almost here, then they could secure a vehicle, grab Johnny and get the fuck out of here.

Wrecking carnage in his path, Ghost emerges from behind a barrier after what seems like an hour, and together the both of them climb into the truck she informed him of. "Stop by the far alley and I'll haul Soap inside so we can get the hell out of here." She grunts, firing off shots from the back of the truck as Ghost starts the ignition.

She gets an affirmative and they're on their way, ducking at the sound of gunfire and barked orders following them.

She jumps out of the truck and runs into the alley where she left him. "Time to go Johnny, come-..." She halts in her tracks, into a dead stop at the scene in front of her.

Blood splatters the wall behind his shoulder, the wound aggravated and bleeding through the improvised bandaging in rivers of red down his arm. He's...he's pale, shallow gasps of breaths that are barely there making his chest move in movements too small to be healthy.

Ghost yells at her to make it quick, and it's her Lieutenant's voice that brings her crashing back to reality. Swallowing back her panic, she hoists Johnny up and drags him into the back of the truck, yelling at Ghost to move as she lays him down as still as possible.

Bullets ping off of the metal, but all she can focus on is pressing her hands to Soap's wound. She leans in close to feel him puffing out short gasps of air.

Still breathing, she tells herself as Ghost makes a sharp turn. He's alive, he's breathing, he's here, he's not dead. Alive, alive, still alive.

With hands shaky, she pulls out a proper roll of gauze from her vest, the emergency first aid pouch she carries is worth its weight in gold.

"Don't you fucking die on me, baby." She whispers, voice cracking. "It's not allowed." She wipes the worst of the wound with disinfectant before packing the hole with fresh gauze.

There was so much blood pooling beneath him in that alley...and how much had he lost before that?

He needed a medic, and fast. She wouldn't lose him. Not him.

Not her Johnny.

Not the person that could coax a smile out of her even if she was in the foulest of moods. Not Johnny, who always seemed to know what she needed, what made her feel better. Not the love of her life who she'd seen a life out of the military with.

Please, not him.

Time flies by and soon, Ghost pulls over in front of a safehouse. When he exits the driver's seat and comes round the back to asses the situation, his heart sinks as he finds her curled up over Soap, lips pressed to his forehead as she whispers to him, her hand carding through his dirty hair as if he might wake up to feel it.

"Let's get him inside." He says, tone oddly sombre. If he notices how wet her eyes are, he doesn't comment on it, merely helps her carry him in silence.                                   · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rudy had been a godsend. His safe house had been packed with supplies much more useful to Soap. He'd taken one look at Soap, at her wrecked and frantic state, and taken over. Ordering her and Ghost to start studying the maps to the facility they planned to break into, he started his own inspection of Soap.

She can't focus.

The maps mean nothing to her. The lines, the marks, the circles. It was meaningless gibberish to her when her boyfriend was-

"He'll pull through." She blinks back into the present at Ghost's gruff voice, head snapping up to meet his gaze.

"He better." A shaky inhale.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

When Rudy comes back to inform them that Soap is stable, her legs nearly buckle under her with a wave of relief. She pushes past him immediately to seek her boyfriend out, and finds him laying on one of the old cots pushed to the corner.

She takes a seat on the floor next to him, resting her head against the mattress. "You're an asshole." She mumbles after a second. "Scared the shit out of me, you know that?"

He probably can't hear her, but it doesn't stop her frayed nerves from talking. Her hand finds his and she squeezes it gently trying to bring some of her warmth into his cold skin. Sighing, she presses his hand to her forehead, shifting her grip so her fingers rested on his pulse.

Each steady beat loosens the knot in her chest, reassures her that he is alive.

Would he wake up soon? Would he wake up at all? The latter thought is quickly chased away, because there was no choice. Johnny had to wake up, he had to.

A world without him simply wasn't one worth having.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her back aches.

Forehead pressed into the mattress right by his waist, it's the first thing she registers as she's roused from where she'd dozed off. Blinking sluggishly, she groans as she feels a hand carding through her hair.

Just the right pressure, the feeling so familiar and warm and soothing-

Her eyes widen and she snaps up straight to meet a pair of tired but amused blue eyes studying her. Johnny's sitting up right in front of her, looking down at her in that soft way he always did.

"Rise and shine." He rasps out, and she almost sobs at the sound. Pushing herself to her feet, she wraps her arms around him the best she can without injuring him. "Easy." He winces at being jostled but holds her just as tight.

"Thought you were gone." She chokes out, trembling. "I thought-"

"I'm right here, bonnie." He whispers into her hair. "Right with ya. Gonna take more than that to do me in, right?"

She laughs wetly into his shoulder, as he runs a hand up and down her back as if she was the one who needed comforting.

Pulling herself together was a more difficult task than clearing the streets of Las Almas. Every time she thinks she's calmed down, she remembers how still and cold Johnny had been and she spirals all over again.

He clicks his tongue and manoeuvres them gently so he's laying down with her on his chest, careful to avoid his good arm. Her head is pressed against the centre of his chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat a balm against the rising and falling cycle of panic and grief she's stuck in.

Alive, alive, alive. Still alive.

Once her breathing evens out into something relatively stable, she tries to speak again. "Don't scare me like that again."

He hums. "I'll do better next time." A tired smile grows on his face as she pinches his side.

Alive.

He was still alive.

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(3/09/2023)

[drachonia]

𝐦 𝐢 𝐧 𝐭 𝐰 𝐢 𝐭 𝐡 𝐞 𝐧 𝐯 𝐲 .

Kinktober Day 30 Nika Schwarz x OC (Sigrid)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: decided these last few fics are gonna be a few double prompts as an extra treat. <3 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @candiedcoffeedrops @candied-boys @natimiles 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: jealous sex, mild dirty talk, balcony sex/public sex.

Nika never had much patience when it came to Sigrid and business. Not in a sense that she frustrated him with how she acted, rather it was those around her.

Especially those that stared at her with less than good intentions. His fingers twitched toward where his pistol rested inside its holster, covered up by his jacket. Blue eyes narrowed with an icy stare as a man — he assumed someone affiliated to a business partner — lifted her hand, only for Sigrid to withdraw herself before he could make any further moves, a tight smile on her lips as she spoke. Just a quick glance over her shoulder and her eyes met Nika’s, seeing his face shift dramatically from cold to warm as he strode over with a graceful gait.

“Who’s this, rotkehlchen?” Nika sidled up to her, eyes flickering from her to the man who had introduced himself, “Callum Spencer, do you have business with the lady?” The man, a brown haired, green-eyed gentleman not too much older than Nika himself, frowned slightly in his direction. The elder of the Schwartz twins curled his lip in a smirk before responding in kind.

“Why would I not have business with my fiancée?” He arched a brow challengingly, ringed hand slipping down her back slowly, taking care to tease the exposed skin along her spine and flicking his gaze down to watch her shifting expression, finally pulling her by the waist to press into his side and fall against his arm. The man’s face contorted into a mix of embarrassment and anger, Nika managing a smug smile as he rested his chin atop Sigrid’s head, watching the unwelcome guest leave, leaving the pair with a few heartbeats of silence before Sigrid piped up, “Honestly, what’s your problem?”

“My gorgeous robin doesn’t seem to know her own charm.” He tilted her chin up with a finger, the silver of his ring brushing cool over her skin as he turned his head to capture her lips with his. The kiss was slow at first, building into a deep embrace, his hands wandering lower and lower as his tongue pushed insistently past her lips, forcing her mouth open further. Though, he internally groaned at the slight pressure she put on his chest, reluctantly drawing back.

“Not here. Somewhere private.” She huffed against his lips, short of breath. Nika wore a sly smirk from as he wrapped his arm back around her waist.

“It almost scares me how easily you know the layout of this place after only a few days here.” Sigrid breathed as Nika pressed against her out on the balcony laughing softly in her ear.

“Trade secret.” He purred, kissing her temple and squeezing her hips from behind before wandering beneath her skirt and pushing the layers up in back, gathering them off to one side and slipping his other hand to his belt as he kissed from ear to shoulder in a trail down the side of her neck.

Fingers grazed her folds through fabric, drawing small circles against her clit as she shifted against him, elliciting a faint groan from Nika.

“Fuck…”

“If you’re a good boy, you might do that soon.”

“Or I could just coax it out of you, I like seeing you give in.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, muffling a moan with a bite of her bottom lip and a roll of her hips back against her lover. Their moans mixed as they leaned out on the balcony, only obscured by thin curtains that flowed in the wind.

“Why did you even pick the balcony, Nika?”

“Because I want to see how excited you can get for me out in the open.” His voice was low and drawling, middle finger still circling her bud as her breathing grew labored, one thigh crossing over his hand slightly to further prove his curiosity right.

“Is that the sweet spot, rotkehlchen? Right there?” He hissed in her ear, rubbing a bit faster.

“N-No…deeper.”

“Deeper? I must have a needy girl…” he craned his head over hers as he tilted her chin back and stared into her eyes as she rubbed into his touch slightly.

There was no way either of them would come away from the party unsatisfied.

[nowoyas]

Koi no Yokan 10: Get it out of your system (Nishinoya Yuu/Reader)

First - Prev - Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: this chapter was tough to write. please enjoy however you can.

Summary: The long ride back to Miyagi comes to an end. You open old wounds and gain a new one.

Warnings and tags: blanket series warnings. this chapter contains explicit death of a parent. also: implied animal death and implied/assumed homophobia (light). some suggestive themes.

Words: ~4700

The foretold Soba albums are remarkable. Despite his promise of unlimited access, Noya curates the photos for you, starting at the very beginning and not quite handing his phone over to you directly. You suspect this has more to do with the fact that you saw the text his phone unlocked on, and given the opportunity, you're fucking deleting the photo Tanaka sent him of the two of you napping together before lunch.

Instead, you lean in close to see his screen properly, head resting against his side. Initially, he'd shown a split second of awkwardness at the contact, but your attempt to respect his comfort level and pull away had seen him wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you right back down.

The photo he shows you now is one of the earliest: a girl, a bit thicker than Noya or the other sister you've seen but looking to be around his age now at the time of the photo, holds what's clearly Soba as a kitten—99% fluff and 1% anger. "This's Mei and Soba," Noya tells you in a low voice. "Mei and I were the ones that rescued her—I think this picture was right after we brought her back from getting checked at the vet? He said she was barely old enough to be separated from her mom, but when Mei found her, the mom was…"

You get the implication. "That's so sad. Do you guys know what happened to her mom?"

"We think she was hit by a car," he answers.

You nearly laugh. It's too perfect. "Mine, too," you whisper bitterly.

He tenses against you. "What?"

"Right in front of the house."

"Fuck, I'm so—"

You wind your arm around him, eyes locked on Soba and Mei. "Don't, Senpai. I don't want it."

He clears his throat awkwardly. Drags his thumb in mindless circles over your waist. "Okay. I won't, then."

"Tell me more about Soba?"

He obeys without a second thought, scrolling through to show you more as he continues telling you about Soba—early days, the household war over her name that the mysterious third sister, Satsuki, eventually won. (Apparently, he'd wanted to name her Miku. He refused to elaborate on this.) His arm doesn't leave you after that, either—one hand flicking through his photos, one resting too-hot on your waist.

It's a little weird, hearing him talk without raising his voice. Part of it, you think, is the weird tension that still hasn't quite left the others—the rest of the bus is relatively quiet. There's still noise, of course. But normally, Hinata and Kageyama would be at each other's throats, or else Hinata would be loudly chattering to someone—pissing off Tsukishima, or excitedly hyping up Tanaka. Unlike the bus ride down here, where the two boys weren't present, you're dimly aware in the back of your mind that they should be disrupting the peace.

"Hey. Where's your head?"

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't say that. You were all out of it earlier, too."

"Just… worried about those two," you whisper.

"Who, Shouyo and Kageyama?"

A nod.

"Is worrying about it gonna change anything?"

"It's not like I can just not worry about it. What, do you just decide not to worry and then not do it?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

You blink up at him, somewhere between awe and disgust. "That's insane."

"It took some practice. But, you know, unless you're gonna do something about it, looking at pictures of my cat is a way better use of your time. Otherwise you're just stressing yourself out, and that's the opposite of what we're trying to do right now."

"I don't understand how you can not worry about it."

"I mean, I'm worried. I'm just not paying too much attention to it 'cus there's not much point. Especially not when there's this picture of Soba in a bowtie Satsuki made for her you need to look at before I move on."

Oh my god that's the cutest thing you've ever seen. You coo, eyes sparkling at baby Soba.

"The fact that you have this many photos of your cat is still the most jarring thing to me," you tease. "Tough guy and his two thousand photos of his cat wearing cowboy hats and bowties."

"It's closer to one thousand, thank you very much. Soba's a very important cat." He clears his throat, drops his voice even lower, like he doesn't want anyone else to hear him. "My… I'm pretty sure she saved my sister's life."

"Oh. Like…"

He nods. "I don't really remember much, but our dad left when I was pretty young. I guess it probably messed me up pretty bad, and I used to be a lot more like Mei when I was a kid, but she always took it way harder than even Okaa-san did. She started doing stuff after we found Soba. I don't know where she went, but it was kinda like she brought my sister back."

"Are you just telling me this because I told you about my mom?"

He shrugs, the movement awkward with you pressed so completely into his side. "A little. It didn't seem fair."

…well, at least he's honest.

"But, I mean, I also just want you to know. That's okay, right?"

"…yeah." You shuffle a little, press your thigh into his in a way that's meant to be comforting. "Soba's a good cat."

He nods. "The best cat."

"And… thanks. For sharing and—and all that. I'm sorry about your dad and your sister."

He goes back to showing you photos of Soba in relative silence until his phone battery hits red. Then, it's you actually reading your book, half-resting it on his lap so he can read along if he wants. Impressively, he actually seems to be. He taps your side whenever he's done reading the page, and you nod whenever you're ready for the page to turn.

You don't untangle for the rest of the several-hour bus ride.

~

Back at the school gets you all a meeting, sat in a circle on the gym floor, and reminds you with stunning clarity that promising to tell Noya the story over dinner means you have to make a real dinner and actually tell him the story. The teasing from a few of the others on the way you were cuddled up when you got back to the school falls completely flat—you're too wrapped up in dread to even think about being embarrassed for the tangled legs or the comfort of Noya's chest beneath your ear.

So you respond the way you always do: get changed slow, linger in the changing room until Shimizu and Yachi have both gotten into their school uniforms and gone on ahead for the night. Check your phone in slow motion, pretending like you would have received any texts when the only people you talk to have been on a bus with you for the past five hours.

(Tanaka has texted you. Multiple times, in fact; you now have two pictures of you cuddling Noya awake and asleep, as well as several teasing messages about your new boyfriend.)

Eventually, you can't justify wasting any more time. Noya will come drag you out if you take too much longer. You meander past the gym just in time to see a panicked Yachi run past, yelling for an upperclassman—any upperclassman.

Then you hear the shouting inside the gym.

You poke your head inside, drop your bag as you watch Hinata clock Kageyama right in the face.

Not on your fucking watch.

~

Noya leans against the school gate with Ryu. He's waiting, of course, for you. His side feels buzzy where you'd spent the majority of the past three hours pressed into him. He keeps thinking, guiltily, about your leg pressed into his, migrating over the course of two hours until neither of you were acknowledging the fact that you were halfway in his lap. And now, dinner.

Later tonight, he'll text Ryu, a series of all-caps messages begging for divine answers on what the fuck it's supposed to mean when a girl goes out of her way to cuddle up to you. He won't include your dinner conversation, but he'll include a too-detailed description of how it felt when you sighed against him, the way you melted slowly over the course of the ride. He'll give even more details to Satsuki, red-faced and falling apart, desperate for a straight answer from the only sister available to give advice, and when she teases him—you should have just pulled her into your lap the rest of the way, stupid—he'll feel no more enlightened than before he debased himself asking for his sister's advice. He'll end the night with an embarrassing new search history that starts with how to tell if a girl meant anything by cuddling with you and ends with a browser in incognito mode, no new insights, a profound sense of guilt, and a mess to clean up in his bedroom.

For now though, he's fully not processing what Ryu's saying to him, though he knows it's about you, about the leap from teasing jokes to napping together.

He's processing it even less when Yachi runs up to them, white as a sheet and nearly screaming.

"Woah, Yacchan, what's—"

"P-please! I-in the gym, they're—they're gonna die!" she babbles, already crying.

Noya shares a look with Ryu and runs off ahead. Ryu can be the one to calm her down—Noya's faster.

This is how he finds Shouyo: rage in his eyes, voice hoarse as he shouts, cut off abruptly as he's thrown to the ground.

This is how he finds Kageyama: swinging back, hardly paying attention to anything except the middle blocker he's fighting before a fist closes in his shirt and roughly shoves him back.

This is how he finds you: right in the middle of it, taking a punch in the mouth clearly not meant for you as you throw one to the ground and roughly force the other back a good few steps.

"That's enough!" you snap. The other two are shell-shocked at the sight of you. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?"

"[surname]-san—" Kageyama starts, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to—"

"Be quiet. Both of you, sit. Don't even look at each other. You scared the hell out of Yachi-san, you know that?"

Noya stands, frozen, watching you stand over them with your hands on your hips like you didn't just take a punch to the mouth.

"Right. I'm sorry," they mutter in sync.

"I'm sure you are. Is this about the spike thing?"

They both look instantly incensed, talking over each other.

"He said he wasn't gonna set to me—"

"We don't have time to focus on this—"

Your voice cuts them off sharply. "I asked you both a yes or no question. I'm not interested in hearing anything else right now."

"…yes."

"Oi oi oi!" Ryu's voice cuts in, footsteps stuttering to a stop beside him in the doorway. "You two—"

You don't even look up at the intrusion. "One of you, find me a first aid kit. The other, go find me a couple rags and get them wet. Cold water, please. Yachi-san, take a seat. Your heart needs to rest before I enlist you in anything."

Noya's muscles tense, and he moves, remembering vaguely where the first aid kit is normally hung on the wall. Ryu silently moves to the storage closet to find some rags.

"Now. Admittedly, I'm still not that informed on volleyball. Is getting into fistfights with your teammates how you make it to nationals?"

"…no," Shouyo mutters.

"Do you win matches by scaring the shit out of the most gentle-hearted manager in existence?"

"…no."

"So what the hell do you think you're accomplishing right now? Fifty words or less from each of you. Hinata, you can start."

"He—he said that he wasn't going to set to me anymore! I'm just trying to improve what we have! If that quick is our greatest weapon, then—"

Kageyama growls. "Then you need to—"

"It's not your turn to talk." Silence. "You've got twelve more words, Hinata."

"…I'm not worth anything on the court without that attack," he finishes lamely. Noya might not have heard him if he hadn't come up beside you, placing the first aid kit in your waiting hand.

You crouch down, start rifling through the kit with a nod of thanks to Noya. "You're trying to improve things because you want to keep being a regular."

"…yeah. I just want to keep playing volleyball."

"Alright. Kageyama. Fifty words or less."

Kageyama grits his teeth. You're not even looking at him—instead, you're looking over Hinata, a bandage in hand.

"If we spend all our time and energy working on making a change that might not work, it's just going to hurt us more later. Hinata should be focusing on improving as an all-around player instead of wasting time on something we've tried before and couldn't make work. All this—"

"That's fifty."

"Oi—"

"I said fifty words or less."

"But—"

"You just punched me in the face, so sorry, but you get to talk when I say you get to talk. You used your fifty." You accept a cold rag from Ryu, press it firmly against a red spot on Hinata's cheek. "Hold that there. It's not quite an ice pack, but it'll help with the swelling and maybe prevent later bruising."

"Um, [surname]-san, your lip—"

"This isn't about me, but thank you for your concern."

"Oi, did Kageyama seriously—" Ryu whispers to Noya.

Noya nods. "I don't think she even noticed. He got her right in the mouth."

You shift to looking over Kageyama for injuries, roughly smoothing a bandaid in place on his face. "I know I'm new to all this stuff, but you two weren't there for the start of the training camp. Right now, the team is built around that attack. Without it, you can't win against high-level teams. And with it, you also can't seem to win, but you're much closer."

Noya winces. You're right, but…

When you're satisfied with the first aid administered, another damp rag being pressed against Kageyama's own bruises, you lean back, settling on your knees to look at them both. "I don't think Hinata's wrong for wanting to improve it when it's not working. And I don't think Kageyama-san is wrong for wanting there to be focus on improving in other areas. It seems to me, as someone whose entire job is to watch you guys and pay attention, that both of those things are going to be necessary if you want to start winning. But that's just me."

After a long moment of silence, you sigh. "How are both of you feeling?"

"Fine," Shouyo mutters. Kageyama simply glares at the floor.

"Good enough. Let's get this mess cleaned up and go home. Gym inspections tomorrow, so you have a day to work through your shit before practicing together again. Do us all a favor and use it wisely. Solve it however, I don't care, but no more scaring Yachi-san and no more actual fistfights."

You rise, move to help them clean up the scattered volleyballs and take down the net. Noya grabs your shoulder immediately, turns you to inspect the damage.

That would be what Hinata was trying to point out. Now that you're actually facing him, he can see the split in your lip, the blood lazily trailing down your chin.

"Nope," he says immediately. "Come on, it's your turn to get first aid."

"Senpai, I'm—"

"Bleeding. Those three can clean up just fine. Let me take a look."

You roll your eyes, but let him guide you to sit against the wall while he inspects your bleeding mouth. Yachi seems no better for the wear after returning—the fight's done, which leaves her full brainspace to panic over you and your bloody lip.

"[s-surname]-chan, h-how did you—"

You scoff at her panic, pat the ground next to you. "Sit down. You look like you're gonna pass out."

She obediently sits. Noya crouches in front of you, tilts your chin so he can dab at the blood running down your face. "I'm gonna kill him," he growls.

"Don't. I knew what I was getting into. 'Sides, he clearly didn't mean to hit me."

"But he did," he grumbles.

Your eyes slide Yachi-ways, amusement clear in your features. "Senpai. You realize you can't really do anything for a split lip, right? It's stop the bleeding and then go about your life."

"But—"

"Yachi-san, are you okay?" you interrupt him, turning to the poor girl. "You're still super pale."

She nods slowly. "I… it's not like I got involved in the fight or anything. It was just… scary…"

You flash a reassuring smile, reach over to pat her on the shoulder. "You did good. It's over now, yeah?"

"Right… d-do you think they'll be… okay…?"

"They will if they've got their friends with them through it."

Noya stands, helps you to your feet. Offers a hand to Yachi, too, who politely refuses. "I seriously thought you might pass out back there."

She shakes her head. "I'll be okay. Thank you."

You brush yourself off. "Sorry you guys had to see that, though. Yachi-san, if you're feeling alright, maybe walk back with Hinata? You gel pretty well with him, and I don't think either of them want to hear any more from me tonight."

She nods. You ask the same favor of Ryu with walking back Kageyama; effortlessly, everything is cleaned up, the two first-years involved in the fight get sent on, and you walk back with Noya, carrying the bloodied rag in your hand.

"You're learning a lot about me today, I guess," you comment, a thin veneer of amusement over your voice. "We haven't even gotten to the part where I cook you dinner to make up for telling you all about my trauma immediately after."

"Hey, I'm not complaining," he jokes. If he runs right at the dinner thing, you'll probably clam up again. "Stern [name]-san back there was kinda hot, though. You need a husband?"

Wrong thing to say, Noya, wrong thing to say—

You toss your head back and laugh. "I dunno. I've gotten a lot of applications recently. Pretty sure they're all the same guy, though."

"Damn. He must have eyes or something."

"I'm not sure he does, really. I'm kinda a mess."

He pulls you into a side hug. "You do a really good job of pretending not to be."

"You're not even going to deny it?"

"Oh, sorry, you're not a mess. You alone are the one human being in existence who has ever had it together."

"Thank you, thank you." You pat his chest. His nerves light on fire at the contact—he nearly misses a step.

You lead him past his own house, where you normally part. Your mind is somewhere else—he lets it drift there for now. There'll be plenty of time over dinner to figure out what's going on inside your head.

~

Your hands shake as you prepare dinner. You didn't really have much of a plan, but curry makes a lot and lets you eat well for over a week after cooking once, so you tie an apron around your waist, peel potatoes, chop garlic, and get nearly half an hour to think about the elephant before you let it into the room.

Noya, for his part, waits as you work. He sits at the table, watches you swish about the kitchen, watches you grate an apple and wipe down the salt container and dump lemon juice into your bowl of grated apple. He's patient, just to surprise you. When you throw stock into the pot and drop a lid on top, you turn to him at last, feeling the dread so acutely that you end up turning back to the sink and washing whatever dishes you've dirtied in the past half an hour.

"Did you want to wait until we were eating to talk to me about it?" he asks at last, head propped up against his hand as he watches you. "I can help with dishes."

"No," you say, too quickly. "I just—I need to do something with my hands. Sorry. I'm nervous."

"It's alright. You've got good reason to be. How's your lip feeling?"

"I've had worse."

He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't press.

You wipe the knife clean and sigh.

"Alright. I think—I think I'm ready."

~

Twenty months and five days before you make curry with Nishinoya Yuu sitting in your kitchen, your parents finally figure out how hard it is to love you.

Ten days before that, you'd taken midterms and simply chosen not to care about them. You did whatever, you rushed in, you didn't prepare. And you bombed two exams.

For ten days, you didn't tell anyone. You crumpled the test papers into the bottom of your bookbag and forgot about them. Who cared, anyway? It was midterms and you were fourteen. They weren't even final exams. You had other, more important things to worry about, like the new game that just came out and impressing Kasumi from your homeroom—so cool, so pretty, so unabashed.

(To Noya, you don't mention her name. You don't mention her gender, or her shiny black hair, or how soft it felt between your fingers. How easy it was to find excuses to touch it.)

Your parents cared. They were rarely both home after school. They both loved their jobs, loved to work, loved each other, and loved you less. Love was real and it was different from person to person—shameless, bubbly affection between your parents, the thrilling swoop of your stomach as you stole kisses with Kasumi behind the arcade and fished for extra yen to try one more time for the rabbit plush in the crane game.

The parent you got to have on November 11th, 2010 was your mom. You took an early bath, left your bag a mess on the living room floor. Emerged with skin tinged pink from too-hot water, already in your pajamas long before dinner.

Your mother stood in the living room, a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

Your math exam, a stunning twelve points out of a potential hundred at the top. You'd understood all the concepts, you just hadn't cared.

You always wanted to test whether people actually liked you.

If your mother loved you, she'd look at the paper and love you anyway. She'd work to love you, fourteen years old and filling out two answers on your answer sheet before doodling over the rest because you just didn't care anymore. She'd smile, exasperated, and ask why, and then no matter what you said, she wouldn't care about the answer because she'd love you anyway.

If your mother loved you, whenever she inevitably learned about Kasumi, about your infatuation with her berry-flavored chapstick and soft skin, there wouldn't be a fight. She'd look at you and see you happy with another girl. She'd smile, exasperated. She'd ask why, but wouldn't care about the answer. No matter what you said, she would love you anyway.

The way she looked at you wasn't loving. It was disappointed.

"Why does your test paper look like this, [name]?" she asked. In your memories, her voice sounds like ice, almost pretty in how cold it is. You're sure it probably sounded a little nicer at the time.

You'd mumbled something halfway truthful, something about you'll love me even if I'm a failure, right? and she'd looked actually hurt.

"You're not a failure," she said simply. "My daughter is not a failure. She's brilliant. She's just lost her way a little."

You didn't lose your way you loved her you loved her YOU LOVED HER—

You remember your temper flaring. You remember yelling.

You remember your mother going out for a walk—give me a minute. You calm yourself down, like we talked about, and I'm going to calm myself down outside, and then we can come back to this conversation, okay, sweetheart?

You remember sitting, arms crossed, on the couch. Screaming into a pillow. Screaming not into a pillow.

You remember laying on the couch, the way you always would with her when waiting for Dad to come home, late at the office again. The way you and Dad would when she was the one working late.

There was love in this house—once. The last time it had been here was November 10th, 2010.

Eventually, still angry, hoping to maybe yell at Mom in public so the neighbors would see how much she didn't love you, you stormed outside.

You saw your mom, returning from her walk.

You saw the car.

You're told that you screamed, but you don't remember it.

~

"So… yeah." The roux block breaks harshly in your hands with a crisp snap. Noya doesn't speak, so you keep talking. "Otoo-san has barely looked at me ever since. I don't blame him. I swing between trying to get him to be my father again and just not giving a fuck."

"Holy shit, [name]-san."

"I thought the whole neighborhood knew I got my mom killed."

He shakes his head. "I had no idea. Fuck, I'm—I'm so sorry."

"Please," you say, voice too sharp and jagged. You have to pause before you try again. "Don't be."

"What should I be, then?"

You stare at him a long moment, not quite understanding the question.

"…I don't know."

He stands, joins you at the stove. You stare into the pot, skim the scum pointedly to avoid looking at him.

"You know it wasn't your fault, right?"

"They never caught the driver of the car. He slowed down a little bit, started to get out, and then saw me and sped off."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

There was love in this house once. It was real, and took work, and it was earned.

It was warm and comforting. It felt like a hug from behind, standing at the stove and dissolving blocks of curry roux into a pot. It felt like quiet acceptance, like choosing not to leave when the door wasn't locked and no one was stopping you. It was sitting up on the couch, waiting for someone to come home from wherever they'd been out late to make life good for everyone else in the house.

It felt like the secret moments behind the shift from a question—why—to a smile, a decision.

There are realities you have to accept, and as far as you're concerned, there's realities you don't. One of the former is your mom's absence, the love that left with her. Still another is the raw facts of this scene: mixing curry, adding too much spice and still not enough, sitting in the living room and talking and laughing with Noya as he tastes your curry and promptly lets a marriage proposal leave his lips, breezy, easy, familiar.

"Nine hundred sixty-one," you say with a smile.

One of the latter types of realities looks more like this: a warm feeling in your chest, a familiar flutter in your stomach. The heat of his arm on your shoulder, the persistence of the smile on your lips. Complaints about the spice of the curry hurting your split lip met with playful teasing that you'll still think about laying on your futon tonight, long after he's gone home.

And you'll need one damn good yes to accept a reality you don't have to.

Later, you'll feel hollowed out from the mood swings of the day. Tomorrow, you'll feel too wrung-out to get out of bed in the morning. Tonight, you just feel warm. So warm, in fact, that you're not even mad when he pulls out his phone and produces a video of you, half-asleep and pressed into his side on the bus a few hours earlier, as proof that actually, [name]-san, you'll find I only need to ask nine hundred and sixty more times.

Nine hundred and sixty it is.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @kazunish

[heeownsmee]

Chapter 16 — Barely Holding On

The van’s tires screeched as Sunghoon swung hard onto the main road, wet gravel kicking up behind them.

The rain kept coming, hard and fast, drenching the van as the wipers struggled to keep up with the downpour.

Sunghoon’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles white as he steered the van through the winding road.

The rain blurred everything outside the van’s windows, turning trees and road signs into smudges of gray. Inside, the air was thick with tension, their ragged breathing the only sound aside from the wipers struggling across the windshield.

Jay sat in the back with Lisa still curled tightly against him, his hand rested on her shoulder, thumb rubbing slow, gentle circles into her damp hoodie.


Her breathing was shallow,barely more than quick, fluttering puffs. Her lashes fluttered over half-lidded eyes, skin pale and slick with cold sweat.

Every few minutes, she flinched violently. Her body twitched like she’d seen something or someone just outside the fogged windows.

Jay would just tighten his arm around her, lips pressing briefly to her temple.


“It's fine..It's fine. You’re okay. I’m here,” he murmured quietly, over and over.


Even though his own heart hadn’t stopped racing once.

In the front seat, Sunghoon let out a sharp breath, jaw clenched hard.

“Guys…” His voice cracked, rough and strained.

“We’re almost on E. Like… it’s not gonna last long.”

The words landed hard. A cold, dull weight dropping into their chests.

“Fucking hell…” Jake muttered under his breath from the back, slumping deeper into his seat. He rested his forehead against the cold glass window, breath fogging the corner with each tired exhale.

“We just need to hit the main road,” Jungwon mumbled. His voice was low, hollow with exhaustion.


He had Elena tucked tightly against his side. His arm draped protectively over her shoulders, his thumb tracing absent patterns across her forearm. Her eyes darted restlessly, sharp and alert despite how drained she looked.

“If we get to a gas station… maybe a town… just somewhere,” he added quietly.

Heeseung sighed heavily, the sound rough and frustrated. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pushing hard into his eyes.

“Keep going, man,” Heeseung muttered, dropping his hand back into his lap.

“Even a fucking billboard would feel safe at this point.”

Everyone was on edge. Every shadow beyond the windows looked like it was moving.

In the dim light, Annie’s eyes flicked nervously to Ni-ki, who sat stiffly beside her. His jaw flexed hard, mouth drawn in a thin, tense line as he stared down at the dim glow of his phone, knuckles tight around the device.

“We gotta hit something soon,” Jake muttered again, voice ragged. “Fucking anything. I swear to god, if we just keep driving in circles I’m- ”

“I’m not going back,” Sunghoon cut him off sharply from the driver’s seat. His voice was low. Uncharacteristically grim.


“I don’t care where we end up. I’m not going back there.”

Minutes stretched out long and thin.
The kind of minutes that dragged like hours.
The squeal of the wipers kept scraping steadily, a thin, almost maddening rhythm against the tense silence.

A sharp rattle rocked through the van as they slammed into a pothole, jarring everyone roughly.


Sadie let out a quiet whimper, and Sunoo immediately reached over and grabbed her hand tightly. His fingers laced tightly with hers, his grip solid despite the faint tremor in his own hands

Jungwon sat up straighter, squinting through the foggy glass.


"Wait... Is that...?"

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes and then, with a loud sigh of relief, he pulled hard on the wheel. The van bumped over a small curb and onto a wider, paved road.

The main road.

"Thank fuck," Jake muttered under his breath, slumping in his seat.

The tension in the van eased—barely. Shoulders loosened a notch. Some of them breathed just a little deeper.

It wasn’t much.


But it was something.

Sunghoon adjusted his grip on the wheel, steering steadily as his headlights carved long golden streaks through the rain.


Up ahead, the road stretched far and dark, but straight.


Civilization had to be close now.

Or at least…

That’s what they hoped.

TO BE CONTINUED....

[lorelaireyess]

Dead stars don’t lie.

Synopsis:

When Anastasia crash-lands on Earth, she’s not looking for redemption—she’s looking to forget. Left to rot in a prison cell for a crime tied to Bellamy Blake, she believed her sacrifice saved Kai, the only boy who ever saw past her armor. But Kai didn’t make it to Earth—he’s still up there, dying, grieving, and eventually moving on.

Now stuck between Finn’s messy affections and Bellamy’s possessive attention, Anastasia finds herself unwillingly at the center of the chaos. But love’s a luxury down here, and survival doesn’t wait for hearts to heal. In a world where trust is a weapon and everyone’s hiding something, Anastasia’s not playing anyone’s game. Not anymore.

But the ground has a way of digging up secrets. And this time, she won’t go down without setting the whole damn forest on fire.

Chapter Two: Smoke and Static

The wind picked up that night, slicing through the trees like it had somewhere to be. The kind of cold that crept past skin and settled in bones. Most of the camp was asleep—those who weren’t were either on guard duty or too haunted to pretend they could rest.

Anastasia was somewhere in between.

She sat alone near the edge of camp, away from the fire, eyes fixed on nothing. The stars didn’t look like they did from the Ark. They looked too close, too real. Like they might fall if she stared long enough.

Behind her, voices murmured—tired, clipped, like no one had the energy to yell anymore. Since Raven landed, everything had cracked a little more. Clarke avoided eye contact. Finn walked around like a ghost. Bellamy barked orders with more bite than usual. Even Octavia was quieter.

The whole camp felt like it was holding its breath.

“Why are you always out here like some tragic forest cryptid?” a voice came from behind.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t have to.

Bellamy.

“Maybe I like the quiet,” she said. “It doesn’t talk back.”

He stepped around to her side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the tree line like he was expecting something to leap out. He always looked like he expected the worst.

“You know you’re not on watch, right?”

“Thanks, I forgot how assignments work.”

Bellamy didn’t reply. Just stood there for a minute, silent, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to argue or just… stand.

“You’re acting weird,” she muttered, finally glancing at him. “More than usual.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

She huffed, almost a laugh. “You’re out here because you want something. So go ahead. Spit it out.”

He didn’t. Which, honestly, unnerved her more than if he had.

“Look,” he said finally, “Clarke wants another scouting party out by the river tomorrow. You’re going.”

“Oh, am I?” she said, dry. “Thanks for the heads-up, Commander.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m participating.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, tension curling around him like smoke. She watched the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flicked toward her like they were always halfway between annoyance and something else he wouldn’t name.

“Bring a medkit this time,” he muttered. “In case one of you gets mauled again.”

“That was one time. And technically, he mauled it first.”

Bellamy didn’t laugh. But something twitched in the corner of his mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, the ground rumbled.

It wasn’t an explosion—nothing big—but it was enough to shake the branches and knock her off balance. Before she could catch herself, Bellamy grabbed her arm, steadying her without thinking.

They both froze.

His hand lingered on her elbow. Warm. Steady. Unwelcome.

She pulled away. “Relax, Blake. I wasn’t gonna die.”

“You don’t know that,” he said, low.

Before she could respond, someone shouted from the far side of camp.

“Finn! Clarke’s gone!”

They both turned toward the noise.

It didn’t take long to figure out what happened: Clarke had gone after Raven—again. Finn had argued with both of them earlier, voice cracking around words he hadn’t meant to say. Now he looked completely wrecked.

“She took the kit,” Monty said, jogging over. “Said she needed air.”

Finn was already moving toward the treeline. Bellamy grabbed his arm.

“You’re not going after her in the dark.”

“I have to,” Finn said, voice raw.

“You really don’t.”

“I can’t just—”

“Enough,” Bellamy snapped.

“I’ll go,” Anastasia cut in, before she knew why she said it.

Bellamy looked at her. So did Finn.

“Of course you will,” Bellamy muttered.

“I said I’m not dying tonight. That includes dragging Clarke back before she does something noble and stupid.”

“She already did,” Finn whispered.

The quiet hit like a slap.

Still, Anastasia turned and grabbed a flashlight. She didn’t wait for permission. She never had.

Bellamy followed. Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain.

They walked in silence.

The flashlight beam bounced over roots and brush and too many shadows. Bellamy walked a few steps behind her, close but not close enough to matter. She could feel his eyes on her back. He hadn’t said a word since they left the camp.

“Say whatever it is,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly.”

He kicked a rock out of the path. “You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

She stopped walking.

“I never said I was,” she replied, soft. “I just don’t fall apart where people can see it.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her, face unreadable in the half-light.

“You’re not the only one carrying shit.”

She turned to face him. “No. I’m just the only one not pretending it’s fine.”

There was a moment—just a breath—where it felt like he was going to say something. Something real.

But he didn’t.

Instead, they kept walking.

They found Clarke near the river, sitting on a rock like she belonged there. Raven wasn’t with her.

She looked up, eyes tired. Hollow.

“I’m fine,” she said before either of them could speak.

“No one asked,” Anastasia replied.

They didn’t talk much on the walk back.

Finn waited by the edge of camp, pacing. When he saw Clarke, his face broke—and then fell when she didn’t look at him.

Raven watched from the shadows. Arms crossed. Walls up.

And somewhere in the mess of it all, Anastasia stood quietly. Still. Like if she moved, the whole thing would come apart.

Bellamy walked past her as the group reassembled, brushing against her shoulder like it meant nothing.

But when she looked up, he was already watching her.

_________________________________

a/n: idk what to think but it’s going somewhere?? but next chapters better i promise yall.

[trappers-cloak]

The Buck and the Fox

Chapter 1 - The Shepard and the Angel

Chapter 1 of my ongoing fanfic, the Buck and the Fox.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x female oc, meet cute, introduction to my oc Diana Wegner.

word count: 2k

Diana Wegner

The sun was high enough - and hot enough -  that Diana had ditched her coat. The great green thing hung over the rump of Althea, bouncing as the pair trotted along. Pluto let out a small bark below, nipping at the heels of a dozen sheep along the hillside. The wind billowing through the trees wasn’t nearly enough to stave off the heat, but it swept the sweat from her brow. The surrounding grass was a bright green, peppered with reds and pinks and oranges, all the herbs dotting the Heartlands. Diana could hear no sound besides sheep bleating. That sound was a welcome one, and she sent a silent thanks to God that no human voices polluted her ears. 

A voracious reader as a child, Diana recalled poetry about hillsides like this. Emerson, Dickinson, even Shakespeare…she doubted they could imagine a moment this perfect. Something this devoid of a past. 

The gunshot was, as one would guess, unwelcome. 

All she had on hand was a repeater, a simple thing, slung across her shoulder. It would have to do as she took aim for the origin of the shot, somewhere up on the hill. Sure enough, two bandits rode above, aiming lower than she expected. She turned, and realized; they were here for the sheep. 

With a blast, she narrowly missed the closer of the two, a large man on an even larger horse. 

“Shit,” she muttered, reloading. What was the point of learning to shoot if she didn’t live long enough to use her skills?

 She fired again. This time, the shot grazed the fat man’s arm, and he cried out in pain. His stallion shrieked and began bucking him off, with limited success. 

Before Diana could load again, Althea stood and reared, kicking her front legs wildly. A gunshot sounded from the ground, and before she could blink, Diana was in the air. The impact of her back on the hill knocked the wind out of her, and before she could even collect herself, the other bandit was upon her. 

It’s amazing how time slows down in the heat of the moment. Even with her death imminent, Diana could make out the green kerchief around his neck. Green eyes, a scraggly beard. She knew this man, or this type of man, anywhere. 

The Irish accent gave him away. An O’Driscoll. 

“Well, miss, think the boss man will reconsider-” 

His words were cut off by a snarl as Pluto tackled him, barking and growling up a storm. 

Good boy. Diana was free from the O’Driscoll’s grasp, but her gun was out of reach. She fumbled around for a revolver, to no success. Pluto was still laying into the skinny Irishman, but the big one had regained his senses and had started towards her again. She was outnumbered, and had no choice. 

She took a deep breath, and screamed. 

The sound of galloping filled the air. She was done for. 

She screamed again. 

“HELP ME!”

Two gunshots fired, calculated, separated. Pow! Pow! But the galloping didn’t stop. And the sound was getting closer by the millisecond. She began to scramble to her feet, pulling out her last resort - a small switchblade that Cripps had given her the day he taught her how to hunt. She flicked the blade open and readied her hand, turning to her assailant. She wondered who she’d face first - the big one or the skinny one. 

It was neither.

“Woah… miss calm down, I ain’t gonna hurt’cha,” the man said, putting his hands up as he hopped down from his horse. 

“Then drop your gun,” Diana said. It was all she could think of. 

He tossed it to the side without a thought, and inched closer. She held out her lance knife, just the way Cripps taught her to. Her face was fixed in a snarl. 

“Ma’am, I ain’t gonna-”

“Did you shoot them?”

“What?”

“Did you shoot them?”

“Well, yeah-”

“Why?”

“Well shit, I guess I was tryna save you, but if you’d rather be in a casket, who am I to judge?” he answered, slyly. He had a deep accent, a country one. She couldn’t place it. 

Diana faltered for a moment, then said;

“You didn’t have to save me.”

“Well, it sure didn’t look like you were gonna do it yourself,” he countered. 

She shot him a glare, readying a comeback, but instead? Instead she burst out laughing. 

“Well, yes,” she said, between breaths, “I guess you’re right.” after a pause, she added, 

“well? Is a lady going to have to help herself to her feet?”

The man started, and extended his hand down. She grabbed it, noting the sheer number and strength of the callouses coating it, and together the pair lifted Diana to her feet. For a very brief moment, Diana was chest to chest with the cowboy - well, head to chest, given that he stood nearly a head above her in height. Two parts of Diana burned - her cheeks with a blush, and her ring finger with shame and a grim reminder. The moment was over as soon as it began. 

“Ahem…uh, thank you, sir,” she started, and sighed. “You saved my life. I owe you something for that at least.”

“Now, I don’t need anything, I was just bein-”

“Well at least a meal or a drink is in order!”

The man started again. “Ma’am, really, I-”

Diana sighed. “Please, mister, it's the least I can do. Plus,” she began, nodding over a few yards west, “I need your help. Those bandits must’ve gotten one of the sheep - look.'' Sure enough, a mound of white wool lay in the grass, the only sheep that had been lost in the raid. 

“Help me get that poor soul back to Cripps, and you’ll be paid for your time.”

The man sighed, knowing he’d lost the exchange. “Fine,” he said, dejected. As the pair lifted the wayward sheep onto Althea, Diana spoke up once more. 

“Thank you mister…”

“Morgan,” he paused. It looked like he was trying to remember what his name was. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Thank you, mister Morgan,” Diana said, and turned. “PLUTO!” she whistled. “ROUND ‘EM UP!”

Arthur Morgan

Dutch had told them in no uncertain terms to lie low. Besides making money, lying low was the top priority. So the O’Driscoll’s over on the hill should not have been his concern, and they weren’t until the bloodcurdling scream Arthur had heard from the middle of the herd of sheep. He may be trying to keep a low profile, but he wasn’t about to let some innocent shepard get herself killed. He imagined there would be some divine retribution for that, or some symbolism - something in his surrogate fathers’ books that would have damned him. 

Now this same shepherd was leading him to some reward he felt he couldn’t accept. He had given his full name, his real name, to this woman, and he felt like he was 13 again. Breaking all the rules. He didn’t lie low, he didn’t mind his business, he didn’t keep himself a secret. And what would he have to show for it? 

The smell of the stew pot hit him before he could see it. 

“Sit down, mister Morgan, stay as long as you’d like,” the woman said, hanging her coat on a hook attached to a beautiful cherry tree. She had taken him behind what must be the trading post at Emerald Ranch - a small building bedecked with animal heads, hides and antlers. The camp spot was a cozy one, with the campfire and a great bronze stew pot as its centerpiece. 

“Mr. Cripps is still working on the stew - the rest of the ranch hands are still tending to the sheep and the cows, but you can have first bowl once he’s done. He’ll be out any second.”

“Ma’am, I really don’t need any fo-” Arthur’s stomach growled mid sentence. He flushed, and the woman turned, and gave a slight chuckle. 

“Riiight.”

“Well,” Arthur continued, taking a seat, “then thank you for your hospitality, Miss…”

She finished for him. 

“Missus Diana Wegner. My husband owns this ranch. Forgive me for being blunt, Mister Morgan, but are you new around these parts?” She stuck out her hand, boldly. With purpose. A silver ring adorned it. 

He took it, shook it, and responded. 

“Yeah, well, my crew and I were workers in the north, and our factory got shut down, so we’re living in a camp near uh… Valentine?” he recited the story Hosea had told him. It was, to the old man’s credit, a great cover. 

“I’m sorry to hear. Were you stuck up in the Grizzlies when that storm hit?”

Arthur chuckled, despite the memory being, at best, an unpleasant one. “Yeah, we just got out of it a few weeks ago. Lot of folk are still trying to get back on their feet,” he said. 

“Well its a good thing you made it down here,” Diana replied. “I take it you’re doing the hunting then?” she gestured to the pelt on the back of Ares. “How much shot did that thing take?”

Arthur chuckled. “Not as much as you’d think. Damn thing nearly killed me. Apparently it’s some legendary bear - uncommon size.”

“You’ve got that right. Do you know how much that would be worth?”

Arthur shifted, uncomfortable. It would be just his luck to get robbed by the woman he saved. 

“Not sure…”

“Well, me neither, but Mr. Cripps would have a field day tanning that thing. If you’d be interested in selling it here, I’m sure you could work out a deal.”

Arthur paused, wondering if this was a good chance to strike up some work - legitimate work, for once. 

“If Mister…”

“Cripps,”

“Right. If Mr. Cripps buys this, would he buy other skins too, or…”

“Looking for employment, are we? And I thought men were all after something else!” Diana exclaimed. Arthur’s face felt hotter than hell itself. He could only imagine the shade of red it turned. 

“Well, I- maybe,” he admitted. “I don’t know. As long as it pays.”

“That we do. In money, food, goods, or any combination.”

The backdoor of the store burst open, and an old man with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard stepped out, holding a basket of herbs and corn. 

“And we have the best of all three!” he exclaimed, sauntering over to the pair. “I couldn’t help but overhear the entire conversation, and your hunting skills would make an excellent contribution to Cripps-Wegner Trading Co!”

Diana sighed, and gestured towards the man. “Mister Cripps, Arthur Morgan. Arthur Morgan, Mister Cripps.” Before she could finish, Cripps was shaking Arthur’s hand with an enthusiasm he had only seen a few times before - and most of those times involved Sean and Karen, back before Sean got captured.

Before she could make any more introductions, a bell sounded, and Diana’s head whipped towards the big green house across the road. 

“Shit,” she muttered. “That’s dinner bell.” she turned again to Arthur, and held out her hand. He took it, not knowing whether to shake it or not. Dutch had taught him to kiss a woman’s hand when they gave it this way, but the wedding ring gave him considerable pause. 

“Thank you, Arthur, again. I owe you more than I can describe. Enjoy the stew, and let Cripps know if you have any availability.” as she spoke, she transformed - she did up her hair, tossed her hat aside, washed her hands and changed into ladies shoes seemingly before Arthur could blink. She went from a rancher to a society lady in less than a minute. He hoped she didn’t notice his stare. 

“Come back to Emerald Ranch soon, mister Morgan. Our saloon is closed and it mostly smells of sheep shit, but I’m sure you’ll find something here to your liking.” she turned, and after a few steps, shouted over her shoulder. “Mister Cripps! Save that sheep hide. I have a plan for it.” And she was off. 

There was a pregnant silence between her departure and the voice of Mr. Cripps. 

“So, mister Morgan,” he began, “are you gonna continue to make googly eyes at Missus Wegner or are you going to have some mutton?”