#he needs to be SHAKEN not stirred

[breathofcosmos]

Continued from here! @reusignus

"Shh!" It's an almost spitting noise, riddled with agitation to cover up the worry that had previously been chewing at her inner thoughts. Despite this, the dabbing of the wound is relatively gentle, things could have gone far worse than they did. Dark locks cover up her face for a moment as she hangs her head over her work, frustrated, but? It's yet another lingering fascination and attachment, the fact he tries for others when nobody else would think of it. Foolishly good.

But she does press the slightest bit harder considering his last words before giving him that flick of a glare.

"That's my choice." She snipped, a sigh rushing out of her. "You don't get to hide alone and lick your wounds anymore." Unless he specifically chose to ask to be alone, and while she would understand at times, she hoped not for majority of the time, wished certain people would not go where she could not follow. Meryl doesn't allow her gaze to drag along any of the other marks and evidence to the upsetting truth of what he said and she turned, picking up the bandages, finally letting herself look at his face, seeing his still focused elsewhere.

"...It's just, hard to understand, Vash." To a degree it was, all that he did, and yet a lot of it was perfectly easy to understand, harder to swallow.

[hoe4hotchner]

False Security | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader CW: Angst, physical abuse, kidnapping, captivity, hospital, light use of Y/N, hotch is in love with you, r is only wearing underwear, chains, morphine. WC: 2.6k

           The bullpen was eerily quiet for a late evening. Papers were scattered across desks, half-empty coffee cups forgotten in the rush of trying to piece together the puzzle of the case they were working on.

           The tension in the conference room was palpable - each agent hunched over their work, mentally and emotionally drained from the brutal reality of the case. Every passing hour without a breakthrough weighed heavily on the team.

           Garcia had moved from her tech cave to stay near the rest of the team. Something about this case, the brutality of it, had shaken her, she wasn't her usual cheerful self. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her keyboard, eyes darting between monitors, scanning data, hoping for a clue - anything that would help them find the unsub before another victim was claimed.

           Hotch stood near the whiteboard, staring at the photos pinned up - the faces of victims staring back at him, haunting him. There was a pattern here; they all knew it. They could feel it. But none of them had been able to put the final piece together yet. Everyone was running on fumes.

           "Garcia," Hotch’s voice broke the silence, low but with the familiar edge of urgency. "Pull up the financials again. There’s something we’re missing."

           Garcia nodded, already typing, her colorful nails clicking rapidly against the keys. But even she seemed distracted, her brow furrowed in worry. She wasn’t just focused on the case anymore - she was thinking about you. About how you had been recently, about the relationship you had confided in her about a few weeks ago. A relationship that seemed to be bringing you joy, a brightness that Garcia had been happy to see. But now… something about this case was stirring up an unsettling feeling in her chest.

           Reid was standing across from her, his eyes darting across the case files, muttering half-thoughts under his breath. Morgan was pacing, unable to sit still, his frustration growing with each dead end.

           Then, it happened.

           Garcia’s fingers stopped, hovering above the keyboard. The silence in the room grew thicker as everyone waited for her to speak. She was staring at her screen, but the bright color had drained from her face. Slowly, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself, she turned in her chair, wide eyes meeting Hotch’s.

           "Sir," her voice was trembling. "You need to see this."

           Hotch’s stomach dropped at her tone, something was off. He crossed the room in quick strides, looking over her shoulder at the screen. The room held its collective breath, all eyes now on them. Garcia was scrolling through the financials, linking transactions, showing a pattern of behavior that had gone unnoticed until now. At first, it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. Just a name, a routine list of purchases. But then it hit him. A familiar name.

           Hotch froze. His heart slammed against his ribs, dread flooding his veins.

           “No,” he breathed, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

           Garcia turned, biting her lip. Her fingers trembled as she pointed to the screen. “It’s him, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s… it’s (Y/N)'s boyfriend.”

           The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. Everyone stared, the weight of Garcia’s revelation hitting them like a freight train. Morgan stopped pacing, Reid’s muttering ceased, and Rossi’s eyes darkened as he stood from his desk.

           "Are you sure?" Hotch’s voice was low, but the tension in his tone was unmistakable.

           Garcia nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “I cross-referenced his name with the locations. He fits every single one of the victim’s timelines, and… the patterns match. It’s him, Hotch.”

           For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the very air in the room had thickened, weighing them all down. Hotch felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. His chest tightened painfully, his mind racing with fear and anger. How could they have missed this? How could he have missed this?

           Morgan was the first to break the silence, his voice sharp and filled with disbelief. “Wait, (Y/N)’s dating this guy?” His eyes darted between Garcia and Hotch, trying to piece it together. “How long has this been going on?”

           “A couple of months,” Garcia whispered, guilt washing over her at the mere fact that she knew about your relationship. “She… she didn’t want anyone to know. But… I thought he was just a regular guy.”

           Rossi was already moving toward his phone. "Has anyone contacted her?"

           Hotch’s blood ran cold. He reached for his phone, his fingers fiddling slightly as he dialed your number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.

           Panic settled in his chest like a stone.

           “Garcia, try to ping her phone,” he ordered his voice tight, betraying the rising anxiety within him.

           “I’m on it,” she replied, her fingers moving across the keyboard in a blur. The seconds dragged on like hours as she tried to locate your phone. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s off.”

           Morgan swore under his breath, his fists clenched. “We have to find her. Now.”

           Hotch felt a surge of terror, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. His thoughts were racing— Where were you? Were you okay? Did you even know what kind of danger you were in? The idea that the person you had trusted, had been intimate with, was the same monster they were hunting - it made his skin crawl. And now, they couldn’t reach you.

           Garcia's voice broke through the haze. “I’ve got his phone,” she said, her voice shaking with urgency. “It’s pinging at a location near the docks - an old warehouse district.”

           Hotch didn’t waste another second. He was out the door before anyone could speak, his mind focused on one thing - finding you. His heart pounded in his chest, each step toward the SUV filled with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

          The warehouse loomed ahead, its shadowy silhouette stark against the faint glow of the city. Inside, the darkness was suffocating, every echo, every creak of the metal beams overhead seeming to mock the haste coursing through Hotch's veins. He moved quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he led the team deeper into the labyrinth of hallways and empty rooms, desperate to find you before it was too late.

           The dread that had been building since Garcia's revelation gnawed at him with every step. The idea that you, his agent, the person he trusted and admired, had been caught in the web of this monster - he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It felt personal in a way that made his throat tighten, made his focus even sharper. This wasn’t just a case anymore; it was about you, about saving you from someone who had fooled them into a false security.

           A soft, muffled whimper reached his ears, freezing him in place. It was faint but unmistakable. His breath hitched as he sprinted toward the sound, every part of him terrified of what he might find. He shoved open a rusted metal door, and the sight that greeted him ripped the air from his lungs.

           There you were, barely recognizable, hanging limply by your wrists, your arms shackled high above your head. The light flickered, casting shadows over your bruised and battered body. You were gagged, your face pale and streaked with tears, your eyes barely open, glazed with pain and fear. Your skin was marred with fresh bruises, and all you were left wearing was your underwear - vulnerable, exposed, and utterly broken.

           Hotch’s world tilted. He had faced horrors in his career, and seen things that haunted his dreams, but nothing compared to the sight of you, the person he had come to care for, reduced to this.

           For a split second, all he could do was stand there, frozen by the crushing wave of guilt and anger crashing over him. How could he have let this happen? How had he not seen it, not realized who the unsub was?

           “Morgan!” Hotch's voice was sharp. “Find him. Now.” He couldn't be far away Hotch thought to himself.

           Without waiting for a reply, Hotch crossed the room to you, his hands trembling as he reached up to unchain your wrists. You collapsed into his arms, your body weak and trembling from the strain. He held you close, his jacket already off and wrapping around your shivering form. His chest tightened painfully as he felt just how cold you were, how fragile you felt in his arms.

           “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re safe now.”

           You stirred, barely able to focus, but the sound of his voice - his voice - cut through the haze of terror that had clouded your mind. Your eyes fluttered open, a tear slipping down your cheek as you realized it was him. You tried to speak, but the gag choked you, the duct tape biting into your skin.

           Hotch's fingers were delicate as he reached up to remove the tape. Every inch he peeled back felt agonizingly slow, each movement careful, as if he were terrified of causing you more pain. His eyes never left yours, the guilt and worry etched deep into his features.

           When the gag finally came loose, you gasped, drawing in shaky breaths as your mouth was freed. Your voice came out in a weak rasp, “Aaron…”

           “Shh,” he murmured, brushing the hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

           But you could see it in his eyes. The guilt. The anger. It radiated off him, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. He blamed himself, you knew that much. And though you wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t have known, your voice was too weak, your body too drained.

           Hotch wrapped his arms tighter around you, his face buried in your hair as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there sooner.”

           His words broke something inside you, a sob tearing from your throat despite your exhaustion. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that you didn’t blame him, but all you could do was cling to him, your body shaking against his.

           You had been so close to losing everything - to never seeing him again. And now, in the safety of his arms, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind the raw emotion and terror that you had been holding back.

           “I’ve got you,” he whispered again, his voice barely a rasp. He held you tighter as if he could shield you from the world, from the pain, from everything you had just endured.

           He didn’t care about protocol, didn’t care that he was supposed to be in control, to remain objective. All he cared about was you, about getting you out of there and keeping you safe.

           When the paramedics arrived, Hotch didn’t let go. He carried you to the ambulance himself, refusing to leave your side for even a moment. The other agents worked around him, searching for your captor, but Hotch didn’t care about anything else right now. He stayed by your side as you were lifted into the ambulance, sitting beside you, his hand holding yours as if it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

           The soft, sterile lighting of the hospital room contrasted with the cold, harsh reality of what had just happened. The beeping machines were rhythmic and steady, peaceful, a constant reminder that you were alive, even though the events leading up to this moment had been anything but peaceful.

           Hotch sat beside your bed, his hand wrapped protectively around yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a soothing motion. He hadn’t left your side since they’d arrived at the hospital. The team had stayed behind to deal with the crime scene and the unsub, but Hotch had only one priority: you. His suit jacket now hung loosely on the back of his chair, as your bruised body had been hidden away by the hospital gown.

           You shifted slightly in the bed, your eyes fluttering open but still hazy from the morphine coursing through your veins. The medication had dulled the pain but also left you in a dreamy, disoriented state. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, and the world around you was muffled. But there was one constant, something anchoring you to reality - Hotch.

           “Hotch…” your voice was barely above a whisper, the name slipping from your lips without much strength behind it. You tried to sit up, but your body protested, still sore and weak. Hotch’s grip on your hand tightened gently, his other hand pressing softly against your shoulder to keep you from moving too much.

           “Shh, don’t try to move. The doctor said you need to rest,” he said, his voice low and calm, but underneath it was a storm of emotions - relief, fear, anger. He tried to keep it together for you, but seeing you like this - bruised, shaken, and vulnerable - it broke something inside him.

           You blinked up at him, trying to focus. His face came into view, a mixture of exhaustion and concern etched into his features. “You... you came for me,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred from the medication, but the gratitude in your tone was unmistakable.

           Hotch’s heart clenched at the sound of your voice, so small and fragile. He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Of course I did,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always come for you.”

           You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips tugging upwards despite the pain and exhaustion. There was something about his presence that made everything feel just a little bit better, a little safer.

           Your eyes flickered around the room before landing back on him, and with a sleepy giggle, you whispered, “You look so serious, Hotch.”

           A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound rare but welcome, especially given the circumstances. “Someone has to be,” he teased, though his voice was still gentle. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light. “You’ve been through a lot.”

           You hummed, your eyelids growing heavy again, but you fought to stay awake, to stay in this moment with him. “Feel so... floaty,” you mumbled, your words trailing off slightly. The medication was pulling you back under again.

           Hotch smiled softly, watching as you struggled to keep your eyes open. “That’s the morphine. It’s okay to rest, you’re safe now.”

           For a moment, you simply stared up at him, your eyes glazed but full of warmth. “You’re always so... good to me,” you slurred, your voice thick with drowsiness. “Don’t know what I’d do without you…”

           His heart ached at your words. He couldn’t imagine what you had gone through, only what he already knew the unsub usually would have done, but the thought of you feeling alone or scared crushed him. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

           You gave him a sleepy nod, your head lolling slightly to the side. “I know,” you mumbled, your voice fading as sleep finally began to pull you under.

           Hotch leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against your forehead. He didn’t care that the hospital staff had insisted he take a break or go home and get some rest. He wasn’t leaving your side, not tonight. Not until he was absolutely sure you were okay.

           As your breathing evened out and your body relaxed into the bed, he sat back, watching you with a mix of compassion and sadness. Seeing you like this, so vulnerable and hurt, made him feel more helpless than he ever had before.

[evie-sturns]

Friends - Chris Sturniolo

summary: you and chris are friends with benefits until you notice a change in his behaviour, he starts to get angry about how clingy you are.

contains: fwb!chris, arguing, angst, yelling, crying, making out.

--------------------└── •✧• ──┘---------------—-

chris and i have known each other since we were barely able to speak, i've known him my whole life and we've always just. been. friends. until around 8 months ago. i don't even remember how it happened but suddenly his hands were roaming over me, and we fucked.

we both decided after that experience that would be friends with benifets, how could we not after getting a feel for eachother? it was so convinent because i'm always over at their house with nick and matt, they're also my closest friends.

7:39pm

i lay on the sturniolos couch in my small shorts and a tank top, nicks laying beside me as we talk about absolute bullshit.

"nick, you're seriously yapping now" i laugh, "no but tell me thats not the best wednesday video ever, i'm getting matt." he declares, heaving himself up and running out the room, he comes back with matt.

"i will happily cook salmon tomorrow for the wednesday video." matt says with a deadpan face, he speaks like he's being held at gunpoint.

nick claps, "let's go get the shit now" he says with a know it all smile on his face, "dickhead." i scoff to nick, he shrugs with a wide grin.

"you wanna come get the stuff from the grocery store with us?" matt asks, i shake my head "i'm not dressed for the occasion" i joke.

he laughs before grabbing the keys which are attached to his jeans loop, he walks with nick outside, shutting the front door behind him.

i put my phone down on the pillow beside me before standing up, aimlessly walking upstairs.

i open the door to chris's room, "chriss" i say with a smile before entering the room.

"why aren't you with nick and matt." he says, sitting up against his headboard. "hello to you too." i say sarcastically, jumping into bed beside him.

i lay my leg over chris's thigh, my hand reaching out and tracing random shapes on his arm, he pushes me off casually, an awkward silence filling the room.

“can i not touch you now or something.” i say jokingly, chris snaps.

“can you fuck off for once?” he raises his voice, i sit up in bed as my heart thumps. “what?” i say, slightly shaken up.

“all you do is touch me and be around me,” he starts, my mouth falls open slightly.

“we are FRIENDS with benefits, i don’t know why the fuck you act like we’re together?” he says, emphasising the ‘friends’.

“so for fucks sake, act like it, act like we are normal friends because the only thing different about us is we fuck, nothing. else.” chris finishes before standing up off his bed, walking out of his room and slamming the door behind him.

tears pool in my eyes, first of all he knows i can’t take being yelled at, he also knows that i’ve always been insecure about how clingy i can get.

i didn’t have any friends other than the triplets when i was growing up, they were all i really needed. so i’ve stuck to them majorly,

i always ask nick if i’m coming over too much, and if they want me to stay at my apartment i can, but nicks always shut down that, telling me that he will literally lock all doors so i can’t leave.

but that was just nick, nick wanted me to stay, did chris like me round?

i sit alone on chris’s bed, replaying each word than came out of his mouth over and over in my head.

“i don’t know why the fuck you act like we’re together”

“can you fuck off for once?”

i let out a small sob, tears starting to paint my cheeks. i bring my knees up to my chest as i bury my face in his pillows

i let out shaky breathes, having a poor attempt to calm myself down.

-

7:46am

i don’t know when i fell asleep, all i know is that i’m slowly starting to wake up in chris’s bed.

his arms are wrapped around me, spooning me as he snores lightly into the back of my neck, i stir as i look down.

i sit up in bed, chris’s arms still on me as he lets out a tired groan. all events of what happened last night start coming back to me. i instantly try to get out of bed but chris has a firm grip around my waist,

“chris, let me go.” i whisper yell, he shakes his head.

i place two hands on his wrists and try to pry them off of me. chris is slowly waking up, i feel tears start to form again, knowing that he most likely had to sleep next to me cause i fell asleep in his bed.

i let in trembling breathes, chris sits up. “sh shh.” he says, pulling me down onto his lap as he sits up against his headboard.

“can i please talk to you.” chris says, his voice hoarse.

“chris.” i say, small droplets of tears rolling down my cheeks as i fight his grip.

“i’m going home now.” i say again, “no you’re not.” chris starts.

“i am so sorry.” chris says, grabbing my face and making me look at him.

“i am so sorry.” he repeats, rubbing my arm with his free hand lightly

“i am so sorry for opening my mouth last night , i am so sorry for making you cry, i am so sorry for walking out of the room, i am so sorry for yelling.”

“i love you so much, more than you understand and there is actually no excuse for what i said, i don’t know why i said it. i have never felt truly loved by someone other than my family so it’s really throwing me off that you want to touch me, you want to be near me.”

“i think i’m so scared of getting to attached to you and then you leaving, because i can’t handle that, i don’t want you to leave, ever.”

he finishes, my tears came to a halt as soon as the words ‘i love you’ left his mouth.

“do you mean it..?” i ask, looking up at chris.

he grabs my jaw staring at my lips,

“chris, i have morning breath.” i laugh slightly

“i do not care at all.” he says, slamming his lips onto mine,

his arms holding me tighter than ever, he doesn’t let me go for the rest of the morning no matter how much i protest.

—————-

[revelboo]

Everything is Alright Pt1

Starscream adopting (kidnapping) a human headcanon

• Absolutely an accident. Scouting excursion gone wrong when he’s spotted and ambushed by quite possibly the two most obnoxious Autobots he’s ever had the displeasure to deal with, Jazz and Bumblebee. Damaged, he’s forced to fly low, darting down a far too narrow forested road in his alt mode with those persistent Autobots right on his aft.

• You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time, taking a ride through the country in your little sedan. You just needed to get away, relax and destress from home and work. Music cranked as your mind wanders, you almost don’t hear the scream of the jet flying obscenely low, wingtips clipping and shattering tree limbs to rain down on the road.

• When you do notice, your eyes dart up to the rear view mirror and there’s a moment of just flat disbelief, because there’s no way. Then the jet screams over the top of your car so close you swear it scrapes the paint and you’re slamming on the brakes, hauling at the wheel as this bright yellow sports car tears past on your left, a white car right on its fender.

• You never were a fantastic driver, losing control and heading straight into the tree line, head bouncing off the wheel. There’s a sound of thunder, the pounding staccato drowning out the frantic drumming of your heart. No, not thunder. Weapons firing at the jet.

• It’s the saboteur not the scout that manages a direct hit, forcing Starscream to transform and hit the asphalt at a run, staggering and nearly pitching face first into the trees as he turns to return fire. Both Autobots already transformed and no doubt calling for backup.

• Outnumbered, but hardly out gunned. Still, this wasn’t how he had his day planned, baring his denta at the two Autobots and feeling energon dripping along his side. And once their backup showed?

• It’s almost serendipity when you stagger out of your car, concussed and shell shocked to blunder into the road. Between Starscream and the two nuisances. He’d seen the car go off the road, but hadn’t cared about whatever had been inside. Humans, ugh. But Jazz and Bumblebee both stop firing, staring in no small amount of shock at you.

• And there you are, staring up at him with wide eyes. Not screaming. Not running for your squishy, little life, because your brain is definitely shaken, not stirred. All you can do is gape up at the giant, alien robots with guns in dumb silence and wonder if you’re in fact still in the car bleeding out while your damaged brain spins sci-fi nonsense cotton candy in your last moments.

• And the Autobots are holding fire, because of you. To try and not accidentally kill your very unlucky self. Starscream only sees a get out of jail free card, lunging and closing his servos on you, arm extended to hold you out in front of him like a laughably pathetic shield. Except it works. Neither Autobot moves, weapons faltering.

• The panic kicks in, breaking through the pained fog and you struggle against his far too tight grip, but are ignored. Your heart’s hammering against your ribs, tangling with the pain pounding in your addled head. It’s too much, fear twisting inside you as he laughs. The other two alien robots still have their weapons drawn, but they’re pleading that you be let go.

• Starscream’s still laughing as he says, “No.” Injuries screaming at him, he grimaces as he tucks you to his chassis and transforms around you, trapping you inside while he tries very hard to not think about the fact that there’s a nasty, dripping little human inside him as he bolts.

• He keeps you trapped when he returns to base, pinned inside his canopy as he sneaks back to his quarters to dump you into an empty energon cube, because he has no idea what to do with you now. Squishing you to a paste is definitely an option, but as you stare dumbly up at him in shock, still not screaming, he wonders if he might keep you instead. Especially if you can be dangled in front of those idiot Autobots to save his own aft.

• Slowly self preservation shatters the numb terror, letting you look around and actually see your surroundings. You never were that athletic and there’s no climbing out of the clear box he’s dropped you in. But you’re alive. When the big alien that kidnapped you starts muttering and generally lamenting about you, the “Autobots,” and his life in general, you hesitantly agree with him in a hushed voice, because staying on his good side? Probably a good idea for your continued existence.

• He’s shocked, wings lifting slightly as he vents and stares. You… agreed with him? This mech craves validation and you offer it up freely and yes, he’s flustered, before straightening slightly. Because of course you agree, how could you not? So he rants, almost preening when you make little commiserating noises. You’re in turn shocked when he moves across the room to drop a polishing cloth as big as a queen sized sheet on top of you. You’re not sure if it’s an olive branch or not, but you seize upon it with both hands, wrapping the cloth around you to fight off the chill in the metal room and taking the time to run your fingers through your hair to catalog how badly beat up you are.

Next

[radioactiverats]

Thoughts: Electric shock (Starscream x reader)

The first time it happens, you both react in comically similar fashions - with an ungainly yelp, cradling hand and servo respectively as you jump away from each other.

"What the frag was that?" Starscream hisses. "How is it that humans can generate charge?"

"Charge?" you mutter. You suppose the interpretation makes sense. "That was an electric shock. It happens a lot in winter." You almost laugh at the fact that you completely forgot about the inevitability of this. The bots are giant metal beings, after all.

Starscream scrutinizes you through suspicious, narrowed optics, maintaining a wary distance. He has to admit that it stirred the long-dormant scientific curiosity inside him, though. Cybertronians are no stranger to generating charge, but a charge of this scale only occurs during interface - and their partner, assuming they were cybertronian as well (Hmm. Interesting factor. Starscream files that away for later, if only out of morbid curiosity (lie)), would ordinarily have nullified the charge, in a sense. Either through rerouting, absorbing it into their EM field - grounders were particularly good at this, and had been highly sought after partners for a while. Starscream yanks his spiralling thoughts back with a snarl. Cybertronians had relative control over their EM field, able to project it to comfort, merge with others, achieve understanding with one another without the need for verbal communication. Starscream had considered this a mark of sophistication amongst his species - even if thoughts like these had belonged to a time before the war.

So humans had a primitive EM field, he'd known this for a while. If he reached out to touch your field, so weak it radiated only centimeters from your form (it's not like you knew he was doing that, it's not like you would realize he cared, god forbid anyone knew he cared.), he could feel the maelstrom of your puny human feelings and was all at once shaken by it. How could something so small, which existed for barely a blip of his existence, feel so much?

After some observation, he'd quickly established (with some disappointment) that you had no control over your EM field.

Pathetic, Starscream thought. Another reason that cybertronians are superior beings.

However, his little 'experiments' didn't stop. Unexpected and spontaneous generation of charge was simply not something that his kind did, even if he was loathe to admit his interest (purely scientific, of course).

Which begins a rather undignified exercise of him trying to poke you with a servo when you least expected it, to see if charge would generate - "Ow, FUCK - Starscream!"

You quickly resigned yourself to the fact that you had to fight fire with fire. Quietly approaching from your perch on his desk as he squinted and swore over a stack of datapads, you reach a hand out and slap it onto his arm.

Both of you screech at the same time as an audible SNAP crackles between you. Still, you can't stop your laughter as Starscream bolts upright to hurl every cybertronian profanity in the book at you.

[anystalker707]

I need you with me

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x [gender neutral] Reader Summary: After the Marineford events, all that Ace needs is some love. Tags: ace is recovering, so he needs you to be gentle / he's so sweet / lots of fluff / universe in which ace survived marineford A/n: thanks sm for the request, anon <3 sorry for taking long

Requested by anon [Hello, amazing writer! If you are doing requests, could you do Ace x female reader where Ace gets all the love and pets and praise he so deserves. I just finished Marineford and I have...feelings]

MASTERLIST

          Everyone was shaken up after the events in Marineford, still trying to process everything that had happened, without much success. It wasn’t just a lot to process but also left everyone in a shocked state that would take time to wear out. Luffy had even spent a while with the Whitebeard Pirates to ensure his brother would be alright before he had to go back to following his path. By that time, the commotion had also died within the crew itself, it was finally time to have your boyfriend all to yourself again.

The wound that once covered the center of his chest and back was now only two violent scars decorating his skin, only adding to his charm, if anything. You wondered if anything could make Ace ugly, and it was hard to determine something that would make him permanently unattractive, so you dropped it.

Ace was lying on his side with his back to you, taking yet another nap in the dark cabin that blocked the sunlight by the thick blackout curtains. Napping was something he’d been doing rather a lot, aside from the spontaneous times he would fall asleep. The Marineford event took quite a toll on him, both physically and mentally, so it was no surprise he found comfort in sleep and quietness now that the euphoria had died down. Not surprisingly, he also grew clingy after that.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you walked over, observing the scar on Ace’s back as you sat on the bed, careful not to wake him up. His skin rose in shivers at the slightest touch upon his scar, but he didn’t even move in his sleep, continuing to softly snore away. Your heart heaved a little, but it’d been like that for so long that it was pointless to dive into sadness for longer.

Your mind didn’t leave you alone for the few seconds you kept your eyes closed, replaying parts of the Summit War, even though you’d gone through it multiple times already. It was tiring, clinging to your skin like mud that you couldn’t clean off, dragging you down, but you could still feel the normality slowly making its way back into your lives, thankfully.

Ace smelled like a mixture of your smell along with his own, which was quite characteristic, and always left a very well-welcomed lingering scent on your bed. His smell filled your lungs as you pressed your nose to the back of his ear and inhaled deeply before finally lying down with him and hugging him from behind. Only then did he groan a little, shifting a little to make himself comfortable next to you. He was warm, back moving against your chest rhythmically. It was good to feel him like that next to you, alive and well, helping you fight the feeling he would disappear in case you looked away for too long.

“Love,” Ace murmured in a whiny tone that popped your bubble and brought you back to the real world to be embraced by the warmth he made you feel. “Mmph, babe,” he whispered with a groan that dissipated into a sigh of comfort the moment you pressed a kiss to his cheek and hugged him tighter.

“Yes, my love?” You whispered against his cheek when he started stirring awake, humming drowsily as he patted around until his hand found the side of your head and kept you there to turn his head and messily kiss your face. His eyes were still closed as his lips met the space above your upper lip, and then your cheek—that was the only response you received as he gently played with your hair a little.

“I had a dream with you,” he whispered, eyes still closed, but you could tell he was a little less than half asleep by then. “We were… Uh, I forgot.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head, while running a hand through Ace’s messy hair strands in a fruitless attempt to push them back into place. “Okay. The fact you dreamed with me is good enough.”

Ace pouted with a hum as he shifted on the bed so that he was on his back, allowing himself to take a look at you. He finally opened his eyes and blinked until the blurred form before him turned into a clear image of you, which made him smile. “Mmph, babe,” he whispered in a happy tone that made your heart flutter.

“You’re so cute like this, all sleepy, all comfy.” Your lips parted into a grin before you kissed his cheek. “I really just want to— Damn.” Instead of fighting your urges, you just cupped his cheek and kissed all over his face until he was giggling and wrapping his arms around you, swinging one of them lazily around your neck.

“Hey, what’s that for?” Ace groaned softly and kissed your cheek a couple of times, planting kisses on the way to your lips, where he lingered for a few seconds.

“I just want to pamper my pretty boy, am I not allowed to?”

Whenever you called him ‘pretty boy’, Ace’s heart fluttered, and he felt all bubbly inside, so full of himself that he believed he could face the entire world if he really wanted to. He smiled as his cheeks gained a red tone, and he melted under the new kisses over his face.

“Sometimes I wonder if I can kiss each of your freckles,” you said as your fingertips trailed along the freckles on his shoulder; they descended for all his body and imprinted constellations upon his skin.

Ace hummed, raising one of his eyebrows at you. “Well, if you want to try… I wouldn’t be opposed to it, babe.”

“Hm, right,” you muttered with a smile, kissing his forehead. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Just the idea of it seemed to get Ace a little eager, grinning as he allowed you to keep bathing him with compliments and caressing. He sighed and leaned into your touches, groaning when you started running your fingers through his hair again. Playing with his hair could easily drive Ace to sleep, but it wasn’t your intention, so you pulled your hand away as soon as he started closing his eyes, much to his displeasure.

“Have you eaten today?” It was a question that usually would be useless, really—his huge appetite dismissed any worry about his intake of food, but that was before the Summit War. After that, the pain and stress of carrying Roger’s blood in his hands took upon him again, and there he was, believing he didn’t deserve any care in the world. Sometimes, the guilt would still drag along the sad smiles he flashed you whenever you gave him affection, but it was growing considerably lower through time. You hoped that, someday, he wouldn’t feel like his life was a burden.

A soft hum came from Ace as he rubbed his eye, looking away, immediately snatching a sigh from you.

“Come on, Ace, love, you’re better than that.” You looked at the bedside table, noticing a tray of food sitting there. It’d probably been brought for lunch, a couple of hours ago. “Look, there’s even some ramen here. Why don’t you try it? Or do you want fresh food? You know everyone is doing their best for you, try to eat a little bit, pretty boy.” You kissed the tip of his nose, making him scrunch his nose with a small sound.

“Will you stay with me for the rest of the day?” Ace’s eyebrows knitted together as he looked at you with those eyes, enough to make your heart heavy. “You’ve been busy all day long, only checking on me now and then. I like having you around, even if I’m just napping. I like your presence.”

A sigh escaped your nose as you heard Ace, frowning a little at his words. You should’ve done better, really. “Okay,” you said with a nod. “I’ll go let Pops know I’m spending the rest of the day with you, okay? Don’t move a single finger while I go there! I’ll know if you do!”

When Ace chuckled, something stirred in your chest, spreading warmth all within it.

“Okay! But give me another kiss before you leave and more when you come back, okay?” Ace’s arms wrapped tighter around your neck, making you roll your eyes before pressing your lips to his gently. He didn’t seem to be a big fan of the light kiss, instead deepening the kiss with a soft hum, keeping your lips together until you were both out of air.

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Shaken and Stirred.

I was really inspired by this fan art and was plagued by thoughts of a pathetic whiny lil meow meow 🥺 I don't drink myself, but I love the mature aesthetic of it and wanted to... write a drunken confession... to close off 2024...

… DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OTL wait no please J WORD I CAN EXPLAIN

***Content warning: Alcohol consumption, though Leona is the only one drinking. (The legal age is 20 in Japan; I’m going to assume this for Twisted Wonderland.) Everyone else is having sparkling juice :v***

Imagine this…

"Feel like joining us for dinner? For old time's sake.”

The invitation had come so casually, the same way a housecat might drop a mangled rat or bird at your feet. To them, an easy, everyday act. To you, a surprise you weren’t quite certain how to feel about.

You didn't have plans for the evening, nor a reason to refuse, and while you were busy weighing the pros and cons, you found yourself strung along in their outing. Muscular arms wrangling you into the herd, boisterous yells welcoming you back. An honorary member, the Savanaclaw students had branded you, recognized by their king.

Now you sit in a barstool, fingers on the rim of a cup clouded with condensation, absentmindedly swirling its contents. Juice, its sweetness stifled by melted ice.

Some would call you a lamb willingly waltzing into a lion's den. They're wrong. You are no beast, but a curious observer of them. This is a prime opportunity for that.

It’s dim, the glowing jellyfish set low, faint lights swimming overhead. The music is loud, a departure from the Mostro Lounge’s usual soft jazz. The bass is even louder, rattling your bones like a set of steel drums. Rowdy patrons clink cups, chant at their friends to chug, belt out laughter straight from the bellies. You can barely hear your own heartbeat. The sounds of nightlife drown it out.

Jack lurks in a quiet, shadowed corner, his back against the wall. Muscled arms folded, he has assumed a stern stance but wears a small, fond smile in spite of himself. Ruggie has climbed onto a table, raising a jet-black card to the waiting mob. It’s their golden meal ticket.

“All-you-can-eat food and drinks on Leona-san! Long live the king!!” he roars, and the others echo his excitement.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!!”

You chuckle to yourself. First he rents out the entire lounge, then he decides to feed everyone for the day? How generous of him. Guess the big guy’s going all out.

You scan the restaurant in search of him, seeking out his familiar visage. Long, wild tresses. Sharp eyes, emerald flecked with golden flakes, like the sunlight shining through verdant leaves. The scar that speared his left side. A noble aura, his lazy feline grace.

Leona Kingscholar always sticks out in a crowd, commands too much attention with his mere existence. “That man is only good for his face,” Vil would bitterly hawk, “his only redeeming feature.” And he was right, to some extent. Tall, dark, and handsome are all apt descriptors for Savanaclaw’s dorm leader. Leona is all that and more.

Your pulse quickens.

His shape—you can’t discern it from the myriad of bodies collected in the lounge. A puzzle piece missing from the box of your most treasured memories.

“Looking for someone?”

The question is low and nonchalant, almost musical in its own right, yet you can so clearly hear it rising above the bumping bass. Your blood hums in anticipation, already knowing who the voice belongs to.

Leona has slipped into the open seat beside you, nursing an Old-Fashioned filled halfway with a strongly scented amber liquid. An orb of ice chills it, so clear cut you can see through to the other side. He sits with an effortless confidence upon his throne, as though he—not Azul—owns the damn place. You'd believe it too, from how the patrons are shouting his name like a mantra.

There’s no greetings to exchange. No need to.

"I think I've found what I was looking for," you tell him teasingly. “Nice of you to throw this little get-together. What’s the occasion? Don’t think I remember when you were in this good of a mood.”

“Who said I was in a good mood?” he grumbles, leaning onto the counter. “Didn't feel like being left alone with my thoughts tonight is all.”

“You, brooding? Never."

He makes a sound as if repressing a dry laugh. “You think yourself clever for an herbivore, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Not as clever as you, though.”

“Hmph. You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego."

It’s comfortable, this trading of quips. Safe. The conversation flowing so easily, like wine poured. It is the only true way you can stand on the same level as him.

Leona lifts the glass and downs the rest of his drink. From the way he winces, it must burn on the way down. You wrinkle your nose at the sharp smell that meets it. Earth spiced with hypnotic smoke and the acrid pang of sorrow.

“They serve alcohol here? I thought those jars on the shelves were full of tea blends.”

Leona scoffs. “If you know the right people and the right strings to pull. The cephalopunk said his establishment was more than happy to provide for me as long as I shelled out and signed some liability waiver.”

“… Does the headmaster know about this?”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Leona smirks, placing his newly drained drink down. Immediately, a staff member appears and replaces it with a fresh glass. “What’s he gonna do, anyway? Sue me? I’m of legal drinking age, and ‘s not like I’m passing out alcohol to minors”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re so bad.”

“The worst,” he agrees sarcastically. “And you choose to keep me as company.”

“I’m but your humble accomplice, sir.” You jokingly salute to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. Rough day?”

He sighs in a way that gives the impression of saying, Like you wouldn't believe. But that tail of his swings back and forth like a patient pendulum, refusing to reveal his secrets. “This isn’t about me.”

“It literally is.” You pass a not-so-subtle glance at his second helping of whisky.

"I'm the host. It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with my feelings, now would it?"

You don't miss how he proceeds to take a swig right after his claim, how readily he consumes poison, even when it hurts him. Alcohol, insults. Pain, self-inflicted.

He has an arsenal of tricks and techniques to deflect—partaking in vices, one of them. Leona's magic rendered fortresses to sand, but he is an expert at building his own structures just the same. Studier, even. Imperious.

Attempting to scale the walls directly, you know, won't get you very far. Not when he has gone to such great lengths to guard his heart. There's a moat with leering crocodiles, barbed wire decorating the gates, a drawbridge firmly closed.

You attempt to breach the subject, toeing the line between testing his patience and challenging it. “What is it that you want then, Leona?”

He falls quiet, staring at the remains of his beverage. It’s like the sphere of ice the whisky swims with is a crystal ball, and he’s peering into it, seeking answers. His verdant eyes shift a shade deeper, darker.

When he’s solemnly silent like this, he’s contemplating. His next move in a game of chess, his next words in a debate. Plotting, scheming.

"A distraction," he declares at last, in that resolute tone he uses when he’s set on capturing a prize.

"A... distraction."

He nods, angling his head toward the noisy lounge. Ruggie is rallying some of the guys for a round of root beer pong. Jack’s trapped in a headlock, the hyena urging him to join in. They’re rowdy and ruddy from the exhilaration that comes with competition.

“Get my mind off of things. Take me away from all of this for a spell."

“How, exactly…?”

Leona drains his second glass. The server slides him a third. "Let's start with your day. From there, ramble about whatever.”

Amuse me, he seems to say, even if his mouth doesn’t. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, brightening them like the stars do the milky way.

You gulp, feeling compelled to obey.

Gathering your thoughts and wetting your lips, you begin. "This morning..."

The story opens like a newborn finding its footing for the first time: clumsily. Granted the space to expand, you do. Slowly, the conventions come to you. Balance, coordination. Each sentence is like a step, taken one at a time.

You run through your daily schedule and, reciting it out loud, you realize how terribly mundane it is. Classes, chores, chums. The usual. Worry flickers through you—Will he be satisfied with this?—but he only gestures for you to continue.

“Ah, so I picked up this new hobby recently…”

Leona props his face up on one hand, curled fingers resting against a cheek. He watches you with a look that isn’t quite predator on prey but isn’t quite human to human either. It’s intimate in a way that makes you feel exposed even when you avert your gaze, calculating enough to make you feel like a complex equation he has yet to solve.

“When something’s hard to get, it makes you want it all the more,” he had once told you. The memory surfaces like bubbles in a flute of champagne. Then it pops, fizzling away in a fine mist, and it is gone.

Moments like this are magic, you think.

You slip into a cadence, a rhythm. You lose count of how many stories you tell, how many whiskies Leona slams down in the span of them.

And still, the glowing green of his irises never seems to stray far from you. Vibrant and pulsating, like plants with heartbeats of their own, swaying in time with a stray breeze. Seeking something.

You don’t know if that concerns or thrills you.

"Ahahah…” You allow yourself a chuckle as you stretch in your seat. “This is so strange, isn’t it? I never thought I'd be rubbing elbows with a prince this time last year.”

Leona responds with a noncommittal “Mmmmm.”

He lowers his gaze to his drink number who knows?, his honey-colored reflection gazing back. When he blinks, his lashes seem to fall and flutter in slow motion.

You wonder what he's thinking, why he's thinking.

You reach for him. Carefully, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. He is wounded--in that frightening way that leaves no visible marks, no scars.

"Leona..."

You hear your name being called before you can tap his shoulder. You look--there's Jack, waving at you. Ruggie has his hands cupped over his mouth.

"Wanna participate in an arm-wrestling contest? Jack's the reigning champ!"

"Oh, um--" you try to respond, to explain that you're preoccupied. The blaring music washes you out.

Ruggie makes a face of confusion and shouts again: "What?!"

You start to rise from your stool and turn to him, raising your volume. "I said..."

You stop. Your wrist is ensnared in Leona's grasp, cuffing you to the spot.

“… Don’t go." His command cuts through the noise, startling you with its softness, its contrasting clarity.

"It'll only be a second. It's too hard to talk over the--"

"You must've not heard me the firs'time," he interrupts, his words slightly slurring together, one melting into the next. Leona pouts like a child. "I’m orderin' you to stay. Stay here, with me."

"You've been awfully bossy today."

"Cuz you keep bein' a pain in my tail. How'm I supposed to..." The more the man babbles, the more confidence drains from his voice. His proud lion's roar shrinking and shrinking to a kitten's mewl. Tiny, vulnerable. "Don't go. Don't... leave. Everyone else has. They always do."

Non-sarcastic pleading? From Leona?

You eye him in concern. "Being serious for a sec, are you okay?"

He winces, like speaking or touching you is a considerable effort. You're set free, his body slumping as he lays down at the bar. His mane spreads out around him like a pool of chocolate. Leona cradles himself against the cushion of an arm, groaning into it.

Definitely not okay.

You pass Ruggie a firm shake of the head--a no to his offer--then settle back into your seat, returning to Leona.

"I'm here," you reassure him with a soft push against the middle of his chest. "See? I'm not going anywhere." Then you poke him on his forehead. "What's up? You're thinking of something."

He peers at you from behind an arm and snorts. "Thinkin' about how you run your mouth a lot."

"You told me to. I'm just following orders--don't you like that? You're so hard to please."

"I have high standards," he says simply.

"Well..." You lift a brow expectantly. "Am I meeting them?"

This manages to draw out a bark of laughter from him, however strained it sounds. He fixates on you, the start of a scowl upon his searching expression.

Assessing you.

“… Why?” Leona asks suddenly. No proper answer. Instead, an inquiry thrown back in retaliation.

“Why what?”

“Why d’you bother stickin’ around? Why d’you…” A pause, as if the verb that comes next is capable of killing if not handled correctly. “Why do you care so much?”

You shrug. “You don’t really need a reason to care about someone. Anyone with a heart would, right? You’d do the same for me or any of your dorm members.”

“And what do you know about heart?” He fumbles for his drink, but you slyly slide it out of reach. A growl of frustration. “All I got’s a big black hole where my heart should be.”

“That’s not true,” you protest stubbornly. “Your students say so many good things about their dorm leader. They all really look up to you.”

“Hah, as if.” He lifts his head and slams it on the table. “I failed’m. What good’s a king if he can’t produce results? What good’s tryin’ if all there is at the end of the tunnel’s darkness? Can’t even dispatch the damn lizard or beat ‘m at his own game…

You frown. “Hey. hey! Don’t talk about yourself like that… and stop doing that, you’re going to injure yourself.”

Leona doesn’t seem to register anything you say. He continues deliriously mumbling to himself, the alcohol having wiped away his inhibitions and all the cards he so often kept close to his chest.

“I never get what I want,” he complains, dragging himself up—but he sways and is forced to hunch forward on his chair, elbows on the counter for support. “Never, ever. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I work… It all comes crumbling down eventually.”

His hair covers his face the same way the strands of a weeping willow do. You can’t see what kind of an expression is making. Do you want to see it?

He’s sinking, you realize. The same claws that struggle for a firm grip on the rocky ledge he dangles from, the same claws that render enemies to ashes—they don’t help him against crashing waves, the swamp that drags him down, down, down, into its murky depths. No sunlight, no air.

“The crown… the interdorm tournament... love, respect, admiration... Everything slips through m’fingers like sand. It’s some cruel, sick joke. Must be m’fate as the prince with naught.”

“Leona..."

Is this what haunts you every time you're alone in your room? The thoughts that you're scared of visiting you every night... What you needed a distraction from?

“Get my mind off of things," he had said. "Take me away from all of this for a spell."

There's an ache in your chest. The dull, throbbing pain that comes at the end of reading a sad story. His story.

But it's not the end of it, right? It can't be.

Your fingers tangle in his tresses and brush them aside. From behind the curtain, he peers at you like some stray cat having retreated into its cardboard box. And you meet him without hesitation.

"... Hey," you manage. "I think you've had enough. You're starting to say all this... unkind stuff about yourself, and you're not having fun anymore. Can you walk? Let's get you back to Savanaclaw and have you lie down."

Leona sways slightly. Even drunk, his tone is haughty and shreds into you like claws. "You can't tell me what t'do."

"You're the host," you insist with a smile. The words are his, borrowed, sharpened, and repurposed in your possession. "It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with your feelings, now would it?"

He stares at you, eyes blown wide. Then his lids lower, lashes shading his view of you.

"Why... Why d'you hafta be like thish? This would be sho much easier if y'didn’t look at me like that."

"L-Like what?"

Leona inches closer. He usually smells of sun and soil, but all of that has been smothered by the reek of booze. Heat radiates from his face, flushed from liquid courage, and hits yours.

"Like there's still a chance for me." He speaks clearly and concisely, each syllable a brick laid out and sandwiched with mortar to the next. Pouring all his energy into them. "Like you still believe in me."

"Because I do. Is that so wrong?" You're unsure of the answer--a part of you, dreading it.

Leona counters with another question. It is tinged with anger, irritation. "Why can’t you be like the others and just give up already? It'd save you a lot of trouble."

"I can't bring myself to leave you hanging on the edge of a cliff. We all want a hand sometimes to lift us up when we're down, so... I want to be that for you. And it seems like you could use that hand to get you out of your troubles right about now."

His lip trembles. Leona's voice comes out huskily. "I hate that dumb, wide-eyed look of yours. So full of hope. When you look at me like that… it makes me think I might still be able to have you.”

“You already have me, dummy. I’m right here, remember?”

“No.” His gaze is intense, almost pulsating. He has a way of scrutinizing that lays you bare before him, pinning you in place and making you inadvertently squirm. “Not in the way I want you t'be.”

Your heart stops, as if he has seized it in his grasp. One squeeze, and he can crush it. It's a mercy he doesn't, even as you erupt into a flurry of confusion, an inferno engulfing you.

"What?" you whisper, scarcely believing your ears. "Wh-What do you mean by that...?"

THUNK!

His balance caves. Leona keels over, the weight of his large body toppling onto yours like a domino crashing into the next one in a sequence.

His head lands on your shoulder, neatly nestling into the junction of your collarbone and neck. Arms loosely snake around your hips, hugging them, his tail wrapping around a leg like a ribbon decorating a pillar. A throaty groan escapes him.

Panic bolts through your muscle and bone.

Your immediate instinct is to shove him off—but he’s heavy and inebriated, and it’s hard for you to fend off the warmth pressed against you. He’s not playing fair. Is he doing this on purpose? You shouldn’t be surprised; he never does.

His low purr tickles you, his breath feathering across your bare skin. He sounds half asleep, caught in that magical twilight realm between the waking world and dreams. “Is it okay… for someone like me to fall in love with someone like you?”

Love?

Four letters, one simple word.

Your surroundings dullen, the chatter and the laughter and the music floating far away. You become acutely aware of all of the places where he touches you, of every spot where you connect. There are so many people gathered in the lounge, but all you can perceive is him: Leona, Leona Kingscholar.

Your mind races, set to a frantic pace like wildebeests rampaging.

Love, the thing with wings that soars high above the clouds. Love, the golden light that brings life to the lands. Love, the wellspring so many drink from.

He feels all of that for you?

It feels like I'm dreaming. Am I dreaming?

"D-Do you really mean that, Leona?" You need to know. You must confirm it. "That you... love me?"

Silence.

“L-Leona…?” you stutter, lightly tapping his back. It rises and falls, rises and falls, like the tides lapping the seashore. Soft, at ease.

But not a response.

One, two, three.

Three seconds. Three seconds is all it takes for Leona Kingscholar to knock out--and he is out like a light.

The party and its twisted beat carry on, the bass blasting in your bloodstream, uncaring. And you remain, cradling a snoozing cat in your arms.

... Ah, seriously. How did it turn out like this?

Upset, annoyance--you think that these are, perhaps, what you're meant to be feeling in the moment. They are missing, not so much as a phantom present. Instead, there's an excitable fluttering that doesn't have a name to it yet.

You swallow, still slightly shaken. The confession, raw and revealing, stirring emotions you didn't think possible before. Emotions that burned red hot, with serrated teeth and talons.

A hand goes to the back of his head, stroking his mane and smoothing it out. It's comforting to him, you imagine, but it's comforting to you as well. Grounding.

You're here. He's here. The both of you are here, together.

There is it again, that unnamed, excitable fluttering kicking up back up. It fans out from your core, from your head to the tips of your toes. You feel like you're lighter than air, flying to the moon and playing among the stars.

He loves you.

Leona Kingscholar loves you.

The fingers trapped in his hair stiffen.

You draw out a sigh. It mingles with the music and stretches thin, a string of fabric pulled from a spool.

Until the clock strikes midnight… Let’s just stay like this for a little longer. That much would be okay, wouldn’t it? We can figure out the rest of the story once the sleepy prince wakes from his slumber.

[muxshwriting]

you and i (pt. i)

Simon Basset x bridgerton!reader

summary: as Daphne's twin, you were always second to her. but then you meet someone who is only yours, completely devoted to you. nothing will come between the two of you, it is just you and him || word count: 1260 || masterlist

Your twin sister Daphne was the diamond of the season, the belle of every ball and the woman that every suitor desired. You were the second born twin, the second option. Your sister had the pick of suitors so you had free reign of your sister's rejects.

Daphne practically drags you across the ballroom, attempting to avoid the bumbling Nigel Berbrooke once again. He was a horrible man, set on marrying a Bridgerton, either you or your sister. She glances back at you and behind you, accidently bumping into a man weaving the crowd the same way you were.

They traded apologies and you were perfectly fine to continue walking back to your brother but Daphne stayed still, glancing behind her at Lord Berbrooke who continued to follow the pair of you.

"Tell me your name."

"Am I honestly meant to believe you do not know my name?" The man asked, seeming annoyed at Daphne's insistence.

She glanced behind her once again, Berbrooke growing closer. Her eyes met your which were begging her to move along and find Anthony. She ignored you, laughing at an imaginary joke the man had told.

"If you required an introduction, madams, I do believe accosting me to be the least civilised of ways."

"Accosting you?" Daphne was surprised at the mans annoyance but you pulled her slightly backwards.

"I apologise for my sister." You hurriedly said. "We were simply trying to find our brother."

Speak of the devil and he may come, Anthony appeared behind you, calling to the man in front of you.

"Basset. Basset!"

The man's mood immediately shifted. "Bridgerton!"

"I heard news of your father. Deuce take it, you are no longer Basset. Hastings! The Duke of Hastings, now known for evermore." Anthony teased.

Daphne stepped into the conversation, once again dragging you behind her. "The Duke of Hastings is it?"

The Duke turned to face her, but met eyes with you instead as you lifted your head from the floor. His expression seemed to soften for a moment before Anthony spoke again.

"Right, Hastings, these are my sisters."

"Your sisters?" He seemed surprised but brushed it off.

The Duke's eyes kept flicking back to yours as Anthony spoke further. You didn't hear any of it, taken by the Duke's imposing presence. As you walked away, you glanced back to find the Duke staring directly at you. For once, it was you and not your sister that was being looked at. It felt nice, a warmth settled in your chest that could not be shaken off no matter the storm.

And boy does that storm arrive at the very next ball when your sister walks through the crowd, Duke on her arm. They begin to dance and you stand there speechless. Daphne hadn't expressed an inkling of interest in this man and now she was dancing with him, staring lovingly into his eyes as he returned the gesture. What was going on? The rest of the evening passes quickly, a suitor or two asking you for a spin around the floor but none caught your attention. You don't truly process what happened until you're home and preparing for bed.

"Are you courting the Duke?" You burst through the doors to your sister's bedroom.

Daphne seems startled by your suddenness. "It would appear so..."

An unfamiliar feeling stirs in your chest. "Anthony says he does not wish to marry." Daphne hums in response, taking pins out of her hair. "Why do you court him then?"

She shrugs. "He intrigues me. Perhaps he can be changed."

"You haven't seemed interested in him before."

Daphne turns to you, a worried and slightly confused look in her eyes. "Is there something you wish to tell me sister?"

"I-" You aren't sure what to say, you aren't even sure what Daphne is asking. "No! I'm just worried for you. There is nothing I need to tell you."

"Alright... Good night sister."

"...Goodnight."

The season drags on, much to your disappointment. Daphne continues to court the Duke, attracting more suitors than ever. The news of a Prince reaches town and Daphne seems weirdly excited about the prospect of meeting this Prince. The more you thought, the more confusing it became. Your sister and the Duke were courting but she showed no deeper interest in him, nothing more than the surface level conversational skills we were taught to secure a suitor.

Your eyes catch the Duke's at nearly every ball he attends and when your sister comes to stand beside you, The Duke always stands between you. You cannot make any assumptions based on foolish hoping but your heart hopes and it hopes dearly.

Nevertheless, your sister has captured the attention of a Prussian prince, Fredrich. He's devoted to her and she is besotted with him, Duke be damned. They dance as many times as possible at balls, talking and laughing together at every chance they get. The Duke is neglected, attending fewer balls and remaining at the edges of rooms when he does.

It's at one of these balls that he did attend where your watching Daphne dance with the Prince. Simon emerges through the crowd to stand beside you. Your mother is on the other side of the room with Lady Danbury, your brothers nowhere to be seen.

"Miss Bridgerton-" He seems to second guess himself halfway through the sentence. "May I have this dance?"

You can't help the stunned expression that takes over your face. "M-Me? You wish to dance with me?"

He smiles warmly and your soul silently celebrates. "Yes, if you do not mind?"

The smile that covers your face could rival the sun with it's joy. "Please."

Couples filter on and off the dancefloor and the Duke takes your hand, guiding you to the centre. He takes a step towards you until you feel his breath on your cheek. He spins you once, pulling away as he seems to realise where he is. Your breath hitches as his bare hand brushes your gloved one. Then, all too quickly, the dance is over and you leave Simon and the dancefloor, rushing outside for some fresh air.

It feels as though you can barely breath, despite seeing your breath mist in the cold night air.

"Miss Bridgerton!"

Simon is behind you, having come outside to check you were alright. His presence warms you but you shake away the feeling. It's wrong to love your sister's suitor.

"Don't come closer." Simon nods, even taking a step away. "We are not doing this. You are an infamous rake." Simon goes to interject but you continue to speak. "And least of all, you are courting my sister."

Simon sharply inhales. "I am not courting your sister."

"What?" The exclamation leaves your lips before your brain catches up, spinning to face him. "What do you mean you are not courting Daphne? You dance together, you sent her and Mama flowers, you are courting!"

"I was simply helping her find better suitors whilst making myself appear unavailable. It was a ruse, nothing more."

"What of my sister?"

"I do not love your sister." Simon states. "I love you. Besides, your sister is besotted with a prince, our ruse has succeeded and therefore ended. Why would she marry a lowly Duke when she could have a prince?"

Your voice drops to a whisper. "What does this mean... for us?"

Simon smiles. "I'm here if you'll have me. Please-"

You smile shyly at him as you speak your dreams into existence, "My Duke?"

Simon's heart soars. "Your Duke." He quietly agrees.

I did not mean to but I have written a pt. 2 to this which I'll edit and publish next week. season 3 part 1 has got me back in a bridgerton mood, so i will be binging all of part two in a single day

PART II is here!!

[whereslynx]

[PART 2] Stepping in for Oscar “Spooky” Diaz

pov: mothering a child who isn’t yours isn’t easy, especially if it’s the leader of the santos’ younger brother; you’d know, you’ve been doing it since the end of your high school years. but for oscar — god, for that man, you’d do anything.

PART 1 (LINK)

a/n: thank you for the support guys :) i appreciate it so much !!

☽✶•┈┈┈•◦❥◦•┈┈┈•✶☾

☽✶•┈┈┈•◦❥◦•┈┈┈•✶☾

God, you couldn’t have been any more wrong.

Everything wasn’t okay. Cesar wasn’t safer. In fact, within the short span of Oscar being home, he was jumped into the Santos, rolled up on, ordered to kill a prophet. And now, they beat him to a pulp and basically ejected him from not only the Santos, but from his home after Latrelle was found alive, resulting in the death of Olivia and injury of Ruby. Cesar’s life was falling apart fast and you couldn’t do anything about it.

The first few weeks of Oscar getting released was filled with you smothering him with your love. Your undying loyalty for his— your family was evident within Cesar’s healthy figure. He was beyond proud and grateful that you stuck around for something that you didn’t sign up for, and he made sure you knew that. But when the days went by and more and more unfortunate events preyed on Cesar’s life after he joined the Santos, it all pushed you to distance yourself from Oscar by the hour.

He still remembers the night you found out Cesar was jumped in. The two Diaz boys will never forget how only a shaken gasp just left your lips when you lifted up his shirt. You didn’t shout or cry when you saw Cesar come home with Oscar with a bruised stomach, only biting back a cry and slamming the front door behind you without a word. The silence in the house after you left was overwhelming, pushing Cesar to twist the doorknob with the intent to explain himself to you. “Don’t. I know how she is when she gets like this.” Oscar barked just as about Cesar was going to run after you, “She needs space. Leave her be, vale?” he said, not even turning to face him as he spoke. Almost as if he didn’t want Cesar to see his expression, afraid to show weakness or vulnerability. Cesar sheepishly nodded, “Claro.” he responded with a mumble before leaving quietly to his room. You didn’t return until hours later with a tear stained face, slipping into you and Oscar’s shared bed without a word. You didn’t know if he was awake or not, but you didn’t want to know because the rest of the night was filled with a consuming silence.

The life of being in a gang wasn’t foreign to you. You grew up in Freeridge and around Santos all your life, and your relationship with Oscar that’s been ongoing since high school allowed you to bear witness to the gang life. But seeing the boy you considered your baby live through it brought sorrow to your heart, especially when Oscar had kicked him out of the house. You were torn between the weight of understanding what Oscar had to do because of Cuchillos, and whacking him over the head for kicking your baby boy out.

You weren’t Cesar’s biological mother, but you raised him since he was a child whilst Oscar was locked up. He was your everything, he taught you what it was to be a mother before you even bared your own child. And you hated to admit it because you swore to love Oscar through everything, but an overwhelming sense of anger stirred in you. You were angry that Cesar had to be jumped into the gang, and you were angry at the circumstances that you and Oscar had to deal with.

Your late night thoughts were put on halt when you felt the other side of the bed slightly sink, telling you that Oscar was home. But you didn’t shift in the bed, you didn’t turn around and whisper a quiet hello with a sweet kiss like you always did— No, you stayed under the covers with your back turned on him. He must’ve known you were awake because you felt his eyes on you, the silence sewing tension into the atmosphere. “Damn. Got yo’ back turned on me and everything, ma.” Oscar grunted from the edge of the bed, “What’s up with you?” he asked, a tinge of frustration in his tone. When you didn’t respond, a ‘tsk’ left Oscar’s lips as his gaze fixated on the narrow shaft of the midnight sky that broke through the darkness. Its light slipped through the crack of the curtains, illuminating the dark room with a soft, silver glow.

With a sharp inhale of a ravening fury, you sat up in the bed and turned to Oscar with furrowed brows, “Fuck you mean what’s up with me, Oscar?” you hissed with an expression of anger, “Do you expect me to shower you with affection while the boy I— We, raised is out on the streets?” you shook your head, running a hand down your face.

Oscar would’ve been a terrible boyfriend if he hadn’t recognised that look on your face. That same look on your face, was the same look you had on the day he was arrested. It was a look of sorrow and anxiety masked and disguised with an unshaken wrath.

“You think it’s any easier for me to handle?” Oscar said with a frown, “I’m as fucked up over it as you are, mami.” he growled, his jaw tightening under the intensity before he stood up from the bed and began pacing around the room. You only scoffed a laugh, swinging your legs off the bed as your feet touched the cold wooden floor, “Then why did you jump him in!?” you yelled, the volume of your voice rising without care. Cesar’s absence from home was only a bitter reminder that there was nobody left to hide your guys’ arguments from. “It was to protect him!” Oscar yelled back, his hands balling into fists. “Oh please, Oscar.” A baffled laugh left your lips, “I didn’t know you were protecting him when he came to me, crying his damn ass off because you and your manos, took him to kill a fucking prophet!” you contested, pointing a finger at him from the other side of the bed. Oscar shook his head, “Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t do it.” he grumbled, “That’s what got him kicked out in the first place.”

“Do you know how much it messes with my mental seeing my baby go through that? To have to stand by and watch him get kicked out the house by his own older brother?” You said with a quivering bottom lip, your furrowed brows marking your forehead with creases. Oscar covered his eyes with his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You don’t understand, I had to. Cuchillos—“

“Fuck Cuchillos! She, outta all people should understand this twisted feeling that messes with my head every night.” You snapped, tears swelling your eyes, “Look, you did what you had to do. From a Santo’s perspective, it’s hard to do, but from a mother’s, it’s crushing. I only beg of you to see this situation as Oscar, not Spooky.” you muttered, your anger dissipating into a unresolvable state of grief once tears fell down your face.

The familiar sound of silence fell onto youse heavily, the two of you only staring at each other with broken expressions; a silent way of communicating how youse truly felt, without the burden of carrying it with words.

Oscar broke your mutual gaze, a deep sigh leaving him as he sniffled. Making his way to the other side of the bed, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling your tear stained faced against his chest. It was a gesture that you two weren’t strangers to, but you still found yourself tensing up. It’d been so long since you two embraced with the same warmth that youse prided yourselves on. But tonight, the warmth of genuine love indulged itself into the embrace, allowing you to ease into the hug. You wrapped your arms around his neck, letting a soft sob leave your lips. The weight of witnessing Cesar’s life fall apart wasn’t only dragging you down, but on Oscar as well.

“I’m sorry.” Oscar mumbled, his head leaned down to rest on your shoulder, “I have a plan. I’ll bring Cesar back, I promise.” he assured you, softly tightening his grip as a sign of his loyalty to his words. You could only nod silently, melting into his touch. “I love you.” He whispered, planting a soft kiss onto your shoulder. “I love you.” You said softly.

The life you two led was not a life of privilege, but it was undeniable that youse did find privilege in being able to walk through it together. Despite the losses that your journey might meet, with Oscar, you were sure that you would stumble, but not fall.

[chloeangelbaby]

Bad dreams

Crybaby! reader x Rafe Cameron

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The night was unusually quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan in Rafe’s bedroom. The moonlight seeped through the curtains, casting faint silver lines across the bed where you lay next to him. His arm was loosely draped over your waist, his deep, steady breaths evidence of just how tired he was.

Rafe had been working himself to the bone lately. Long hours at the office, late-night calls, and stress so palpable you could feel it radiating from him every time he walked through the door. You hated seeing him like that, and tonight, you were especially careful not to disturb him. He needed sleep.

But you couldn’t settle.

The dream had been vivid, cruel, and relentless, leaving you shaken and trembling. It wasn’t even clear in your mind anymore—just flashes of panic, confusion, and that heavy weight in your chest. Your eyes blinked open, your breathing erratic, and tears slipped silently down your cheeks.

You lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, willing yourself to calm down. But the room felt too dark, the shadows too menacing, and the lump in your throat only grew. A hiccup escaped before you could stifle it, and your hand shot up to cover your mouth.

Rafe stirred next to you, and your heart dropped.

You turned your face away from him, biting your lip to hold back another hiccup. You couldn’t wake him—not tonight. He had enough on his plate already, and the last thing you wanted was for him to get annoyed.

But your body betrayed you. The tremble in your shoulders gave way to a quiet sob, and no matter how much you tried to stay still, the bed shifted ever so slightly.

“Dolly?” His voice was groggy, rough from sleep, but instantly alert. His hand moved from your waist to your shoulder, his palm warm against your chilled skin. “What’s wrong?”

You froze, guilt washing over you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, though you couldn’t see it in the dark. He sat up slightly, leaning on his elbow to get a better look at you. “Why are you crying?”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing,” you lied, though the hiccup that followed gave you away. “I just… had a bad dream. But it’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Rafe sighed, the sound soft and tired but not annoyed. “Dolly, stop.” He shifted closer, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you against his chest. “You’re crying. It’s not nothing.”

His embrace was warm and solid, and the moment you were in it, the dam broke. The quiet tears turned into sobs as you buried your face in his chest, gripping his t-shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I-I didn’t want to wake you,” you choked out between sobs. “You’ve been so stressed, and I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

His hold on you tightened immediately, his hand moving to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Mad at you?” he repeated, his voice incredulous. “Baby, I’d never be mad at you for this. Never.”

“But you’re so tired,” you sniffled, still trembling.

“I don’t care how tired I am,” he said firmly, tipping your chin up so you’d look at him. Even in the dim light, his eyes were soft, filled with concern. “If you’re upset, you wake me up. No matter what. Got it?”

You nodded weakly, the tears still slipping down your cheeks.

“Good,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Now, what happened in the dream?”

“I don’t even remember,” you admitted, your voice small. “It just… felt so real. And I woke up feeling scared.”

“Hey,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles on your back. “It was just a dream, okay? You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The way he said it, so calm and steady, made the tension in your chest ease just a little. You let out a shaky breath, leaning further into him as his fingers continued to stroke your hair.

“Do you want me to stay up with you for a bit?” he asked after a moment.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t want you to lose more sleep.”

“Dolly,” he said with a small chuckle, the sound low and comforting. “I’ll be fine. Just tell me what you need.”

“Just hold me,” you whispered, closing your eyes.

“Always,” he replied, pulling you even closer.

You drifted off again not long after, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the soft strokes of his hand against your back. And Rafe stayed awake a little longer, just to make sure you were okay, watching over you with a quiet devotion that he never hesitated to give

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Please send me some requests babies I appreciate you all so much for showing all the love and support thank you so so much

Love Chloe

xxxx

[stirdrawsandreblaws]

my sea wolf is named Thorgeim Merlskyfkyn; since roe surnames are gendered by -syn/-wyn suffixes (meaning son/daughter), i did some linguistic research and decided -kyn would be the most likely gender-neutral suffix (derived from 'klin/klind' meaning child, but not -klyn, as 'klyn' already means 'small')

so! they chose their current name! per my character notes:

They were born into a pirate's life as Ofangeim Merlskyfwyn. Always on the heels of their father, Merlskyf, they were a formidable little Sea Wolf since they were old enough to carry an axe, unafraid of much larger opponents. However, when they elected to change their surname from Merlskyfwyn to Merlskyfkyn, a rift began to grow between them and their traditionalist crew-family. Eventually the tension became too much, and, so far as their family knew, they simply vanished at the docks one day.

they replaced 'ofan' (clear) with 'thor' (pronounced 'tor', meaning torn, symbolizing their choice to tear away from their family), but kept 'geim' (meaning jewel)

common nicknames include 'torgi' (with torgy/torgie as valid permutations) and 'shark'. it's also fine to address them as 'captain' since that's their rank in the maelstrom. they'll roll with almost anything they recognize as referring to them though

sorta the same deal with pronouns; any pronouns are fine, but they don't particularly like being referred to as a woman or man (or worse, boy/girl). the only time that's allowed is if it's For The Bit, or if they're dealing with literal children (and even then they'll correct it before they draw their axe)

Roegadyn players, tell me about your character's name!

What was your thought process behind it? Does it mean something important? Does it follow Sea Wolf/Hellsguard conventions or does it draw on other cultures? Is it the same as their birth name or has it changed? Can other people pronounce it? Do they go by any nicknames or shorten it for convenience?

[awkward-walking-potato]

heard you were looking for some ideas for Logan! What about Logan with a significant other that’s basically an oujia board? Like they can talk to dead people, maybe possess people or haunt their dreams? How did they meet Logan, and how did they end up with him, and most importantly what does wade think of their relationship?

I am sorry this one is Longgg

Between Two Worlds

The Encounter

The bar was dimly lit, the low hum of conversations mixing with the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Logan sat at the far end, nursing a whiskey, his gaze distant. He had just finished a mission, and all he wanted was some peace—a rare commodity in his life. The last thing he expected was to meet someone who would change everything.

But then you walked in.

You weren’t like anyone else in the bar. You moved with a calmness that seemed out of place in a place like this, your presence both ethereal and unsettling. Logan noticed the way people gave you a wide berth, as if instinctively sensing something otherworldly about you. You weren’t particularly intimidating, but there was an air of mystery surrounding you—a vibe that made people uncomfortable. But not Logan. He was more intrigued than anything.

You sat down at the bar, a few stools away from him, and ordered a drink. The bartender handed you a glass of something dark, but your eyes weren’t on the drink; they were on Logan.

“You’ve got a lot of ghosts around you,” you said, your voice soft, almost like a whisper.

Logan stiffened slightly. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips. “But I know you.”

He eyed you warily, sizing you up. “And how’s that?”

You took a sip of your drink, your gaze never leaving his. “I can see them—hear them. The dead. And you, Logan, have a lot of them following you.”

Logan’s grip on his glass tightened, but he didn’t move. He’d seen and heard a lot of strange things in his life, and he wasn’t easily shaken. “You got a name?”

“Y/N,” you said, extending your hand.

He hesitated, then took it. The moment your hands touched, a strange sensation washed over him. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant either—like a cold breeze brushing against his soul. He let go quickly, his eyes narrowing. “What are you?”

You smiled again, but this time it was a little sad. “I’m just someone who can talk to the dead. Sometimes they talk through me, sometimes they use me to do things, but mostly, they just want to be heard.”

Logan took another drink, considering your words. “Sounds like a rough gig.”

“It can be,” you admitted. “But it’s my life. I help them find peace—or vengeance, depending on what they need.”

He respected that. There was something undeniably compelling about you, something that pulled him in despite the warning bells going off in his head. Maybe it was the loneliness he sensed in you, a loneliness that mirrored his own. Whatever it was, Logan couldn’t help but feel a connection to you.

You spent the rest of the evening talking. There was an easy understanding between you, a mutual respect for the darkness in each other’s lives. When the night was over, Logan offered to walk you home, and you accepted. He didn’t know it at the time, but that was the beginning of something neither of you could have predicted.

Weeks turned into months, and what started as a strange, tentative friendship quickly grew into something more. Logan found himself drawn to you in ways he couldn’t explain. You were an enigma, someone who lived between worlds, yet grounded enough to keep him from losing himself in his own darkness.

You moved into Logan’s cabin, a secluded place where you both could escape the chaos of the world. It wasn’t exactly peaceful—Logan’s past and your connection to the dead made sure of that—but it was home.

One night, as you lay in bed together, you stirred awake. Logan could feel it—the change in the air, the subtle shift in your body temperature. He opened his eyes to see you sitting up, staring at something in the corner of the room.

“Who is it this time?” Logan asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“There’s a woman here,” you said, your voice distant. “She’s…angry. Betrayed. She was killed by someone she trusted.”

Logan sighed, sitting up beside you. He was used to this by now. “What does she want?”

You turned to him, your eyes reflecting the sadness and fury of the spirit inside you. “Vengeance. She wants him to suffer like she did.”

Logan could see the strain this was putting on you. “You don’t have to do this tonight. You can tell her to wait.”

You shook your head. “She won’t wait. This is her only chance.”

Without another word, you got out of bed and began to dress, your movements slow and deliberate. Logan knew better than to try and stop you. He’d seen what happened when you resisted the spirits—it wasn’t pretty.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, pulling on his jeans and boots.

You nodded, grateful for his support. Logan’s presence had a way of grounding you, of keeping you tethered to the living world when the dead threatened to pull you under.

As you both headed out into the night, Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different this time. The spirit inside you was more powerful than the others, more determined. He could feel it in the air, a malevolence that made his skin crawl.

The spirit led you to an old, run-down house on the outskirts of town. Logan followed closely behind, his senses on high alert. You walked up to the front door and knocked, your hand trembling slightly.

The door opened, revealing a man in his late forties, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”

“She knows what you did,” you said, your voice filled with the rage of the spirit within you. “And she’s here to make you pay.”

Logan watched as the man’s face paled, his eyes widening in fear. “No… It can’t be…”

Before Logan could react, you lunged forward, your hand wrapping around the man’s throat. The spirit’s fury flowed through you, making you stronger than you should have been, your grip like iron.

Logan moved quickly, pulling you back before you could do any real damage. “That’s enough, Y/N!”

The man collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, while you struggled against Logan’s hold, the spirit’s anger overwhelming you.

“He deserves to die!” you screamed, your voice no longer your own.

Logan held you tightly, his voice firm but gentle. “This isn’t you, Y/N. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let her control you.”

For a moment, it seemed like the spirit would win, that it would consume you completely. But then, with a shuddering breath, you managed to regain control, the spirit’s presence slowly fading as you collapsed against Logan, exhausted.

The man on the floor was sobbing, babbling apologies that fell on deaf ears. Logan looked down at him with disgust. “Get out of town. If I see you again, you won’t be so lucky.”

The man scrambled to his feet and ran, disappearing into the night.

Logan turned his attention back to you, his hand gently cupping your face. “You okay?”

You nodded weakly, leaning into his touch. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

He sighed in relief, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you home.”

Life with you was never boring, and Logan wouldn’t have had it any other way. But when Wade found out about your abilities, things got a little more…interesting.

“Hold up,” Wade said, leaning back in his chair, Mary Puppins perched on his lap. “You’re telling me your significant other is basically a walking, talking Ouija board?”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Something like that.”

Wade’s eyes lit up with mischief. “That is so badass! Do you do parties? Can you, like, summon Elvis or something? Wait, don’t answer that—I have a list of people I want to talk to, starting with—”

“Wade,” Logan growled, cutting him off. “It’s not a party trick.”

Wade pouted. “You’re no fun. But seriously, that’s gotta be weird, right? I mean, what happens if they get mad? Do you end up like one of those possessed dolls from horror movies?”

You chuckled, leaning against Logan. “It’s not quite that dramatic, but it can get intense. I try to keep them under control.”

“Still, sounds like a hell of a time,” Wade said, clearly fascinated. “You ever, uh, use your abilities on Logan here? Like, freak him out in the middle of the night?”

You smiled mischievously, glancing at Logan. “Maybe once or twice.”

Logan shot you a look but didn’t say anything. Wade burst out laughing. “Oh man, I wish I could’ve seen that! Logan, scared out of his mind—priceless!”

Logan rolled his eyes, pulling you closer. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Sure, sure,” Wade said, waving his hand dismissively. “But for real, you two are like the weirdest couple I’ve ever seen. And coming from me, that’s saying something. But you know what? I think it works. You balance each other out. Plus, if anyone ever pisses you off, you can just send them a nice little nightmare. That’s a win in my book.”

You and Logan exchanged a glance, both of you smiling. Wade might be a pain, but he wasn’t wrong.

[joelsrose]

Polaroids

just fluff - maybe this will distract u guys from the ending of last chapter hehehe

You leaned back into the worn-out car seat, the low hum of the engine mingling with the crackle of the old radio. The old country music drifted over the airwaves, soft and faint, nearly swallowed by static. The radio itself was a relic, knobs worn and dials stubborn, the plastic casing chipped and yellowed with age. Sometimes it cut out completely, leaving only a soft crackling, but today it clung to the melody, filling the cab with the warmth of old tunes and distant memories.

Sunlight filtered through the cracked window, spilling across your face and hands in fractured beams. Outside, the landscape stretched on, an endless expanse of dust and decay, each mile marked by the skeletons of a world long gone—a place suspended in ruin, holding its breath.

Joel’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, low and steady. “Not much longer now. We’ll get what we need and move on.”

You met his words with a nod, too tired to reply. You’d been traveling for days now, driven by the promise of Jackson and the slim hope of civilization. Supplies were running low, as always; every stop felt like a roll of the dice, hoping to find something, anything, left behind.

It had only been a few months since he’d found you, though time had blurred into a haze, each day bleeding into the next. Exhaustion hung between you both, heavy and constant, like a second skin you couldn’t shake, worn thin from days on the road and nights too quiet to let you sleep.

Joel had saved you when you’d been cornered, trapped in an old, crumbling building with nowhere to go. You’d been running from a small group of infected, adrenaline pumping as you turned down a dark hallway only to find it a dead end. Your options had narrowed to one: wait for them to close in or make your last stand. Just when it seemed there’d be no way out, Joel appeared—silent and swift, moving with a brutal efficiency that left you stunned. In a matter of seconds, he’d cleared the path, his hand gripping yours as he pulled you to safety, his strength as grounding as his presence.

Since then, you’d stayed by his side, even though he’d made it clear he didn’t want company. He worked alone, he’d insisted, in that blunt, no-nonsense way of his. But you hadn’t given him much choice, and over time, it seemed he’d stopped minding. Now, you were the thorn in his side—a place you gladly occupied. With Joel, you felt a kind of safety you hadn’t known in ages. He’d pulled you out of more tight spots than you could count, watching your back like an instinct.

And though his gruff persona suggested otherwise, you liked to think you offered him something in return, even if it was only the company he didn’t know he needed. Maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten used to the rhythm you’d found together, the unspoken understanding that had grown between you with each mile.

The truck rolled to a stop, the engine dying into silence. You reached for the door, and as always, Joel shot you a quick, expectant look. You knew the routine by now—he wanted you to lead.

He’d insisted on it from the start, claiming it was safer, though you’d never been entirely convinced. A few times, you’d tried to switch places, hanging back to keep an eye on his back. But each time, he’d glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, his unease written in quick, silent looks that said, Get up here.

Eventually, you’d stopped fighting it, falling into the rhythm he’d set. It was easier than watching him practically break his neck to check on you every few steps.

There was something almost sweet about it, a kind of silent protectiveness you’d caught yourself thinking about more than once. But you’d always shaken it off just as quickly—this was about survival, after all.

Nothing more.

As you stepped out first, the wind stirred a broken sign on an old gas station up ahead, its faded letters barely readable. Moving quietly, you swept your gaze over the cracked concrete, dark windows, and twisted metal—every shadow a potential hiding place. Raiders, infected—it didn’t matter. You’d learned to stay vigilant, to read your surroundings like second nature.

The gas station loomed closer, dark and silent, and the air felt thick, weighted. You tightened your grip on your knife, every nerve alert. And even now, without turning, you could feel Joel’s gaze on you, fixed and ready, trusting you to lead but always prepared to step in if needed.

You eased open the door, and the little shop bell above jingled sharply, shattering the silence. You winced, instinctively glancing back at Joel, who fixed you with one of those stern looks that seemed to say everything without a single word. You mouthed, What? as if you had any say in the bell hanging there. He just shook his head, giving a quick gesture for you to keep moving.

The gas station was a relic from another world, frozen in time. The air hung thick with dust and stale, long-forgotten scents. Every shelf wore a layer of grime, and faded signs advertised snacks and drinks that hadn’t been stocked in years. You and Joel swept through the space in silence, checking for any lurking danger before easing up slightly, letting yourselves relax just enough to take in the scene.

You moved slowly, scanning each shelf with eyes trained to spot anything useful. Most of it had been picked clean long ago—torn-open packaging and discarded wrappers marking the hurried visits of those who’d come before you. Still, you continued your search, hoping some overlooked scrap might still be hiding among the debris.

You found yourself wandering into the magazine aisle, eyes catching on a rack filled with faded covers, each magazine a window to a lost world. The glossy pages once held glimpses of celebrity gossip, fashion, sports, news—details from lives people used to care about. It was strange to think of a time when you could pick up a magazine, sink into a chair, and read, unbothered by the weight of survival.

Shaking the thoughts away, you made your way toward the back room, pushing open the door. Inside, it was chaos. Torn sleeping bags, empty food cans, and scattered belongings littered the floor. It was clear that people had stayed here, leaving pieces of their lives behind in a hurry. You stepped over the debris, wondering about them—the strangers who had once huddled in this cramped room, just as desperate as you. Each item felt like a clue, a fragment of someone else’s survival, each as temporary as the lives that had passed through here.

You sifted through the mess, nudging aside tattered blankets and empty cans, until something caught your eye. Your breath hitched. No way.

Nestled under a pile of discarded clothes was an old Polaroid camera, scratched and battered, but unmistakable. You picked it up, heart thumping as you opened the film compartment—still a few shots left.

A smile tugged at your lips as your thumb traced the camera’s worn edges, the feel of it strangely comforting. You used to have one of these—your walls once covered with Polaroids of friends, family, frozen moments from a world that felt like a distant dream.

The thought of taking a picture, capturing even one still moment in this endless chaos, felt like a luxury you couldn’t resist. Carefully, you slipped the camera into your bag, casting a quick glance over your shoulder. Joel’s rules on “essentials only” echoed in your mind; you could almost hear that familiar, gruff tone reminding you of what mattered. But this felt worth the risk.

“Find anything?” Joel’s voice cut through the quiet, jolting you as you straightened up. You turned, giving a casual shake of your head. “No,” you murmured, but the way his gaze lingered told you he wasn’t entirely convinced. He’d grown attuned to your every tell over the past few months, as if he could read the slightest shift in your expression. He knew when you were lying, just like he’d picked up on the way you got a bit snappy when you were hungry or the way you got quiet and withdrawn when you were tired.

You could see his eyes narrow slightly, that small tic he had when he sensed something was off. He didn’t push, though, just let out a sigh and gave a slight nod, the silent acknowledgment that he knew you were keeping something back, even if he wasn’t going to press you on it.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said, his tone steady as he turned to lead the way back. You followed him out of the gas station, stepping carefully over broken glass and crumbling concrete, the weight of the camera tucked away in your bag a secret thrill you couldn’t quite shake.

A few days later you and Joel had stopped by an old, abandoned farmhouse. The building stood crooked and half-collapsed, but it provided some shelter and, thankfully, a well you’d managed to draw fresh water from. As the sun began to dip low in the sky, casting everything in a golden wash, you found Joel outside, seated on a weathered tree stump, quietly cleaning his rifle.

He looked up as you approached, his face softened by the fading light. You felt that familiar pull, the itch to capture this version of him—the one without his guard so firmly up, the rare glimpse of the man beneath the gruff exterior. Without overthinking it, you brought the Polaroid up, snapping the photo with a quick click and a whirl.

The sound broke through the quiet, and Joel looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. “What the hell are you doing?” His voice was a mix of surprise and irritation, but you only grinned, holding the photo as it developed.

“Just… keeping a memory,” you replied, lifting it slightly to see the faint outline of his figure slowly come to life on the film. The fading light, the rugged set of his face, the rifle in his hands—it was a glimpse of this strange, fractured world you’d both managed to carve out for yourselves.

Joel shook his head, letting out a deep sigh as he returned his focus to his rifle, muttering, “Where’d you get that thing?” You tensed, expecting a lecture, but he didn’t sound as mad as you’d thought he’d be. Instead, he glanced up, one eyebrow raised in faint amusement. “Wasting film on me, huh? Thought I told you to stick to the essentials.”

His tone was more resigned than scolding, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of softness behind that familiar gruffness.

“This is essential,” you shot back, tucking the photo carefully into your bag. He huffed but didn’t push it, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he refocused on his task. And as the last rays of sunlight slipped below the horizon, you felt the weight of that small photo, the tiny moment frozen forever in your pocket.

A few days later, you stopped by the edge of a forest, setting up a small camp as the sky turned dusky and violet. Joel had wandered off to gather more kindling, and you settled in by the fire, lost in thought as you stared at the flickering flames, letting the rare quietness sink into your bones.

Unbeknownst to you, Joel had returned, lingering a few paces away. He paused, watching as you sat by the fire, its glow casting soft shadows over your face and deepening the worry etched in your brow. There was something about the way you looked, as if you were carrying the weight of the world in silence—a moment he suddenly found himself wanting to keep, just like you had done with him.

Moving quietly, he crouched down, rifling through your bag with a muffled groan as he pulled out the Polaroid camera. He raised it, aimed, and snapped a photo before you even noticed he was there. The click was softened by the crackle of the fire, and as the image slid out, he quickly tucked it into his pocket, a quiet secret meant only for him.

He found himself drawn to the Polaroid more often than he’d like to admit. Most nights, after you’d fallen asleep, he’d sit alone by the dim light of the fire, turning the photo over in his hands. His thumb would trace the worn edges, lingering on the image, on the softness in your expression that he rarely saw during the daylight hours. There was something about it—a quiet reminder of who you were beneath the survival instincts and guarded walls, something gentle that you rarely let anyone else glimpse.

He couldn’t say why he held onto it so tightly, why he’d tucked it away like a small, fragile piece of something he didn’t quite deserve. But each time he looked at it, he felt an odd sense of peace, a warmth he hadn’t known in years, and a growing hope he barely understood.

It wasn’t until later, one day while packing up camp, that you noticed something unusual in Joel’s belongings—a corner of the Polaroid peeking out from his jacket pocket. Curiosity got the best of you, and you carefully tugged it free, turning it over. The image was slightly faded, but there you were, captured in that rare, quiet moment by the fire. Seeing yourself through Joel’s eyes was strange and unexpectedly tender—a side of you that looked softer, contemplative, even a little vulnerable.

It felt like a secret glimpse into what he saw when he looked at you, something he’d wanted to hold onto. And suddenly, you understood just how much he’d come to care, even if he’d never say it out loud.

When he caught you holding the photo, he stiffened, eyes narrowing as though ready to snatch it back, maybe grumble something about “minding your own business.” Instead, you raised an eyebrow, holding it up for him to see. “What’s this?” you asked, feigning casual curiosity.

He shifted his gaze, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Oh, that?” he muttered, attempting nonchalance. “Just thought… you looked nice. Pretty, I guess.”

The words hung in the air, simple but disarming, unraveling you in a way you hadn’t expected. Pretty. You’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen like that—to be noticed in a way that was more than survival, more than function. In his gruff, awkward way, Joel had reminded you that there was still a part of you worth noticing, worth remembering.

You felt your cheeks warm, a flicker of something both comforting and terrifying sparking in your chest. You held the photo close to your chest, feeling a warmth spread beneath the morning chill. Carefully, you slipped it into your bag alongside the picture you’d taken of him, keeping them together.

Neither of you spoke, but a quiet understanding settled between you, a small truce in a world that rarely left room for moments like these.

[princessbrunette]

waking up john b in the middle of the night by humping against his thigh, whining about “daddyyy, m’sticky” :(((

ִ ۫ ּ 𓂅⋆ 🗝️｡˚. . .♡

getting super deep into subspace because you were frustrated and sleepy and sometimes it just happens when john b isn’t present to help you out! you’d had a long day in particular, and fell asleep early on john b’s bed — your boyfriend draping the blanket over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead and letting you rest. a couple of hours later, 3am to be precise — you wake once more, the boy sleeping next to you, and you just can’t get back to sleep.

your heads all hazy and fuzzy, you feel all pouty and needy — and your pussy aches and squelches with each move you make, clearly waking from a dream about the boy beside you. you sniffle, scrambling a little with the blankets, kicking them off as you roll up against john b, looking up at him and letting out a little whine, wanting him to wake up. he stirs, but rolls onto his back — not waking enough to notice you and you let out a sad little cry, fisting his tshirt harder and writhing against his body.

lucky for you, he’s a pretty light sleeper and he wakes up quickly, cupping the back of your head and squinting in the dim light. “wh’sup, hey— nonono, you crying?” he whispers, pushing up on his elbow.

“daddy…” you hiccup, and his brow creases. he knows what that voice means. he knows what daddy means. he sucks in a breath, pushing himself to sit up a little more.

“okay, okay— lemme just, lemme wake up a little more okay? i’m here. deep breaths.” he hums, low and raspy from sleep which only made you clench harder, but regardless you nod, sniffling and convincing your foggy brain to be a good girl.

“‘kay, coooome here. show daddy the problem, pup.” he hums once he’s forced himself awake, having shaken his head like a dog to eradicate the sleepiness quickly.

“s’sticky.” is all you manage to groan, high pitch and desperate against his shoulder as he pulls you onto him, your pyjama shorts sticking to you at your core from how wet you were.

“what even happened, hm?” he coo’s to no one in particular, immediately easing your shorts down your legs and you eagerly kick them off. “good job.” he quietly praises at this.

“just— don’t know, just need you.” you pant in his ear and he takes your hips, moving you to grind on his thigh.

“use your words bubba, can you please tell me what you want?” he speaks a little louder and clearer because you need something to cut through the haziness of your brain and give you direction. you let out a little cry at what he’s asked of you and he rubs your back, kissing the top of your head. “hey, i know you can.”

“need your dick, daddy. please?” you mewl and he tips his head back to the ceiling for a second, sighing out with a little smirk at how pretty it sounded leaving your lips.

“thats what you want? well thats what you’ll get, my puppy.”

ִ ۫ ּ 𓂅⋆ 🗝️｡˚. . .♡

[miscellaneousmao]

Shaken or stirred? Fresh Berry Juice straight from the source on this fine day 🫐🥤 Even Shuckle can't resist when he needs a little pick-me-up, watch the video to the end to see his mini journey, the uncensored version 🤣🫣

[mattsfavouritewhore]

Just a dream - chris sturniolo

Summary: A bad dream opened your eyes to what could be a harsh wake up call.

The soft hum of the ceiling fan filled the quiet bedroom as you stirred under the covers. Chris's arm was draped loosely over your waist, his even breathing a comforting rhythm against the uncertainty brewing in your chest. You’d always told yourself you were fine with this—this undefined “situationship” where you acted like a couple without the label—but last night’s dream had shaken that fragile resolve.

The dream had felt so real. Chris, smiling in a photo with another girl, his arm slung casually over her shoulders. No warning, no explanation, just him moving on like what you two had meant nothing. The pit in your stomach deepened, bile rising to your throat as the memory of the dream replayed. Next to him, everything felt off, abnormal, like the balance had shifted.

You turned onto your side, careful not to wake him, and stared at his peaceful face. The sight of him—the small crinkle of his brows even in sleep, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—usually brought comfort. But now, it only made the ache in your chest worse.

Chris stirred beside you, his lashes fluttering open as he turned toward you. "Babe?" His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes quickly sharpened when they landed on your tear-streaked face. "What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

You hesitated, swallowing hard, debating whether to tell him. But the dream had left its mark..

“I had a dream about you…It… it made me feel sick."

His face softened immediately, his brows knitting together in concern. "Hey, hey, come here." He reached out, pulling you into his chest, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I know it was just a dream,” you replied, your voice trembling. “But it felt so real.. you got a girlfriend. You didn’t even tell me"

His eyes softened, but he looked taken aback. “Babe, it was just a dream... You know that, right?" almost as if he was making sure you knew.. even though you had just told him you knew it was a dream.

You nodded against him but couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on you. "But it… it felt real. Like it could happen..And the worst part is… it’s something you could do. We’re not even official, Chris. What if one day you just decide I’m not enough?” Your voice cracked, and you pulled away to look at him.

His face fell, guilt flashing in his eyes as he sat up. He ran a hand through his messy hair, clearly at a loss for words. “I didn’t realize you felt this way,” he said quietly.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, feeling exposed. “I didn’t either, until last night... You’re scared of commitment, Chris, i get that.. but What if you just… decide one day that this isn’t enough for you?"

His eyes darkened, guilt flashing across his face. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I… I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way. I’ve been so scared of putting a label on us because I didn’t want to mess things up. But I’m realizing now that not committing is hurting you more than I ever wanted."

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. Chris stayed by your side, but there was a heaviness in the air. When he eventually left, saying he needed to clear his head, you couldn’t shake the hollow feeling inside you. You spent the day replaying the dream and your conversation, The thought of losing him—of someone else taking your place- The thought of him slipping away felt unbearable. The words, they gave you a sliver of hope, but the anxiety lingered.

by the time evening rolled around, you were curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. When you opened it, there he stood, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. His face was earnest, nervous even.

“Hey,” he said softly, his expression a mix of nervousness and determination. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in. He set the flowers and chocolates on the coffee table before turning to face you.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I’ve been scared—scared of commitment, scared of messing things up. But losing you… the thought of you not being in my life is even scarier.... I… I’ve been thinking about what you said. About us. And I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re not enough or like I’d replace you. I’m terrified of screwing this up, but I’d rather try and fail than lose you because I was too scared to commit."

Your breath hitched as his words sank in. He took your hands in his, his grip firm and reassuring.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else,” he continued. “I want this—us. Officially.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, and you blinked back fresh tears. "Are you sure, Chris?"

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” He stepped closer, gently cupping your face in his hands. "I’m sure about you. I’ve always been sure about you."

A watery laugh escaped your lips, and you nodded. "Okay." throwing your arms around him. He held you tightly, as if he never wanted to let go.

Chris grinned, relief flooding his face as he leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips. In that moment, the dream melted away, replaced by the warmth of his touch and the promise of something real. The rest of the night was a blur of soft kisses, whispered promises, and the sweet realisation that you no longer had to wonder where you stood. Chris was yours, and you were his—no more doubts, no more fears. Just the two of you, together.

a/n: i feel like this sucks...