#hes probably ooc but i like him soft and sad

[sugarwarachan]

the first time you sit on shigaraki tomura’s lap, he freezes. muscles tensing up, hands held rigid at his sides. don’t touch don’t touch don’t touch on a chant in his head.

you crane your neck to look back at him, beaming that loose, easy smile that makes him want to burn the whole world down just to keep you safe.

"just gettin’ comfy, tomu!" before you’re leaning back against his chest, the warmth of your body sinking into his bones.

it becomes routine to have you there, a comforting weight that buzzes through his head and zaps out thought. he dares himself to touch you, to drag his thumb over the soft skin of your hip. he doesn’t realize that he might have an effect on you too until you’re spinning on his lap and hugging his thigh between your legs, breath shaky against his ear.

"tomu—" you whine into the skin of his neck. he can already feel the heat of your pussy through your cute little pajama shorts.

"needy?" he scoffs, mostly to hide the disbelief, the joy—you’re needy for him. you’re fumbling for his cock, his hands, trying to find yourself relief that only he can bring you. his dick pulses against his stomach. "if you need it that badly, you can get yourself off like this, can’t you?"

you press kisses to his throat, and he practically short-circuits.

"yeah, but it’s better if you help me move."

the fact that it’s him you’re craving—shit, he's losing his damn mind.

he’s careful with his grip but that doesn’t mean it isn’t punishing, firm. he locks you in, dragging your slippery folds back and forth, watching the way your eyes flutter when you bump up against that bundle of nerves at the top.

"you like this," he breathes against you, something like a smile on his face. "you really like this?"

cums literally seconds later when he hears you say, “I love this”

[obxsummer]

leave me again ii // rafe cameron

pairing: rafe cameron x routledge!reader (she/her), ex!jj maybank x reader

summary: you left the cut with nowhere to go. it’s rafe cameron that finds you and shows you the life you deserved to live

warnings: sorry jj lovers, that man does not get our girl back so sad jj and probably ooc rafe but i love it when that man is soft

navigation || part one

--

Six months.

It had been six months since any of the Pogues had seen you. No social media, no sight of you around town, no letters. Nothing.

The past six months left you to do a lot of reevaluations. You’d walked aimlessly after the group had left for the dive with nothing but your backpack and phone, no destination in mind. Until you found one.

“Lost or something?”

“Fuck off, Rafe,” Your response was instant as you continued to walk without sparing him a look. The car shifted into a different gear, you guessed by the noise, before Rafe was hopping out to approach you.

“Are you okay?” When you didn’t answer, he moved in closer and grabbed your shoulder before turning you to face him. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

You stared at him with the knowledge that you probably looked like a mess with the tear streaks across your cheeks. While Rafe had a lot of issues with your friends and brother, he usually stayed clear of you. Whether that was because you were close with Sarah, or what, you didn't know.

Twisting your fingers together, you dropped your gaze as tears started to build again. “You ever watch someone you love choose someone else over you, every single time?”

The question felt like a punch in the gut to Rafe. He had. His whole life he watched his dad choose Sarah. Watched his mom choose another family over him. Watched Wheezie choose another sibling over him.

“Get in, I’ve got somewhere to take you.”

Six months ago, you hopped in Rafe Cameron’s Range Rover and left The Cut behind. You didn’t question the decision, knowing you’d worry about everyone else before taking care of yourself, and that clearly didn’t work in the past. You felt horribly guilty about leaving John B with no indication whether you were okay or not, but you knew if one of them found out, JJ would be busting down the door to Rafe’s bedroom before you had a chance to say no. 

While you weren’t sure what the original intentions had been, Rafe was so different with you after bringing you back to his new house. One he’d bought after selling Tannyhill, free from the haunting of his father and the screams that echoed off the walls, he had turned it into a safe space for himself and anyone he invited in.

Things blossomed quickly and you realized the Rafe in front of you was not the bully, coke-head addict you’d once known. He was such a gentle person, and so much more attentive to you than JJ had ever been. Whether it was making you breakfast in bed before you left for the day, or prepping a warm (actually warm, like hot water you’d hadn’t had in forever) candle lit bath, or popping an expensive bottle of wine just for you to taste, he was there in ways nobody had been. You were his girl, his only girl, and you never once had to question that.

Rafe had even invited you to sit in on his investment meetings and he was slowly pulling your name into his business so you’d have a professional background to grow into. You were steadily becoming an educated little couple in his home, something he was so proud and grateful for. He had someone to lean on for advice and give him fresh eyes on new projects with no judgment or fear of anger. The two of you soaked up your bubble of peace for as long as you could before shit hit the fan. 

Little did you know, on the other side of the island with your brother, there had been absolutely no peace. John B and JJ barely spoke, everything ending in an argument when they did. Pope was sick of playing mediator, and Kie had more of less shut down out of guilt. Sarah was still searching for you, but you’d gone ghost. Cleo was treading lightly with the knowledge that everything would explode eventually. 

So, they did what they could, and dove into treasure hunting. When JJ pulled the amulet out of his pocket in the back of the Twinkie, John B’s emotions were mixed. Sure, he was stoked that he’d found the object the group was looking for, but he wished you were here. It was your birthday, and John B was inches away from losing his shit without you.

“Dude, are you okay?” Pope asked as the group stood in the office area of the house, trying to find more information on the amulet’s inscription.

John B tossed the heavy object on the desk in frustration. “No, I’m not okay! We can find decades old treasure like it’s the easiest thing ever, but we can’t find jack shit about my sister? That’s bullshit, Pope. And you know it.”

Pope knew things would be sensitive today. Even JJ woke up grouchy, which John B told him was deserved since he caused your absence in the first place. The lack of your presence weighed heavy on the group, so Pope suggested going to visit one of your favorite beach spots. 

Little did he know what he was getting himself into.

--

“Rafe!” The house was filled with your laughter as Rafe twirled you in the kitchen lighting, your favorite song playing from the interactive speaker on the counter. The two of you had spent the day together, visiting the country club for lunch before Rafe took you shopping for something to wear tonight.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme love on you, it’s your birthday” He mumbled as he pressed soft kisses into your neck, hands squeezing your hips teasingly. The soft fabric of the dress he’d picked out covered your frame, the color matching your skin perfectly. 

You hummed in content, fingers holding his biceps tightly as if your knees would give out any second. “You loved on me a lot this morning.”

“Can’t help it.” Rafe’s thumb traced your bottom lip before he kissed you softly. “You make it so easy.”

The two of you got lost in each other for a few more moments, soaking up the quiet as the orange sunset started casting through the windows. Today had been the best day you’d had in so long and you were so grateful of Rafe for giving you so much patience and love.

It had taken time for you to adjust to this kind of life. You walked in here with three outfits to your name, a busted cell phone, and a stuffed animal John B won you at the town festival as kids. And Rafe embraced every bit of it, let you keep your Pogue pieces while building you a life around it that was filled with items you needed but would never ask for, all while loving you so gently.

You climbed out of his car (technically the one he’d bought you but you refused to acknowledge that), and stepped down into the soft sand below. This was your spot, the spot you came to whenever you needed to clear your head or take a moment alone. You’d shared it with Rafe shortly after everything changed, and now, it was a shared spot that you both considered special.

Rafe moved around the car to grab your hand and guide you toward the area he had organized for the two of you. A small white table had been set up with your favorite snacks and two glasses of wine, surrounded by the fluffiest blanket and pillows you’d seen. 

“Did you do this?” You squeezed his hand tighter, tears in your eyes at how sweet and thoughtful the gesture was. Your jaw dropped as the two of you walked closer; everything was thought out down to the tiny forks you loved so much being there to pick up the appetizers. 

“Course I did, baby.” Rafe kissed your temple softly and grabbed one of the glasses to hand to you before taking hold of his own. You clinked your glass against his, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply in appreciation.

And then everything went to shit.

“What the fuck?”

Rafe’s hand tightened against your lower back, both of you looking over to see the handful of figures standing a few feet away. Your heart went to your throat went you made eye contact with your brother, whose hand was wrapped in Sarah’s. JJ stood behind him along with Kiara, Pope, and Cleo, all of them looking at you expectantly.

“Shit,” You whispered and took a step back from Rafe, eyes meeting his in dread. His expression had hardened at the sight of JJ, all the anger rushing back when he thought about how you’d been treated in the relationship, how unfair everything had been. You clocked the frustration in his gaze and placed your fingers on his cheek to redirect his focus back to you. “Don’t. I’ll handle it.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked but he didn’t argue as you slipped your wine glass back into his hand and left his side to approach the group standing in front of you. You weren’t even worried about JJ or Kie, you were worried about John B more than anything.

“Hi,” The greeting was so quiet you almost didn’t hear yourself. How do you talk to people you disappeared on six months ago?

John B’s only response was to pull you into the tightest hug he had ever given. You stumbled with the force of his body colliding with you before regaining your balance and returning the embrace. 

“You’re okay,” He repeated the words to himself as if convincing his mind that they were true before stepping back and holding your cheeks in his hands. The smile on his face was huge, and you were so so confused. “Holy shit.”

“Hi,” You laughed quietly, placing your hands on top of his. “I’m so sorry.”

John B shook his head, his thumb brushing the random tear from your cheek. “Don’t be sorry. I told you to take a break, yeah? And you did.”

You glanced back to where Rafe was surprisingly conversing with Sarah with no anger in sight. The pit in your stomach slowly disappeared as you took them in and turned your attention back to John B. “I um… there’s a lot to catch you up on, and I want to tell you. I wanna tell you all of it, JB, but-”

“And I wanna hear it,” He reassured softly. “But someone put a lot of effort into your night and I don’t wanna steal any of it.”

You were so goddamn grateful for your brother. Pulling John B into another hug, you spared the look over his shoulder to see Kiara stomping away from the beach. You tried to keep a smirk off your face but it definitely made its way through. 

Stepping back from John B, you shared hugs with Cleo and Pope, promising that you would see them soon before you were face to face with the reason you made it here in the first place. JJ looked rough. His hair was chaotic, arms thinner than you remembered, and he just looked tired.

“I don’t want your apology,” You spoke as he opened his mouth. “And it looks like you have a girlfriend to go find anyway.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” JJ replied quickly as he stared at you. “Not anymore.”

You pulled your lips in and shrugged. “Okay. I’ll see you around, JJ.”

He reached a hand out toward you when you moved to walk away. You paused just out of his reach and looked back. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

You nodded. “I know. I should be thanking you actually, because if you had said it back to me that day, I wouldn’t have found something so much better.”

And with that, you walked away from JJ and the empty promises he had always given, walked away straight into the arms of someone who would give you the world and more, if you just so much as asked.

--

navigation 

[cosmictheo]

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 | feyd-rautha

(gif credits to @pascow)

— summary: an arranged marriage with feyd-rautha in the name of reconciling your houses was something you were not expecting, neither was the soft and light way he seemed to behave towards you and only you. —pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x female!atreides!reader —word count: 3k —warnings: arranged marriage, feyd being gentle and calm because the reader is the love of his life (as it was written), probably ooc!feyd (sorry but i just love to see the most savage and feral men fall on their knees for their s/o)

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

ᯓ★ part one ── part two ── part three (coming soon)

Your arranged marriage to Feyd-Rautha had been the reason for House Atreides and Harkonnen to strengthen their alliance, ensuring that neither would stab each other in the back, which was most expected from the Baron. Your Houses had been wavering on a faint thread that separated you from a war and this marriage arrangement had pacted a reconciliation. It had been your parents' idea and obeying your parents was the most important thing for you, right after protecting your family and indeed that was what you were doing, guarding your family.

Your twin brother did not like the idea, he was not very fond of Feyd-Rautha and his House, moreover, he found him rather... repulsive. For Feyd was a savage, a ruthless and bloodthirsty man.

However, he had to admit that, next to him, you would be basically untouchable, after all, it was like having a guard dog, the most possessive and protective dog, a dog that was ready to kill and ravage for you if necessary.

“He's scary.” Paul's voice echoed inside your head as together you walked along the vast hallways of the Harkonnen palace, at the end of it, Feyd-Rautha stood, engaged in a conversation with your parents, forever as stiff and somber as he had been since you had first met him.

“Just look at him, you'll have to wake up next to him for the rest of your life.” Your brother insisted, throwing you a knowing and concerned look. “We can fix this without you having to marry that man, sister. There must be something—”

“Enough.” you interrupted him, finally dragging your eyes from your betrothed to your anxious brother pacing beside you, you made an effort to offer him a reassuring, soft smile, grateful that he was always so caring and concerned about you and your well-being. “There's nothing else we can do. You know about my visions and what they foresee. Our House will not endure if I do not accept this offer.”

“We will do whatever it takes to survive for now.” You added, holding Paul's gaze, noting the sadness and pity behind his dark eyes, and like the good sister you were, you sighed softly, leaning closer to him to bring him some kind of reassurance. “Our turn will come to make our move and win, brother.”

“Whatever it takes.” He echoed, nodding his head, fingers brushing your clasped hand around his forearm, as you were accustomed to do when you walked side by side.

“The marriage will take place two weeks from now.” The Duke's voice gave out the news once you were all inside the assembly room, with the Baron at the head of the table, of course, looking uncharacteristically approving and pleased to hear the announcement.

The massive man showed his approval with a hint of a phantom, twisted smile, plump fingers taping the edge of the black table in front of him. “We will have the princess as a guest in our home for a week and then the na-Baron will visit her home for the last week, prior to her coming to live here.”

He planned the whole thing and there was absolutely no one in the room who had the idiotic courage to be against his command, so, it was settled.

Once you said goodbye to your family and gave a tight and emotional hug to your brother, you were left alone in the dark and gigantic planet of the Harkonnen family, feeling like an outsider, like a small prey surrounded by bloodthirsty predators. Although, the place possessed an indescribable and incomparable beauty, the sun was black, and the light that irradiated was whitish, giving it a beautiful contrast with all the black buildings rising majestically. But the place was rather... depressing, quiet and somewhat eerie, it was nothing like your home.

You soon felt out of place, and everyone who looked at you could see it too. It was as if you had some kind of golden aura, glowing among all the darkness and gloom of the place.

Feyd-Rautha watched you attentively, analyzing every expression and emotion you let be shown across your face, catching the look your eyes possessed, that special little gleam that flashed in your orbs as you admired Giedi Prime as if it were one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen in your life, his home.

“Do you like it here, my lady?” His husky, raspy voice managed to snap you out of your trance, and your heart skipped a beat once you trailed your gaze from the horizon beneath the balcony to him, meeting his deep, dark gaze. He always seemed to look at you with those eyes, captivated, as if you were some form of strange spectacle.

And indeed you were, you stood in perfect contrast to the planet, your eyes were bright, lively, your aura was vivacious and hopeful. And because of that, he liked to look at you, study your face, your body language, every little reaction you had in response to something. You were fascinating.

Whenever you entered any room, his deep blue eyes were pulled to you like a magnet, drawn to orbit around you like his planet circling the dark sun.

Feyd noticed out of the corner of his eye how your hands clasped lightly around the balcony fence in front of you, skin contrasting against the blackness of the material. 

You nodded your head very slowly, twisting your body just enough to be able to look him directly in the face, big eyes looking up at him, not with fear, but with expectation. “I do.”

Even your voice was the opposite of his, keeping that soft and delicate tone, as elegant as you.

He seemed satisfied with your positive response, and so, he dared to lean against the balcony fence right next to you, but careful not to cause you to feel too uncomfortable or intruded upon. His eyes never left you for a second and he was quite pleased that you were bold enough to hold his powerful and intimidating gaze.

“Good, it will soon become your home too.” Feyd answered you, in a tone that oscillated between amusement and fascination, you didn't quite know how to decipher the expression on his face either, naturally.

He was very complicated to read, even if you tried extra hard, the many tutoring and lessons with Lady Jessica didn't seem to do much use, with him. Perhaps because he made you feel unnerved, he made your soul tremble like no one could, stepping beyond your walls and standing where none of your senses seemed to work. Where the eye could not see.

“Are you mocking me?” Still, you had the courage to ask him that bold question, one eyebrow rising on your forehead and your head twisting slightly, defiant face and all.

Your bravery made him laugh slightly this time, a noise that was heard almost unnaturally, with a small crooked smile on his lips that looked all too unusual and strange on him. For not even his strongest and most powerful enemies had had the courage to stand in front of him and challenge him like you were doing right now. You were a fierce girl. And he liked that.

“I wouldn't be likely to mock you, my lady.” Feyd-Rautha replied calmly, his tone of voice the exact same, as if you were a spectacle. Your eyes lowered to his hand, which snaked slowly to the edge of the balcony fence, fingers stroking the smooth surface. “I'm just stating the obvious. You'll be living here with me soon. It will be our home and you will reign with me when it's my turn.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly at his response, not yet quite convinced that he would behave so calm and composed with you, when not more than two days ago you had seen him slicing men to pieces in the arena. “You are not bothered by me invading your space?”

You asked that question because you knew how... eccentric men usually behaved, you could see it in basically every man with any power you had ever met, in the so many meetings with the Duke back home. You could see how they treated their wives, how they looked at them and how they talked to them, as if they were dealing with a servant. You feared this marriage was like that too.

Even your parents' marriage was broken, since Duke Leto kept close to his heart another woman who was not Lady Jessica, he did not love her as he loved that unknown woman. You had grown up seeing an empty and cold marriage, merely to fulfill a duty.

You understood that your marriage would also have that basis, and therefore, you knew that duty was the death of love. But for some silly, innocent reason, you wanted to think there might be love here. As the naive, young girl that you were.

Feyd-Rautha shrugged, not taking much interest in the matter of the question, “You'll be my wife, my space is your space.”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he saw that his answer pleased you. You could begin to understand that to him the whole arranged marriage thing wasn't as important as it was to you, or maybe it was, but it didn't seem to bother him or disagree.

“Does this marriage bother you?” It was his turn to ask, staring down at you, noticing how beautifully your skin reflected the pale natural light of the black sun. He could see how frustrated you were now, to be there, with him. “Does it bother you to be my wife?”

You sighed heavily, peeling your eyes from Feyd-Rautha and returning them to the beauty of the landscape below, pondering the questions. His dark eyes followed your every movement as your body turned forward again, hands gripping the balcony fence as if your life depended on it.

“Do you care much for my opinion of you?” You decided to answer him with another question and that seemed to annoy him for his frown deepened and his fingers halted on the fence, devoting himself to glaring at you with his azure eyes, mirroring the pallid light of the gloomy sun.

“Woman, I will marry you and live by your side for the rest of my life, of course your opinion is important.” He took a couple of steps closer to you as he spoke, hand closer and closer to yours, managing to make you even more nervous. “Don't speak nonsense, it doesn't suit you. You're a smart girl.”

Seeing the expression on your face, he leaned even closer and out of the corner of your eye you watched as his hand rose to your face, resting on your chin and turning it ever so gently for you to look at him, but your eyes lowered, fleeing from his.

It seemed astonishing to him that you didn't even flinch away when you sensed the approach of his hand to your face, as if it wasn't the same hand that had slaughtered so many and slit so many necks by the same motion.

“Don't take your eyes off me.” He demanded in a low, raspy tone of voice, you could feel his breath brush against your face. “Look at me.”

When he whispered your name in that delicate, nearly pleading tone, you finally summoned the courage to look at him, allowing him to cradle your chin between his fingers and allowing him to be so close to you that you felt suffocated by the warmth of his body against yours.

“You fear me?”

He asked in that tone of voice, whispering, silently asking you to have mercy on him, not to fear him as everyone usually feared him, not to see him as the monster everyone saw, but as your husband, your protector and your lover.

He saw how your eyes watered slightly as fear peered into your usual stoic, cold face, and Feyd-Rautha was used to beholding that face, was used to fear, because it was always the last look of his enemies.

“I'm afraid. Of leaving home, of living on an unknown planet, of marrying someone I don't know.” Then you shook your head softly, looking up at him through your long eyelashes. “But I am not afraid of you, Feyd-Rautha.”

“You're very bold... and emotional.” He whispered in a disapproving but gentle voice, fingers tracing barely a caress along your lower lip before he reached up and dried the couple of tears that had managed to escape from your pretty eyes. At the closeness, you could begin to see through the mask he always carried, hiding his emotions. “You can't let yourself look like this in front of your enemies, it will make you appear weak.”

“I can't let myself look like this in front of my future husband?” his dark eyes lowered to your lips as you modulated the question, pupils dilating slightly. You swallowed as you saw desire and lust darken his orbs even more when you referred to him as your husband. You sniffed, feeling suddenly embarrassed by your outburst of emotions. “I'm s—sorry. You shouldn't see me like this, my lord.”

“Don't apologize.” He again reprimanded you in that passive-aggressive tone of his, like a hiss of a snake, shaking his head a little. Even after he wiped away your little tears, his hands remained in the same place, cupping your face, each of his thumbs resting on your flushed cheekbones.His fingertips were surprisingly gentle against your skin, sending shivers all over your body beneath their path. “You can be like this only with me, you understand? You can trust me, I want you to trust me.” His fingers took a lock of your hair and pulled it away from your face, running it carefully behind your ear. “But I really don't like to see you cry, my wife-to-be.”

After barely a second of silence with his azure eyes again flicking down to your parted lips, he spoke again, muttering, his raspy voice indicating that perhaps it hurt his throat to talk like that. “Pretty girls like you should cry out of pleasure only.”

He studied your face once more, not missing the way you blushed at his open flirtation and suggestive words, how you bit your lower lip, pupils expanding in thick blackness. You weren't used to so much attention, let alone men saying those kinds of words to you, it was evident. You were so innocent that it provoked a rare feeling of tenderness in Feyd-Rautha.

Perhaps it would be the closest thing to an act of consolation you would get from him and it was likely the only time in his life he had ever done that.

Promptly, you managed to make him smile again. “You Atreides are so strange and delicate... but then again, you will soon be Harkonnen, the prettiest na-Baroness, my pretty little wife.”

From his voice, his careful choice of words and the way he was looking at you, you expected him to kiss you right there —perhaps that was what you wanted, amidst all the tumult of emotions that shook your little heart, beating in rumbling noises inside your chest, pumping fiery blood through your veins.

But after a few seconds, he pulled his hands away from your face and backed away from you, taking a few steps back and offering you a look that you managed to perceive as soft rather than harsh. You knew that he was controlling himself well in maintaining a good demeanor, perhaps because his uncle had ordered him to do so; to do his best to make a good impression and not bring shame to the family. And also because he wanted you to have a good image of him, he was a prideful man, he was used to boast of his virtues and his power, and he was above all, protective of his own person and his glory.

He made a short gesture with his head pointing to the open balcony door, his hands clasping together behind his back pragmatically, as if he were presenting himself in front of a superior. “Now come, pretty girl, I'll show you the palace myself. You're future home.”

You walked towards him, a little smile curving your lips, the first smile on your face during the entire conversation, and he admired it in all it's glory.

“You don't have to be all stiff when you're with me, Feyd.” You eyed his posture with light eyes as you passed him and made your way inside the guest room with graceful steps, him following close behind.

He wasn't very fond of being addressed by name directly, of having his name used so freely, but the way you pronounced his name made him so utterly proud to be called that, he suddenly was wishing you would just call him that, in that tone of voice, tongue savoring his name as if it were the most delightful thing to say.

You turned to look at him for a few seconds, your tone of voice becoming reassuring, something he wasn't quite used to, yet he heard and savored it as if it were the sweetest thing in the world.

“If you can see me cry, then I can see you relaxed. It is only fair, no?”

Feyd-Rautha received your words positively, causing him to deepen his breathing into a snorting chuckle, eyes sparkling with amusement now behind your back.

“I'll try for you.” His response made you smile once more.

[aleksatia]

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

Cut Scene (NSFW): 🍎 Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

[m0chaminx]

Coriolanus Snow | “What about you?” “She's the star.” “Luckily I Like Roses.”

*•.¸♡Request: omg can you write a coryo x reader, i don’t mind what, just pls don’t make him go batshit crazy at the end😩😩

*•.¸♡Prompts: none

*•.¸♡Warnings: Coriolanus, I completely forgot the other Covey peoples names :I, reader is shorter than Snow, Cori isn't insane (ish), Snow is slight ooc, and yes he's a terrible person but you’re here too

*•.¸♡Paring: Coriolauns Snow x F!reader

*•.¸♡Summary: On Coriolanus’s trip down to the lake with the star Lucy Gray, he found the most beautiful rose ever seen

Or

Coriolanus pervs on you while swimming (romantic)

*•.¸♡Words: 1.1k

Part 2

Growing up in the Covey had been a stroke of luck, simple as it gets, when Lucy Gray Baird and her family had been forced into District 12 Seeing the talent you had with a guitar one night as you played to the darkness, they took you to their next show where you played alongside Lucy Gray. She was still the star, she had the smile, the voice, the charisma. You could sing when you needed to, and you played the guitar just as well, but she always took the spotlight. And when she strolled into town after winning the Hunger Games, that star power only grew. She was the star, until one sunny morning.

Mockingjay's sang into the wind, the warm sun beating against your skin and the gentle breeze made your sundress flow in the wind. Meeting Lucy and the others on the walk to the lake you came face to face with Coriolanus Snow. Buzzed blonde hair, sharp jawline and the bluest eyes you had ever seen. His smile was bright, and his laugh was as sweet as Lucy’s singing. And it should be, he was laughing at her jokes. Smiling at her. Before he could catch you staring your eyes had shifted quickly, focussing on Lucy as you walked to her side.

She beamed as she saw you, wrapping her arms tightly around you.

“Coriolanus, I want you to meet only the bestest person in the world,” Lucy went on, kissing you quickly on the cheek.

The same smile returned as he turned to shake your hand, his skin soft on your calloused palms. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” He spoke your name softly, the syllables dripping from his tongue like honey. Your hand slipped from his, the tips of his fingers running along your palm.

Lucy quickly ushered you and the rest of the group on, starting the long hike down the green hills. Lucy walked ahead with Aurora, talking wistfully into the wind. You walked in silence, one hand gripping the strap of your satchel as you watched the critters race up the branches of the trees.

“Lucy said you played the guitar,” Coriolanus spoke up, swatting away another mosquito. He walked beside you, his tall figure blocking the sun from your face. He looked down at you, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Why didn’t I see you performing last night?”

You simply shrugged. The answer was the crowds didn’t cheer for you, Lucy was the star, and she could play for hours without backup. But it sounded sad. You looked over the trees, the Mockingjay's flying higher into the trees. “Nothing special, you probably just missed me when I left.”

Coriolanus shook his head softly, “I feel like I’d remember you.” You couldn’t place what Coriolanus meant, your eyebrows furrowing as you thought over his words. You didn't say anything more after that, keeping your eyes ahead on the track leading to the lake.

As soon as the dock was close enough Aurora and Tip had stripped their clothes off and thrown themselves in the water. You tossed your bag down, the hot sun that had beat against your skin had made you more than happy to rush into the water. Tossing your sundress aside with your satchel you ran down the dock and dove under the crystal blue water. The cool lake chilled your skin enough to relieve the sun but not enough to raise goosebumps.

You swam up to the surface, pushed the hair back for your face and fixed the straps of your handmade bra that slid down your shoulder. Lucy jumped in after you, and with a yell, Coriolanus jumped in, the splash of water hitting your face. You laughed, using your arms to keep you afloat. Coriolanus muttered an apology through a smile, but you barely noticed as your eyes fell over his light skin, his collar bones and muscular shoulders.

The lake was sweet, a nice relief from the constant smell of coal and sweat, the rowdy crowds and the smell of liquor on everyone's breath. Some time later Lucy had swam to shore, helping Aaroa and Tip fish and dig up Katniss' roots.

You floated on your back, the gentle waves lapping at your skin as the sun warmed your face. Coriolanus sat on the edge of the dock, toying with his fingers as he watched you. The wind blew the waves softly, the sun reflecting on your skin like liquid gold. He pushed himself off the dock, slipping below the cold water once again. “Can I hear you sing?” His voice made you turn your head to look at him.

“I don’t sing,” You muttered, turning your head to face the sun again.

“Lucy said you sing.”

You turned to swim properly, treading water. “If you wanna hear someone sing you should ask Lucy,” You insisted. You pushed yourself closer, slipping your fingers under the slim metal chain of his dog tags, untangling the knot. You moved it to hang properly from his neck, your nails dragging ever so slightly across his soft skin.

His icy blue eye moved from your hand on his skin and looked up at your face, droplets of water falling from your hair, and slipping down your skin and when they hit your lips, you swiped them away with your tongue. “I wanna hear you sing.” His eyes snapped up to meet yours as you lifted her gaze from the metal chain.

You chuckled softly and he swore it sounded like the sweetest melody, a honeydew sound that he couldn't help but smile at. “You’re funny Coriolanus Snow,” you said softly. “Turning down the winner of the Hunger Games. A true victor.”

Coriolanus wiped a hand down his face, wiping away the water running over his eyes. “What about you?” He asked.

You shook your head softly. “She’s the star, the songbird,” You insisted, unsure you were convincing him or yourself. His smile made your stomach flip, his gaze made your cheeks burn, but his words… his honey words.

His hand slowly reached out, his fingers slipping beneath the strap of your bra and sliding it back up your shoulder. His hand lingered there for a moment before falling back into the water. “Luckily I like roses.”

ﾟ°☆Page navigation

[dixons-sunshine]

Tears Stream Down Your Face | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

(GIF isn’t mine)

Summary: A fateful doctor’s visit years before the outbreak shattered your dreams of starting a family with the man you loved. After a long time of trying to push the sadness you felt away, it all hit you like a freight train after one afternoon of babysitting little Judith.

Genre: Angst.

Era: Alexandria, pre Saviours.

Warnings: Talks of infertility, probably a lil’ ooc Daryl.

Word count: 1k.

A/N: Requested by an anon. This was sad to write but I hope you all like this!

You could remember that one fateful day like it happened yesterday. The day you found out that you would never be able to conceive, that you would never be able to have kids of your own. You could remember the sadness, the disappointment, the anger you felt. And more than anything, you could remember the look on your husband’s face when the doctor broke the news to the two of you.

Heartbreak.

You sighed to yourself as you observed Daryl entertaining baby Judith, her giggles and babbling filling the air. She was so happy to be in her uncle Daryl’s arms, and the man in question was thrilled to be holding her. He had a soft, tender smile on his face as he handed her over to Rick, exchanging a few words with his found brother, but you paid it no mind. All you could think about is how you’d never be able to give him that experience with a child of his own.

Despite what the man said, he was a natural with little kids. He would have made the best father. You knew he would have been great at it, but you would never be able to give him that. You’d never even been given a fair chance to try, and that pissed you off. What made you so undeserving of something you wanted so dearly? What did you do in your life to have that opportunity stripped from you?

“You’re thinkin’ awfully hard over there.”

The sound of Daryl’s voice reached your ears, effectively snapping you from your thoughts. Blinking a few times, you looked at your husband, realizing that he no longer stood by the door, but instead, he was in front of you, gently taking the bottle of water you had been death gripping from your grasp.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart?” Daryl inquired, his tone and his face soft, something only you got to see on the regular.

You wanted to lie. That’s what you had intended to do. Daryl had such a good day taking care of Judith, all smiles and laughter, so the last thing you wanted to do was ruin the remainder of his day. You didn’t want to be a dark cloud over him.

However, what you said next came out like word vomit.

“You could have left me.”

Daryl’s eyes widened in surprise, before furrowing his eyebrows together. “What? What do ya mean?”

You suddenly felt silly. You wanted to tell him that it was nothing, that you were fine and to drop the subject, but you knew he wouldn’t. Daryl Dixon could be persistent if the situation called for it, and you knew he wouldn’t let you off the hook after a comment like that.

“All those years ago,” you began, vaguely motioning around with one of your hands, “when I found out that…” You swallowed. “...that I couldn’t have kids…”

Realization dawned on Daryl. “Oh…”

“You could have left me,” you reiterated, looking down at your shoes. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I love ya.”

Daryl said it so easily, with so much certainty, that you felt like you wanted to cry. “But back then, when we talked about having kids—”

“Back then,” Daryl emphasized, stepping towards you and gently grasping your face in his rough, yet somehow soft hands. “This s’now, and now, with the world a goddamn shit storm, there ain’t nobody I want by my side more than you.” Daryl inhaled sharply, before continuing, “I ain’t gon’ lie, hearin’ the news back then hurt like a bitch, but m’serious when I say that there ain’t nobody I wanna be with except you. S’me and you, yeah?”

You were crying by now. Daryl was a man of few words, especially regarding feelings, but now? Hearing him say those words with such certainty? It made you happier than you could ever express with words.

“C’mere,” Daryl whispered softly, pulling you into his arms. He held you to him tightly, slowly rocking you from side to side as he whispered sweet, reassuring words into your ear.

“It’s just not fair,” you whispered brokenly, the topic shifting slightly. “Why can’t I be a mom? What did I do wrong?”

Daryl’s heart shattered at your broken admission. He was mentally kicking himself for not realizing that this ran far deeper than you were letting on. He knew how badly you wanted a family, and that got ripped from you. You were so happy for all of your friends who were having kids of their own, even already offering to babysit for Glenn and Maggie when their baby arrives in a few months, but there was that underlying sadness that you fought to push away. A sadness that Daryl should have realized hadn’t just disappeared.

“I know. It ain’t fair at all,” Daryl whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But it ain’t your fault. It ain’t your fault at all.”

You were a sobbing mess at this point. You tried to talk, to say anything. To say thank you to him for soothing you, to voice all the feelings you had been trying to push back for the sake of not wanting to come across as bitter about other people having kids—because you weren’t. You were so unbelievably happy for all of them—but you couldn’t. All you could manage was to cry. To let all the pain out that way.

Daryl closed his eyes as he continued to hold you. He didn’t say anything, just allowed you to cry, not caring at all that his shirt was getting stained with your tears. He rubbed his hand across your back in soothing circles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He would hold you for as long as you needed him to.

And if that was forever, then so be it. Daryl loved you. He couldn’t imagine a life without you in it, and now he knew that he had to make that clear. But first, he would be a shoulder to cry on. The rest could come later.

[pomefioredove]

May I please have a sugar cookie, order number 15, with sprinkles & chocolate chips?

I'm super excited I came in time for this event, I adore your blog & am excited to see what comes of this.

(Pardon me as I cross my fingers in hoping to get one of my babygirls or just one of my faves)

—🐈‍⬛

you get one of MY babygirls. praise mana-sama for helping me through requests today

order #15, sugar with sprinkles and chocolate chips

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ unlike yourself

tropes: hurt/comfort, fake dating characters: rook additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu, short and sweet, probably ooc

It's strange, you think.

Rook Hunt, the mysterious, distant vicewarden, loved you more in an evening than anyone else had in months.

Only an act. You had to remind yourself of that, every time he squeezed your hand or pulled you closer to him.

Every time he whispered something silly in your ear, every time he kissed the back of your hand. Only an act.

"I could write a thousand poems of you, mon amour, and never become bored of it,"

At some point, you had stopped looking at the others. You had forgotten they were there altogether.

It's only an act.

It felt like a fairytale, glittering, iridescent and silver, yet one that still ended at midnight in rags and pumpkin seeds.

You didn't want to think about that.

That by sunrise, the event would be over, and you would be back to your life. Back to your drafty dorm and secondhand clothes, back to your cold, lonely mornings. Back to yourself.

Back to the person you so hated.

Rook made you feel something unlike yourself. You were someone beautiful to him, someone interesting, someone loveable, someone worth teaching to dance, no matter how many times you stepped on his toes.

He only smiled.

You had asked him to be your date, to lie with you, to act with you, to prove to everyone that you were that someone, so unlike yourself, that you were beautiful and interesting and loveable, and worthy.

It had been your request. Just two hours, you said, and now you selfishly want more. You want years.

You want to make him feel the way he makes you.

"Your eyes are watering," Rook whispers, holding your face and drying your tears with the gentle touch of his gloved thumbs.

"Why are you sad, mon ange?"

You can't tell him. It's only an act. It's only an act. You want him to stay. He can't. He won't.

You can't ask him to stay.

"You are tired," he says, smiling sweetly, his cupid's bow curving. "Let's get you home, Trickster."

He's right, of course.

And you don't want to leave, you don't want to lose something on the velvet steps of the dorm, but you do, for him.

He walks you back to Ramshackle himself. He tucks you in bed and makes you something warm to eat since you both know the silver-plated hors d'oeuvres weren't enough.

You don't want to close your eyes. But he asks you to sleep, and you do, for him.

And so you wake up in your drafty dorm and your secondhand clothes in a bed that isn't really yours, feeling like yourself again.

But today, on this cold morning, he's sitting with you, and it isn't lonely.

"Oh, Trickster," he whispers, leaning over your, holding your face and gazing at you with something like softness.

"You did not have to ask me to stay. The answer is always yes."

And he kisses, again and again, your lips, your cheeks, your nose and head. He kisses that person, the one in rags, the messy one, the lonely one, you. He kisses you. He wants you.

And you think, perhaps this person, this yourself, isn't so bad.

Rook loves them, after all.

[islayhawkin]

It's from her

Captain John price x fem!reader

Summary: The task force learns that john's beanie holds way more importance to him than it should

Warnings!: sad and vulnerable john, prob ooc, not edited

Leaving for a mission was always hard. He knew that you struggled immensly with it and while he never showed it, it took it's toll on him too.

To leave you behind. Knowing that you had a hard time because of him.

To have the mission ahead of him. The knowledge that he'd be away for weeks or even months on end. The contact to you was rare and it took a lot of effort for him to be able to have a phone call or receive a letter from you. He always worried. While he was the one fighting for his life, there was always a part of his mind that thought about how you were doing, if something happened, if you needed him...The constant uncertainty was driving him on edge sometimes.

And he missed you. Oh, how he missed you. He spent so many lonely nights in his tent or a safe house imagining you beside him while the snores of his comrades filled his ears.

John clung to the few things he had with him that were you. One of them being his hat.

It was one of the first things he got from you. You had knitted the beanie when you first moved in together. Every evening when you two had cuddled up on the couch, the TV playing, you had knitted. He had seen it develop and it was the most calming sound to him, whenever he heard your needles clicking softly against each other. Not until you finished the hat had he been aware that you made it for him.

"Here. I made this for you." You had smiled at him proudly as you handed over the dark-knitted beanie.

It was nothing special and with closer inspection, a few mistakes could be sighted but for john it meant the world. At first, he had struggled to even think of a response as he gripped the soft fabric in his rough hands.

"I know you always like to have something on your head and I thought that would keep you warm when you're in a cold area..." you had muttered out your explanation.

"thank you." He had replied quietly. The love and astonishment had been evident in his expression.

There were times when he thought back to that moment and wished he had said more. That he would've been able to express what it meant to him. But you knew without him saying so. It was clear in his actions.

It was endearing how he still took it on every mission after all these years.

The 141 started to notice it's importance to him when he couldn't find it at base. His usual calm demeanor was slightly irritable and underlined by the strong walk as he barged into the common room as if he were on a mission to save the queen.

"Does any of you shitheads have my hat?" His deep voice made the whole room go quiet.

Soap and ghost exchanged glances. "Got no reason to steal your hat captain." Ghost grumbled out.

John clenched and unclenched his fists multiple times. The muscle in his jaw tightened. "You'll have no problem then if I check your rooms lieutenant." There were some unspoken words between them as two pairs of hard eyes met each other.

"No problem." Ghost replied.

Price took a look around the room before giving them a nod and leaving for their private quarters.

"What's wrong with him?" Gaz leaned over the table to his comrades.

"No bloody idea. Probably got his period." Ghost grumbled.

Price rummaged through room after room methodically. The drawers and cabinets were thrown open and closed softly after close inspection. He muttered a few annoyed curses when he arrived at soap's room: the drawers were already opened but his clothes were probably more scattered over the floor room than in his closet. Room inspections were obviously in dire need of attention.

When he made it to Gaz's room the hat was the first thing his eyes spotted as he opened the door. There it was. slightly frizzy and worn at the edges but still looking soft the way it always did. Except that it didn't lay at its usual spot in his neatly organized closet.

"Can't keep their bloody hands to their own stuff." John grumbled.

The tension fell from his body as he picked the beanie up and took it back to his room. He laid it back to the dedicated spot with a scarf next to it. His eyes observed how it seemed to lay so innocently in front of him. A tired sigh escaped his lips before he pushed himself into an upright position and locked the door to his room for good measure.

In the next moment he dragged gaz out of his chair pressed him against the wall. Johns hand clasped the collar of gazs uniform. While gaz grunted from the impact of his captains weight against him, his face stayed nonchalant. If you knew him better you'd seen the small sliver of nervousness in his eyes.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing with my stuff?" Price gritted out.

"I didn't take anything from you sir." Gaz shot back almost angrily at the accusation.

"You think that's funny huh?" John sneered. It was unusual for the captain to throw angry words at his team. He was always the composed one; giving them a sense of confidence and security in the battlefield.

"No sir."

"Hmhm. I found something in your quarters. My goddamn hat on top of your closet."

Gaz frowned. "Captain I didn't- sir I don't know anything about that."

Price grunted in frustration before ghost stepped to them and slightly pulled the captain back. "Take it easy cap."

John let himself fall back before pointing a warning finger at the young sergeant. "Just keep your hands off of my things. Especially that hat. Got it?"

Gaz gave him a nod but he didn't back down from his position as innocent. The air was tense as everyone watched the ongoing confrontation.

Ghost gave his captain a look which held john back made him leave the room back to his own office (where he should've worked for the last hour). The lieutenant followed him out as if to escort him. "Why are ya followin' me simon?"

Ghost was about to protest about his name choice but decided there were more important matters at hand right now.

"I figured you'd want to tell me what's going on?" The deep voice came from behind the mask.

Price stopped in his tracks and crossed his arms while shifting his weight onto his toes. "What?"

While price was a tall and muscular man he had no chance against the build of ghost as he towered opposite of him.

"You're going wild over a damn hat for no reason." His tone sounded almost bored.

"It's not just a bloody hat!" John's jaw clicked.

Ghost scoffed. "Then what is this about?"

"With all due respect lieutenant, you wouldn't understand."

That was it. It was never brought up again until a few months later on a mission at the Russian border.

A small safe house offered them shelter before they took off for the next day.

The night was a troubled one. Everyone was anxious and tired, which was a dangerous mix of feelings in a group of men. But they were trained for this. Keeping one eye and ear open constantly; without pause. This was the requirement to survival.

John took the night shift after Ghost woke him up out of a rather unpleasant dream. Everything was quiet except for a few night animals chirping in the forest surrounding them. The sun already brought a bit of light through the windows.

He sat down against a pillar and rubbed his exhausted eyes with his calloused palms. A defeated sigh escaped his lips as he took the gun into his hand and let his head lull back against the wood.

The last few months had been rough. The 141 was on this mission since almost two months now and it felt like they didn't get any closer to their target. For john it meant two months without you. No call, no letter, nothing. For all he knew you could be laying in bed with another guy right now. He couldn't blame you. No, what was he thinking. That was a riddiculous thought. He grunted quietly as he rubbed a hand over his beard. John definately needed sleep.

His beard and hair had grown out over the time, which made him think of the way you'd sit him on the toilet lid and step between his legs to shave his beard for him. You never realised how that position made it quite impossible for him to relax under your intense stare. He smiled at the memory and simultaneously hope that he'd be able to be in that position soon again.

The nightmare had made him unpleasantly agitated and worried. John just hoped, prayed and begged Laswell to make sure that you were okay.

A few hours later the sun started to rise above the horizon, which brought john his clue to wake everyone up and get going for the day ahead. When everybody was checked and price paced slowly in front of the group to explain the plan his voice got stuck in his throat. He had been telling them that they would be making their way into the snowy area as your voice made it's way into his thoughts.

'to keep you warm in colder regions.' you had said with that sweet smile when you gave him his hat.

The hat.

He didn't have his beanie on. It got soaked through yesterday and he took it off to dry. But they had checked the whole safehouse already, ready for departure.

"My hat. Has anyone seen it?" he questioned the group of men standing before him. They looked stunned at his sudden change of topic.

When they didn't answer he started walking up the stairs. Frantically going through the rooms again. Soap went with a nod to the others after him. "Capt'n. We're ready for departure. None of us saw yer hat."

John shook his head. "Not without it." He searched the drawers in the room even though he knew it couldn't be there. His expression was stoic and unreadable but there were emotions behind those blue eyes.

They gave him a few minutes but when he didn't make a move to get on with it ghost shouted up the stairs. "Cap we have a schedule remember?" It sounded slightly irritated coming from behind the mask.

"I said I'm not going without it!" John thundered back.

He couldn't leave without it. It felt like leaving you behind. It was irrational and stupid and the hat was going to cost him his goddamn life someday but... he needed it. That feeling couldn't be explained with rationality or tactic. you would have described it as love. But john would rather name it desperation.

"It's just a bloody hat. We need to get going." Ghost came up beside him.

"It's not. It's from her." John pulled his lips in a thin line as he exhaled through his nose sharply. The room went quiet for a moment at his admission.

Ghosts expression stayed emotionless as he crossed his bulky arms over his chest.

"Yer bonnie wife?" soap asked for clarification.

John nodded sharply and but turned away quickly from the pair when soap raised a brow.

"Honestly dinna know yer were married to her until a few weeks back. I'm sure ye'll survive a week without the hat and see yer lass soon hm?"

Ghost grunted in frustration. "Seriously? That's been the reason for this bloody hat."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. When you're married we can have this conversation." John shot back at his lieutenant. His voice thick with accent and a deep grumbling from the throat.

Soap got between them before Ghost had the chance to respond. "So we ready to go then? Captain?"

John pursed his lips and it pained him to go through with it but he shut off his emotions like he so often did and gave them a stern nod. He started to talk about their upcoming task again as he took the lead once more.

When he got home to you a week later he couldn't hold back a few tears in his eyes when you presented him a new, more colourful beanie, that you made when he was gone. And to his delight you ushered him into the bathroom to shave him first thing in the morning.

The task force never dared to touch his hat again.

[inosukijiro]

✮⋆˙ sammy

𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ the first time you call him sammy.

𖤐 𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 .ᐟ i had this idea bc ik he hates it when ppl call him that — except dean sometimes. but the other day i was real sad, and i just want a sam to treat me soft yk. anyways hopefully u all like it 🤧 sammy is such a cutie name tho

𖤐 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 .ᐟ fluff. crying reader, reasons not specified. hurt/comfort, emphasis on the comfort. sam-centric. gender-neutral reader. can be read as modern reader in spn, or not. isn’t season specific, but written with earlier seasons in mind. probably ooc.  2.1k words.

   ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───

The first time you call him Sammy, he hates it. He hates it because he hates the way it sounds. It's ringing in his ears. The way it comes off your tongue is putrid and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It’s unexpected and it has him gapping. He hates it the most, though, because you’re crying.  

There’s a laundry list of reasons why he hates it. But none of those reasons have anything to do with you. Even then, you’ve never slipped up, never even come close to saying it. Maybe you’ve thought about it, maybe you haven’t — Sam isn’t a mind reader. But he’s pretty sure you know he doesn’t like it. You’ve heard him shut others down before, made it clear it was off-limits. Whether or not you ever wondered why never really crossed his mind. It could be that you’re just understanding. You’re always patient with him, always respectful. It wouldn’t surprise him, though, if you already knew.

It’s in the way you glance at him whenever someone else says it, some stranger who doesn’t know better. The way your eyes flick to his, gauging his reaction, but you never ask. Never push. Never assume you have the right. It’s like you already get it — that to him, Sammy is a chubby twelve year old with too big eyes and an even bigger heart, a kid who still believed in things before the world beat it out of him. Sammy is powerless. Sammy is soft. And Sam has spent his whole damn life trying to be anything but.

Dean gets away with it — most of the time. Some days, it doesn’t sting as much. Other days, it makes his skin crawl. But you? You never try. Never tested the boundaries of what he’ll allow, like it’s some kind of game. You call him Sam. Just Sam. Nothing more, nothing less.

However, that doesn’t matter right now because you’re crying. Because you’re hurting so much that it’s spilling out of you, raw and unfiltered, past your lips in desperation. And Sam knows — knows you’d never call him that on purpose, never say it just to get under his skin. You know how much it bothers him. But right now? He can’t bring himself to care. Because how could he, when your voice is shaking, when your hands are trembling, when whatever pain you’re carrying is heavy enough to make you forget something so simple? He wouldn’t be mad at you — not really. He actually doesn’t think he could ever be mad at you. Especially not when you’re looking at him like that, like you need him to be steady, to be something solid when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.  So he swallows whatever flicker of irritation tries to rise in his chest and focuses on what actually matters. You. 

You, who’s crying. You're crying and you won’t stop. It’s the kind of crying that shakes your whole body, that makes your breaths come out in sharp, broken gasps. And Sam doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t ever seen you cry like this before. Maybe a quiet sniffle, or a small tear you’d quickly wipe away when you thought no one was looking — but never this.

He hadn’t expected this when he came back to the motel room. Dean had dropped him off before heading out to the bar down the street. It's the usual thing he does to celebrate another successful case. While Sam would’ve loved to join, he really didn’t. You were here and Sam could never stay away from you for too long. All Sam wanted to do was be with you and go to bed. 

But he hears it the minute he walks up to the door. It's muffled through the walls and the wood, but he can hear it clear enough. The sounds of heartbreaking cries and Sam grows frantic.  He’s quick to get the key in the door to unlock it. And no sooner does he do so, as he pushes it open, he finds you. He finds you sitting on one of the beds — at this point he isn’t sure which one it is and he doesn’t think you do either. Neither of you actually care, because that isn’t the concern. 

The sight before him is, and it breaks his heart. But he rushes in; fast and swift. The door shuts behind him with a clunk, and he sees you jolt. And all Sam can think to do is gather you up in his arms.  Because Sam isn’t some heartless freak that would close the door and walk away. His brain is too frazzled to think about anything else. He needs to hold you. He needs to calm you down. The tears streaming down your face tell him that you've been crying for hours. And just a little, it makes him sick, thinking that you’ve been upset for that long. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, your face buried in his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear into him. And all Sam can do is hold you. His arms wrapping around you so carefully, so gently, as if he’s afraid you’ll break apart completely if he isn’t careful — like you're fragile. 

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers softly. “I'm here.” He soothes as he holds you. “Just breathe f’me, okay?” His voice is steady, even if everything else isn’t. You’re wrapped up in him, as your body trembles. It's not just from your crying. No, it’s one of those involuntary shudders. He cradles the back of your head with his hand, helping you press yourself further into him. It’s almost as if he's shielding you as you hide away from everything. And while Sam might not know what that everything is, he’ll find it and make sure it never bothers you again. 

And that’s when he hears it. It’s muffled against the fabric of his flannel, and just low enough that he would’ve missed it. But he can’t. Because you’ve kept repeating his name through your broken sobs. It’s rapid before it slows. You say his name like you're trying to convince him of some urgency without having to say anything else. And then he realizes that you aren’t just saying his name by the time you start teetering on the edge of calming down. You hiccup and sniffle, and he can feel the heat of your tears against his neck.

The world around him seemed to fade and the sound of the highway outside dulled to nothing. He freezes for a brief moment, his breath hitched as those syllables hit his ears. So soft but shattered — fragile and so, so heavy. It was gut wrenching, and the way you had said it was different. It was different then he’d ever heard it before. Dean said it with familiarity, obviously — sometimes teasing, sometimes sharp, sometimes warm, sometimes just to mess with him. But you? It wasn’t just his name anymore. It was everything you had been feeling. All the hurt and exhaustion and desperation bundled into those two syllables — and he feels that flicker of irritation in his chest shift.

That irritation changes into something intense and unhinged. It burns in his lungs and coils around his heart. He felt cheated, robbed of something precious — because he had always wondered how it would have sounded had it ever left your mouth. Because he trusts you so much that he’d imagine it plenty of times. He imagined it sultry and light, full of love and care. The way you’d look at him like he hung the moon and stars. He pictured the way your lips would curve around the syllables, how the name would dance from your tongue and into his ears. And even if Sam thinks he doesn’t deserve it, amongst all the things that haunt and plague his mind; he thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he had ever heard it like that, it would’ve healed something in him.

But now, in contrast to everything else, the name began to taste like salt and sorrow. 

You don’t really say anything else after that and it's clear that you don’t really know what to do next either. All you do is try and sink deeper into him, and Sam lets you. He’s patient as your breathing slowly begins to even out as he lets his warmth encase you. Your head lays so lazily against his shoulder, as does your body against his — so defeated, so worn out. And Sam feels just a bit guilty the moment he pulls away and your face is forced to emerge. 

He watches as your lip trembles as you take deep breaths. And a soft, small whimper nearly escapes your throat before he's pressing sweet kisses into your skin. It doesn’t matter where they land, whether it’s your cheek or your nose, he’s peppering you with enough kisses before you could even think about working yourself up again.

“Hey hey hey,” he coos and frowns slightly at your tear stricken face.  “It’s okay, honey. I got you.” 

He studies your face as you look at him, your cheek squishing and settling into his cupped hand. You just look so tired. He moves to smooth the hair away from your face and comes to the decision that he can’t just leave you like this. To leave you with dry tear tracks along your face and to wake up feeling miserable. No, he can’t have that. As gentle and loving as Sam can, he presses a kiss to your forehead and gingerly uses his thumbs to wipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. 

He’ll suggest ever so lightly to get you cleaned up. He murmurs it ever so tender, afraid of uttering any words too loud. And you don’t argue. You don’t wave him off — you don’t have the strength to. Instead you nod weakly and follow his lead as he sits you up. He moves fast, grabbing a washcloth that isn’t too far away in the bathroom and dampens it before dabbing at your cheeks. In fact, he wipes down your whole face so that there isn’t even a trace of your cries left. He moves more of your hair out of your face, the small strands of hair that were either dampened from your tears or the cloth, he isn’t sure. 

But his hands are steady. Sam is pretty sure that his hands have never been this steady in all his life. They’re precise and patient, soft in a way that is only reserved for you. And when you look up at him — with a small sad thankful smile and red rimmed eyes — he’ll just smile back reassuringly, pressing yet another kiss to your temple.  

He’ll ask if it's all better, and you’ll nod. You do seem much better now — calmer, more still — which Sam is glad for. And soon enough, the two of you are tucked tight beneath his covers, the warmth settling over you like a heavy, quiet comfort. You latch onto him immediately, burying your face as deep as you can into his chest, like you’re trying to disappear into the space between his ribs. Your grip on him, however, is no longer desperate but something softer, something lingering. His arms settle around you instinctively, holding you close. The slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing seems to lull you, your body finally relaxing against his. It’s peaceful. Almost perfect.

Though, a small ‘..ank you, ..ammy’ is murmured. The words drowsy, barely forming — melting into the warmth of him as sleep drags you under.

Sam tenses for half a second and his chest tightens briefly. But in the next moment, he isn’t paying it any mind. He doesn’t need to dwell on it. Instead, he just holds you tighter; pressing his lips to the crown of your head, lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him, and exhales.

He wonders if you’ll remember in the morning — if you’ll realize what you said, if you’ll apologize for it, or if you won’t even think twice. He thinks about if you’ll say it again. Because, yeah, he feels extremely robbed. The thought gnaws at him. It's like it's been tainted with something new and he’s almost eager for it to not be. And maybe it won’t be tomorrow, maybe not even next week, but eventually. Because somewhere, deep in that big, smart, dummy brain he has, he knows that you will say it again. And when you do, it’ll be soft, bright, and full of something that only he could wish for. 

He can already hear it. He can already imagine the way his nickname will sound when it’s spoken by you not through exhaustion or desperation, but through delight. And it’s already music to his ears. Because maybe — just maybe — being called Sammy wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if it’s coming from you.

𖤐 .ᐟ i feel like i rushed the end, but its literally 2 am and im tiredd.  anyways,, tysm for the likes, reblogs, and support i love writing these little stories for u all  ( • ̀ω•́ )✧

[kawoala]

📧 you have three (3) new messages !

@ bakugoukatsuki ˒ 17m ago

ᶻz ◜ 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 ◞ 𖦹

contents: third year! katsuki. ooc katsuki probably. mention of past trauma. spoilers!!!! reader has anxiety. kind of angst but also kind of not.

word count: 535

“staring up at the rain like that isn’t going to make it stop.”

without even looking his way, you know it’s katsuki. a hum passes through your closed lips and you turn towards him, smiling softly. “you look awfully cozy,” you say, nodding a head towards the scarf wrapped around his neck, covering part of his chin. “i’m not trying to stop the rain. i’m . . . enjoying it.”

a look of pure disgust flashes across his face. “enjoying the rain,” he repeats—a statement, not a question. “you’re a freak, you know that?”

“it’s calming.” you reach a hand out under the awning, letting the soft rain gather into a puddle in your hand before tipping it out. you laugh and turn back to him. “what, you don’t like rain?”

“i hate the rain.”

“why?”

there’s a moment of silence. it’s feels like forever, but you know it can’t be more than a couple seconds. his gaze drifts from you to the rain, eyes hardening.

there are moments in your life when you forget your first year at UA. when the sun is shining, warming your skin, and you’re laughing with your friends. or now, when it’s raining, and the rain is so soft, so sweet. 

“oh,” you breathe out, blinking a couple times at the side of his face. “i’m sorry. i didn’t—”

“that’s not why i hate the rain,” he cuts you off, still refusing to look at you. “i hated the rain before i died in it. i’ve hated it since i was a kid. don’t be sorry, it’s fine.”

you press your lips together and nod, unsure of what to say. you know katsuki doesn’t want your pity, and you’re not going to give it to him.

“do you ever . . .” you trail off, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. finally, he meets your eyes again. there’s something different about them now—sad, distant, closed-off. “do you ever think about the war? i mean , of course you do—everyone does. but do you think of what it would be like had we lost?”

“jesus.” he laughs and suddenly you regret asking. “i think about it all the time. think about what it would be like if deku didn’t lose his quirk, think about what it would be like if someone else had died.”

this is the first time you’ve ever had a conversation like this with katsuki. your other friends—mina, kirishima, deku—they’ve all talked about this. they’re open with their feelings, they’ve cried in front of you. but katsuki? he’s . . . different. he’s changed since first year, but he still doesn’t show his emotions in front of others. he doesn’t talk like this, and nobody expects him to.

“but we won,” he says, much quieter than his usual tone.

“but we won,” you repeat, almost breathlessly.

and then the silence is back. except, this time, it’s different. the rain is starting to let up, the sun is coming out. both of you are looking out in front of you.

“i’m glad . . .” once again, you trail off, anxiety crawling through your veins. you sigh and turn towards him. “i’m glad you lived, katsuki.”

he blinks at you a couple times, then laughs. soft, quiet, lovely. “me too.”

[osamucide]

⊹ FOR SURE

RELATIVELY STABLE AND TENTATIVELY ABLE TO SAY FOR CERTAIN WHETHER THIS UNCERTAINTY IS FOR SURE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2k

cw: sad and probably ooc dazai but he’s my husband so i actually know how he falls apart, pretty straightforward references to anxiety+dissociation, references to self harm+suicidal ideation but nothing graphic, angst+hurt/comfort, dazai cries and then you feed him that's all

reid: a little spur of the moment something i started when i wasn’t feeling so hot a bit ago. ethel cain’s cover of this song has altered the course of my life anyway enjoy me projecting

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

He was quiet when he got home, which is uncharacteristic, unless he’s scheming. But there was no glint in his eyes and no menace behind his grin, only exhaustion. What’s more is there was no downcast expression, no particularly sluggish movement to suggest he was upset; granted, he would regularly go on performing his usual persona even if he was upset. He was always all moving puzzle pieces, all thick mask and mystery.

It’s a good thing you’ve learned to read him so plainly.

You owe it to the little shared space you’re in, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, reading a book of his as he shakes his coat off and tosses it across the small dining table with two chairs side-by-side at it instead of across from one another. Dazai usually hangs his coat up on the rack by the door, slips his shoes off mindlessly and comes to flop his entire body weight on top of you, but tonight he pulls his laces undone and leaves his shoes tucked neatly against the wall, walks by the back of the couch to press a ghostly kiss to the crown of your head, and heads straight to the bathroom, which he locks himself in.

You swallow as you hear the shower start. You had specifically picked out an apartment with a standing shower, no tub, when you moved in with him. You’d emptied it of razors a handful of times and you probably would a handful of times more, and you kept all of both of your medication in your bedside table. Still, you can no longer quite focus on the words in front of you.

So, you flick the television on. A little more noise in your brain helps tune out the shower that’s just that—a shower. He showers, most often, because he’s feeling strange and not because he needs to feel clean. Maybe he needs to feel clean, but not in a way that a shower will allow. He does it anyway. You wait.

When the water turns off and he doesn’t immediately bounce out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, singsonging which leftovers you should heat up for him, you turn the TV volume down a few notches. When it’s been five minutes or so, you find yourself in the kitchen putting day-old bibimbap in the microwave. When it’s been ten, you’re knocking on the door.

"Osamu?" Your voice is soft as your knock. "I waited for you to eat." Dirty trick, you know. But you also know he won’t otherwise; not on a night like this.

You hear a bit of shuffling before the bathroom door creaks open. His eyes are red, his nose flushed, and he’s rubbing his face with the corner of his towel like he’s just awoken from a nap. He’s got no bandages on. He nearly whispers, "You didn’t have to."

"Wanted to." You work the towel from his hands as he turns the light off. He’ll hide behind the darkness if nothing else, but it’s alright; you’ll let him. You pat water from his shoulders before you sling the towel around him like a cape. You whisper back, "I’ll get you clothes. Please get silverware, yes?"

You don’t give him much of a choice, but he’s in a state where he’s pliant enough to listen to corporeal orders. Getting silverware will be a marginally easier task than dressing for him right now.

After pulling a sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants out of your drawers—they’re his, or maybe yours, doesn’t really matter; what does matter is they cover as much skin as possible—you return to him on the couch, two bowls of cooling bibimbap with chopsticks stuck in them on coffee table. He’s got as much of his bare body under the towel as it will allow.

When you set next to him and peel the towel back he looks nearly catatonic. It spurs tears to your lash line, but you hold back. "Arms, please."

He shoves himself into the hoodie, tousling his wet mop of hair in the process, and takes the pants from you, which he stands robotically to step into. When he sits you wrap five fingers across the top of his flannel-clad thigh and press a short kiss to his cheek.

As if sparked by your touch, he curls himself into you.

You’re quick to receive him; you unlock his hands from where they latch behind your neck, gently, like everything else, and you lean back, back, until your head is hitting the pillow you were lounged up against earlier. His fingers scramble for somewhere to land; you will his weight down onto you, his shoulder and hip to tuck beside yours on the inside of the couch, his free arm and leg to sling across your body and his sweet face in the side of your neck. The water from his hair soaks through your shirt. You don’t care. You feel his breath; your fingertips trace circles along his spine, and your outside hand comes to tangle up with his. Eating will have to wait.

You don’t waste time asking if he wants to talk. If he did, he would’ve started by now.

So you focus on his breathing, and how lucky you are to have it ghosting along your collarbone. He’s gray, then white, then gray, then blue in the light of the TV as his thumb moves across the back of your hand, stiff, like it’s just been freed from paralysis.

You wait for his breath to shake; you know it will.

And he knows you know, because he squeezes your hand in a pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. He hates this. He hates that you've seen him crumble so many times that you know exactly what he needs.

You say it so softly, again, almost a whisper: "I've got you, my love."

He doesn't want you to say it's okay or let it out or talk to me; this is another thing you know very well. He feels like he's floating away from what little sense of self he has to begin with and it's not okay, and he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to be told when to cry or not, but he does need reminded that you're here, and you're real, and so is he, and so is this thing that both have; you'll grab his ankles and pull him down out of the air. You always do. You always do.

So he cries anyway.

It's like hearing a foreign language leave his mouth. There's something so assured about Dazai even while he believes he's all smoke and mirrors and seeing—hearing—his voice jump between heaving breaths and cracking sobs has always jarred you in some way. Moreover, now that you're so attuned to the way he breaks, it fills you with a tired anger that you can't place on anything concrete. It's a frustration you're glad to shoulder with him, but a frustration no less. You would set fire to everything you could touch, strangle it all to death with your bare hands, if it guaranteed his peace. But you know he wouldn't want that, not anymore; you quell the rage inside you between strands of his hair, fingerpads combing over his scalp with all that anger channeled into love, pure love. For as terrible and rotten as he's convinced he is, he's truly turned you into something softer than you thought yourself capable of being.

You feel his heart racing double-time against yours; you briefly wish you had no chest, no ribs, no physical form to separate you from him, so that your heart could cradle his, give over to his troubled body the time of the breath yours breathes.

He's all jagged edges right now and you're holding him like he's made of cotton. It makes him worse, momentarily, and he tears his hand away from yours; he knows wrapping around you like this, like a boa constrictor around its prey, will make his arms lose feeling but he does it anyway, like he's worried you'll go up in a cloud of dust if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough. He knows it's probably uncomfortable for you, too, laying back on his knotted fingers while he shoves every piece of himself as close as he can get to you, but you don't say anything, don't even make a sound when he hyperventilates into your shoulder and pushes out pathetic whimpers between his stuttering. He knows his face is twisted into that expression he long ago deemed too ugly to look at in the mirror. He gasps like he's underwater, and you just press your cheek to his temple while you lose track of if the wetness on your shoulder is from his hair or his eyes. It doesn't matter. You love him so fucking much.

He weeps against you with his constraint surrendered, loud but muffled by your shirt, at least until whatever movie was on is over. When he finally lifts his head, your eyes flutter open. You hadn't realized you closed them.

You tilt to look at him; the seam of your shirt collar is imprinted into his cheek. His bangs have dried wildly; you push them away from his eyes which are raw with sorrow, and Dazai's hands unclasp from behind you, settling back to how they first were with one curled up into the couch and the other interlaced with yours. He's devastatingly beautiful. You can't help the ghost of the sad smile you wear; it's because he's so gorgeous, and also you want to let him know you're content to be here—not content with what's upset him, not at all, but content to pick him up and help him haul himself forward. He does not reflect the smile back to you. You don't blame him.

"Let's eat." You leave the please unspoken, but it hangs there anyway.

"It's cold," he complains, still distant, but with a glimmer of a pout you think may be him. He's not getting out of it, though.

You sit him up, keep him close to your side and pick up a bowl; it's indeed cold, but you take a bite anyway, as if to show him it's not so bad. When you hold sliced carrot and broccoli to his lips, he looks at you like you're trying to feed him dirt, but opens his mouth anyway.

And it may as well be medicine going down. Not that he particularly cares for reheated and recooled leftover bibimbap, but your fingers being at the other end of the chopsticks makes it appealing. More than appealing. Delightful, even. He never really understood how things like food, music, or art could be healing until he met you and you doodles silly pictures of him on slow Sunday mornings, sang old love songs to him while you shooed him away from the stove as you cooked dinner, fed him leftovers in your shared home, on your shared couch, surrounded by all the things that were both yours and his, sweatshirts, books, blankets, chopsticks alike.

And he tells you that in his own way.

"Heat it up again for me? Please?"

He speaks the plea this time, and you grin—not sad this time, but wholly, as he relights slowly in front of you. And as already established, you'd do anything for him.

"Mhm."

"I love you," he blurts. Tags it on. You stand, gathering both bowls, still grinning.

"I love you." No question about any of it. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. He unfurls the blanket from where you'd slung it over the back of the couch earlier, picking up the remote to flick through the channels, finally breathing steadily as he waits for you to return from the kitchen. Your kitchen, his kitchen. He hears the microwave hum, in another room, not on another planet. He knows he'll be alright.

[xo-cod]

141+könig accidentally hurting you during sex :"(((

aww :(( the babes </33 i did this super rushed so it might be ooc ‼️‼️

price: he's so apologetic, immediately snapping out of his trance and looking to you with pure worry. "you alright sweetness?" his sweet voice filling your ears as his brows furrow with concern, looking you over while he touches you as though you're the most delicate thing on earth. he feels absolutely terrible, already wrapping a blanket around you to keep you warm while he holds you close apologising over and over. it's just in his nature to do that, he cares so deeply for you anytime you're in pain especially on the off chance it's caused by hand, it makes him so sad :( he won't go back to having sex, not at least he knows that you're okay and you're good. definitely kisses away all the pain, holding you gently <3

simon: immediately freezes and pulls away, his eyes wide with concern and slight panic when he realises he's hurt you. and during such an intimate moment :( he's already got you wrapped in his warm arms, double checking everything to make sure you're not overly hurt. he feels horrible and he gives you plenty kisses to make up for it. depending on how bad, he won't go back into having sex and instead holds you close for the rest of the night instead with you snuggled into his chest. will definitely need verbal reassurance that you're fine otherwise he's going to treat you like precious glass in the foreseeable future "m'sorry lovie so sorry" <3

gaz: "baby? you alright?" probably the most rational and quickly stops everything to bundle you up close. he's pressing soft kisses to your temple, whispering apologies and knowing that sometimes he can get very passionate. still his heart breaks when he realises he's caused you pain and his sweet face breaks out in a soft frown while he's comforting you. he's grabbing the water for you, making you eat something while he's at it. tucking your hair away as he looks at you nervously, hoping he didn't do long lasting damage even if he knows its not possible. but once he's stabilised that you're okay, he spends the rest of the night cuddle up close to you while he gently rakes his fingers up and down your skin. for his comfort and for yours <3

soap: "oh my god have i hurt you??" it almost tears his heart when you're wincing and he's caused you pain, sex is never supposed to be about that. he eases off gently, holding your face carefully in his palms as he asks you questions all around so he knows where the hurt is coming and how bad it is. he's silently cursing at himself for making you go through this, wishing he would've been a little easier on you and you have to take him by the hands and tell him that you're okay. he still won't really believe you but it does help to know he hasn't totally broken you. he makes up for it with hugs and kisses, cuddling you close and whispering sweet words into your ears <3

könig: "mein liebling?" he's so confused at first, you went from whimpering to hissing in pain and it takes him a couple seconds before his eyes widen with shock and he immediately backs out. this man is holding you like precious cargo, asking you a 101 questions of where you're hurt and how bad does it hurt. will perform a thorough examination to ensure he didn't hurt you too much. he's literally in your ear whispering at how sorry he is and how beautiful you are, nuzzling you close in his wonderfully built arms. he feels so bad, you'll have to tell him you're really okay but he doesn't believe so. he won't go back to having sex, instead choosing to make you feel better for the rest of the night <3

[monarchberrysblog]

𝔭𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔲𝔱

18+ Fireman! Miguel O’Hara x Chubby! Fem! Reader

Summary: After being hired into Station 29 and dealing with the fires in Nueva York, Miguel experiences soft and sweet love after saving someone from a burning building.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Chubby! Female! Reader, soft fluff shit-- Miguel is 25, and the reader is 21 (a bit of an age gap). Mean? Dom! Miguel, words of affirmation, size difference got me like 😋. (OOC MIGUEL, JUST THROWING THAT OUT THERE)

Word Count: <1.0k words

Author’s Note: HEAR ME OUT PLS— This came to mind after chatting with a bot on character.ai. (original, I know) It makes me sad that the Miguel hype has been slowly dying down, but I will write about my husband until my obsession dies. (it's never going to die; please save me.) Also, if you see minors like this, please let me know 😗

Who knew that getting fucked into a mattress by the fireman who saved you from a burning building was the answer to all of life’s problems?

/

He slid his fingers out of you, then trailed said fingers up to your throat, soon lightly grasping onto your throat. The hold was firm but wasn't enough to choke anyone out. "You okay?" You glanced at him and could imagine the mess you left behind on his bedsheets. "…yeah." You gasped at him before you swallowed dryly and squirmed.

"Looks like you had some fires to put out." He chuckled, seeing the evident clear, slick against the silky bedsheets that were probably worth more than your weekly grocery shopping list. "I'm sorry." You whined to him. "No, no. It's okay, baby…" He gave your thigh a reassuring pat with his free hand. After patting your thigh, he moved his hand away from your throat and grasped onto the fat of your thigh. "Spread open for me…"

The sound of him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants is enough to make your mouth salivate in instinct by simply hearing the metal of his belt clink. “Every time I jerk off,” He pauses momentarily, but he continues when you feel a bulbous tip lightly tap at your fluttering entrance. “I think about how you taste, and I never last.”

A barely audible moan escapes from you, arching your back against the mattress. “Shh, shh, it's okay.” Miguel slowly pushes himself into you, taking the time to savor your wet, moist, gummy walls. “My god, you're so tight. Take deep breaths for me, okay?” The stretch of his girth is enough to drive anyone wild. With a shaky breath, you nodded, laid back on the bed, and relaxed. An audible groan from the back of your throat before it became a guttural groan deep from you diaphragm. “I know it hurts, I know…” He cooed to you.

It took all of his willpower not to hump you like an animal in heat. Instead, he allowed his tip to stay in your entrance. He brought his lips to your ear, whispering sweet nothings while you felt yourself getting stuffed more than a turkey on a Thanksgiving dinner. You propped yourself up on your elbows, just to see the sight below you. “You like to see? How dirty.”

He patted your fupa lovingly before he pushed down on the soft tummy. You took in deep breaths, trying to get him to fit in. “There we go. Can you see how you're taking my cock? You're taking it well…” The sound of a small queef filled the space, interrupting Miguel, causing you to hide your face with a nearby pillow, embarrassed of the noise. “It's okay, neña. It's cute.” You slowly peeked from the pillow, and you could see Miguel fighting demons in his soul to not laugh at the flatulent noise when he sunk himself in. “It's not funny, Miguel.” You huffed, feeling embarrassed. “No, it's not,” At this point, if Miguel dared to look at you, he would have started to laugh, but he didn't.

/

A groan escaped, feeling the sweet, delicious burn his girth offered. “Good girl,” He groaned before he got a hold of your hand. Miguel uses his free hand to move his hand from your fupa to grab onto the bed's headboard. “Look at you, eagerly moving down already. Don't overwhelm yourself, sweetheart.” He lightly quipped before a sharp inhale between his teeth broke his words. “Slow down there, baby…” You squirmed your hips down, and the delicious burn subsided to pleasure as a loud moan escaped from you, and Miguel let out a loud groan. “Ay, I told you to slow down, baby…” Ignoring Miguel’s wishes, you continued to sink into his length, enjoying how the vein on his length brushed against your puffy clit so slowly and deliciously.

“Ya te dije,” He shoved his entire length into you, nearly slamming you against the headboard. A loud whine filled his apartment, feeling his red, angry, bulbous tip kiss at your cervix. “Ya te dije, más lento.” The man firmly demanded. “It's what I want, not what you want.”

A few shaky breaths, along with a couple of forehead kisses, had you settled down on his length and wanted to continue. A whine escaped from you while you squirmed underneath him. Your pleading wasn't contributing to the situation well. “Please…” You pleaded. “Give me a minute…” Miguel strained out, slowly moving out and pushing himself back in. “Give me a minute, baby…” It was a chore for Miguel to be dominant when you made him fold in half like a lawn chair by seeing you slowly inching down on his length with such zealous energy.

The sight of the fireman who saved you from a burning building and is significantly taller than you got weak in the knees by being knees deep in your cooch. After a couple of moments and of you fluttering against his length, he slowly sunk inside of you and started to grind his tip against your cervix. A white ring began to form attached to the base of his cock, meaning that your juices and his precum have mixed and are already dripping off his length and onto the bed sheets underneath the two of you. The grinding soon turned into him thrusting his length entirely at a steady, slow pace.

His hands moved away from the headboard and gasp onto the back of your thighs. “I'm going to push your legs back a bit. Is that okay?” He groaned, keeping his pace the same. “Yeah…” You moaned out, feeling his push down be pinned down to the bed, not allowing you to see how he was moving. You tried your best to see him moving inside of you but gave up after you couldn't. “You wanted to keep seeing? Qué cochina.”

“I'll give you a sight to see…”

If you saw any errors, no, you didn't. This is the first smut I've written in a while 😭

[solivan-brugmansia]

Shadow milk giving his s/o comfort? Maybe we've been really sad and lonely recently and just need his hugs or to know he is there and cares. Just like how we wouldn't leave him and will love him forever, he won't leave us to our own upsetting thoughts!

OMG!!! I LOVE THIS ASK SO MUCH IM GONNA SHOOT SOMEONE!!!/silly okay but srsly anon give me a emoji so i know it’s you bc yours asks are AMAZING!!! /p

Warnings; prob ooc, short, not a lot of talking, a lot of fluff, NOT PROOF READ.

A jesters comfort

The moonlight shot through your window, soft, gentle wind also coming into your small domain. Today was definitely not a good day, you thought to yourself. You didn’t know why, but something just felt so wrong this entire day. Maybe it was your anxiety getting to you again, but you felt like you could crumble at any second.

Tears swelled up in your eyes as you stared at your shaky hands, as you just started crying. As the clock ticked, it reached around midnight until you heard a knock at your door. You sucked up your mucus and wiped away your heavy tears before getting off your bed. You slowly walked up to the door, and opened it. “Your favorite jester had ARRIVED!”

Shadow Milk Cookie whipped his out the door, doing a couple of floating flips as he entered your dimly light room. He was about to be his loud self until he saw your teary eyes and red face. He lowered himself till he was hovering near the floor, and grasped your cheek. “My poor doll.. what happened?” He spoke, almost whisper-like.

You didn’t know how to reply. Any words that you would possibly choke out would probably just be nonsense that would only make sense to your mind. You just decided to blurt out that you don’t know, and hope it works for Shadow Milk. “I..I don’t know..”. You choked out, while tears came falling from your eyes again.

Shadow Milk quickly pulled you into a hug, and buried his head into your neck. You could tell that this wasn’t a prank, or a trick. He never has falsely comforted you before, but most of the time he somehow turned it into a funny moment, or a play.

As you sobbed in his arms, he slowly began to pick you up and gently put you back onto your bed. He gently put your blankets over your body, and kissed your forehead before speaking. “Goodnight my teary eyed doll, don’t let the worries of your mind overwork you.” He kissed you one more time on the forehead before turning off your soft lights, and exiting your room.

A/N: First fanfic!!! I did kinda add my own twist to this one, but I still tried to keep the plot of it. Also,, should I do an intro soon? :)

Edit: if you like this one, PLEASE go check out my most recent one on my page!

[maskedteaser]

I feel you about rdr2, I feel like I'm walking through a desert with no water😭

But if you don't mind me requesting something...

Maybe Sean or Kieran (or whoever you want, I'm fine with anybody) with a crush on s/o who's just an absolute ray of sunshine and they're too nervous to ask s/o out because of this

hii! i'm so glad to be able to do my first request ever! hope you like it! I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes - english is not my first language! requests are open. Sorry it took so long to write - it is like...my second time writing an actual thing with plot in english! [not proofread i'm sorry i cringed too hard when i tried to read it] CW: none? i think? mentions of alcohol if you squint in javier's part the spanish petnames he uses are feminine(?) but i think there is no other use of any gender comfirming things so i guess it's gender neutral reader fic? ALSO THEY ARE PROBABLY OOC IM SO SORRY :((( 05.06.2024. signed TEASER 📺 [ BANNERS ARE MADE BY ME! ]

SEAN MACGUIRE

You were ethereal in his eyes. Always shining, blooming, filling every space you were in with joy and feeling of safety. Soft hair sparkling in the sun, pupils always wandering around, looking for a sad soul to cheer up. Hands in the air, moving around uncontrollably when you tried to tell a story, gesturing the things that you were imagining. Truly mesmerising, he felt like he just had to have you, but his every attempt at flirting with you was just taken as a joke, rewarded by a small smile from you, a little giggle, and it broke his heart, making it rush at the same time.

But Sean MacGuire was an impatient man. Impatient and so obvious with his emotions. Expressive, always made it known when he felt good or bad, when he was falling apart (which was a really rare sigh anyways) or his heart was full of passion. But you made it easy to feel euphoric and then send him to the lowest mental state he could ever be. He couldn't wait to tell you how he wanted you to be his and only his, but for some reason - you were always busy, someone always wanted to talk with you, stealing your attencion. And when you were free, he was too stunned to speak. That never happened in his entire life! His never ending monologue, his mouth that was always talking, everything stopped. Sean MacGuire smiled, excused himself for bothering you and left, leaving you confused but a smile didn't leave your soft lips. He was sitting alone, planning a new way to confess to you. Never in his life would he admit that he was, simply but truly, scared. Of rejection? Maybe. Or of the fact that you might take it as a joke. That would be even worse in his eyes. Sean suddenly remembered the fact that Arthur one day came up to him and asked about his relationship with you, he said that it was so horrendously obvious that he likes you, that he's sweet on you, but he also told him that he might be too simple for you. Too straightforward but at the same time - not cultured enough. Bascially telling him that he might be too dumb for you, straight into his poor face, into his lost puppy eyes. The truth was that, in fact, Sean was just lost without you. With you around, he felt like a better version of himself. That's why he wanted you so badly. He asked Lenny to teach him to read, so he could become a well-read person for you. But Sean MacGuire was an impatient man. Abandoning his mission after only few pages. His impulsitivity took over, he decided that if he's not the one for you, it's better to know as soon as it's possible. In case he had to move on, in case you decide to break his young, so obsessed with you heart. Stealing Dutch's cologne, Lenny's good shirt and wearing his only pants that were clean and somehow not holey - he got ready for you. He even washed his hair in the river, using actual soap that one of the girls from the camp once gave him. What a sweetheart. His plans were suprisingly really detailed. Sean wanted to pick some flowers for you and ask you to go to the town with him, he wanted to mount his horse, see you mount yours and go. But his dreams and distant goals got interrupted by hearing your voice coming near his tent. — Sean! Javier was just asking if you... — you didn't finish your sentence. Halfway in his tent, you laid your eyes on him, clearly preparing for some event. A date? Maybe? How could you know? — Oh! Sean, you look really good! What happened? — you looked up, his soft hair, freshly washed, much more shinier, looking healthy for once. — you washed your hair, so it must be something big. — you added, smiling. It was semi-dark in his tent, light being casted only by a little lamp with a candle inside of it. So you couldn't see how his cheeks got redder when he heard your compliment. — well, I actually...You know... — he started, nervously, but who wouldn't be nervous in that kind of a situation? Being caught preparing for a date, that wasn't even accepted by the other side in the first place. — It is something big. — Sean's voice still had his iconic cheerfulness, but you could hear the little shakes in it as well. But you didn't interrupt, you listened. He took a deep breath and said quickly, his accent almost making it incomprehensible — I was wondering if you'd like to go to the town with me and maybe you know have a drink or two? Like a party, just the two of us, you know? Ay, yeah! Actually I also wanted to say that I really like you! Maybe love...Yeah, that might be a better word for that. I love ya. So? Would you like to go with me? — he looked up at you, his heart beating so fast, he could almost hear it. It's now up to you. Do you agree or not?

JAVIER ESCUELLA

Absolutely smitten with you. Sitting by the fireside on a warm night, you were situated at the opposite side of the fire, watching people that were finishing their chores around the camp. Your delicate presence, hair moved by wind, shining eyes. His mind was in a different place. Holding his guitar, trying to play and sing, but you were distracting. It was almost impossible to get him to the state that he forgot how to play, but with you around, he literally seemed like he just bought this intrument, constantly making little mistakes. Blood rushing to his cheeks every time he got out of rhythm or the sound his guitar made was closer to a scratch than to any melody. But you seemed to not mind, accepting him the way he was, quietly giggling, but not laughing at him, you were just so full of happiness, your gaze only encouraged him to keep playing and he loved it. Loved you. Badly.

But he felt like loving you was never enough, since you seemed to never actually acknowledge his feelings, the deep desire that made his dreams full of you. Everything reminded him of you. You joined the gang a few months ago, how could you fuck him up so badly in such a short period of time? Wrapped around your finger, willing to give you the entire world if you asked him to. He just knew that you'd never ask him to, you were just too...good. You never asked for help yourself, but always wanted to help others. Putting everyone above yourself, taking care of everyone, even Micah, who said so much bad things about you, spitting poison at you every time you walked by, but when he felt ill, you still was a first person to give him health cure.

Javier could only watch from afar. Fascinated, hypnotised by your moves, your energy, how your voice could put everyone in a good mood. When you were telling stories, you'd tell them with so much passion, but when someone else needed to be listened - you were all ears, asking questions, made everyone feel welcomed and safe. He sometimes really thought that you are not real, that you are an angel sent to the camp in those hard times.

Lost in his thoughts again, he missed a string while playing and his guitar made another weird sound. Immediately grounded by that, he looked in the direction you were sitting, only to realise - you were not there anymore. He started looking for you, and he saw that you were sitting next to him. How could he not notice? God, were his reflexes that poor? If it was a life threatening situation, he'd probably be dead by now.

— I noticed that you are a bit lonely here, Javier, — the way his name slipped of your lips so softly, how he'd kill to hear his name coming from that sweet mouth again and again, until he lost his senses. — Mind if I keep you company? You seem stressed, is something bothering you? — when he heard your voice, and your body getting a bit closer to him, his muscles tensed. He put his guitar away, gently, laying it on a ground, leaned it against the barrel that was near.

— what can I say, hermosa. — he sometimes called you Spanish pet names, because he was sure you didn't understand them (if you could, well, he was not aware...) — There is that one girl that completely took over my mind and I can't focus on anything else because of her. She's not even mine, but I'm jealous of everyone that makes her laugh. It's probably wrong, but it's the truth. She's like a milagro walking on this sad country, healing everyone with her presence, so I'm almost certain I don't deserve her, but oh...I can always dream, can't I? — he could swear you put a spell on him. He never meant to open up about his feelings, especially not around you, especially talking about you.

What a fool he was. He couldn't even manage to raise his eyes up to meet your gaze, so he was not able to see the sadness flicker in your face, soft sigh escaping your lips, which was a sign of your heart getting a bit broken, he taken it as a sign of stress and fatigue.

— do you want me to help you with asking her out? I'm a woman myself so I know what most of us like to do... — you said, and oh, he knew that it would happen. Your first thought when someone has a problem is to help them out, any way you can, no matter your own feelings and struggles.

— tell me...how your perfect date would look like? I think she's really similar to you, she might enjoy the same things. — he said, still nervous, his eyes locked on the ground.

So you started to talk about your perfect date. How you'd spend it, and his head was full of ideas by now. He knew exactly where to take you, what to do, so when you finished your monologue, he offered, finally looking up, making eye contact:

— are you free tonight, angelita? Your wish is my command. — his cheeks a bit red, the orange light from nearby fire slightly shining on his skin.

Not it was up to you if you'd like to go with him. What do you say?

KIERAN DUFFY

Oh, that poor boy. His heart couldn't take it. The only person that showed him any kind of affection in this camp, the only one that cared, listened to him, believed him. When he was still tied to the tree, he used to spend all day looking at you with fascination, trying to understand who you were to other gang members, his gaze was subtle, always looking away just in time before anyone would notice. But he was sure you would never look at him the way he looks at you, and his heart ached every time he reminded himself of the fact that he was just a stranger in this camp, he was considered a spy, traitor, enemy. Yet you still treated him with such kindness and care, always asking if he needs anything, if you can do something to ease his pain and stress.

Sometimes you sat near him and talked with him, not caring about what others might think, saying that as long as there is no proof of him doing anything wrong, you will not act like he is a criminal. And he was honestly so thankful for that. He was not sure what he deserved to have you as some sort of ally, but since you were the only one he trusted (even if it was only a little bit) he started to actually feel something deeper than friendship towards you.

He didn't want to admit that it was love. But if not love, then what was it? Unreasonable high blood pressure when he saw you, his eyes sparkly, heart beating faster, his body always felt so full of life, shattering when he saw that someone disrespected you or treated you badly. He couldn't do anything, so he just watched when Micah, because he was literally the only one that ever mistreated you, decided to yell at you. He could only sigh, waiting for you to come to him and moan about how you hate this blonde, egocentric guy.

His most common way of showing his affection to you was by taking care of your horse while listening to you, always remembering everything you said, whether it was a mention of your favourite food, people that you like, your dream future or what beautiful clothes you saw at the shop when you travelled to town the other day. Your complaints that you couldn't afford them though... How Kieran wished he could be rich, so he could buy you those clothes, so he could see you happy. But he knew he could never be able to do that.

He dreamed of asking you out. You were on his mind all day and night, but, god, how was he supposed to do that? He couldn't leave the camp, and if he could, it was supposed to be a fishing trip or something, no going to town, no having too much fun, no buying things (he had no money anyways).

So the day you came to him and said that Micah once again told you that you are an useless addition to the camp, instead of passive listening and nodding his head, he actually asked: — how about we go fishing? I will teach you how to do that so next time he says something like that, you can prove him wrong by bringing bunch of fishes to the camp! — his voice started to shake at the end of his sentence, when he understood that he is basically asking you out on an almost date. He looked at you with hope in his eyes.

— fishing? I don't know if Micah would consider fishing as an useful skill...I don't think if anything that is done by a woman is useful in his eyes. I actually believe he might be jealous of Dutch, he wants him all to himself... — you said, giggling a bit. And Kieran had to agree with you. The way Micah was always complimenting Dutch was actually a bit concerning, but as long as he could stay in this camp, he didn't want to ask. He guessed that "that's how the things are in this gang".

— well, you're probably right. He will treat everyone badly regardless of their hard work. But hey, fishing is a nice thing to do anyways, right? I promise you, it's really relaxing! — Kieran was nervous, of course, but you could also see an honest, bright smile on his face, he showed signs of happiness, and that was something really nice to see.

So? Do you agree to go with him? It's your choice. 

pls give me any feedback, even as anons <3 much love, teaser

[youronlydarlin]

warning: kinda sad ANGST, Simon losses you :( , ooc kinda?? But he's soft for you only, trust me bro

This was kinda inspired by that one part in the comics where our poor, Si holds his mums skull, n he jus'... Kinda nuzzles into it. I dunno it just bought on some sad feeling, mkay...

Simon who slightly raises the cup of tea he's drinking each time he has one, just to let you know he's relaxing. Or trying his best too, at least. Doesn't know what he'll do if he worried you from beyond the grave. Sometimes he looks at all the belongings you left behind. Saying how they probably miss you, but not nearly as much as he does.

Unlike some, Simon uses your things. He doesn't want the house to go through the pain of loosing you too. So he drinks from your mug, and sits on your chair. Reads your favorite books, but never takes out the book marks in case you want to continue reading them. He also completes your bucket list for you, and even though he's the one doing them he always whispers 'good job, to the wind, hoping they'll carry the messenge to you.

Simon who speaks to your framed pictures. He remembers each, and every memory behind them. "Bet your happy... Now it'll always be my turn to grab the 'bloody groceries.." he jests. He hopes that one made you laugh. Knowing you, you would've. It's a mystery how you always laughed at his lame jokes. Though your laugh's always been better than the awful punchlines.

Simon who passes by that cafe you bugged him to go with you to, and he feels his throat go dry. He never got to take you there because of a sudden call from Price, telling him about an urgent, albeit sudden, mission. He definitely regrets not taking you out on dates more often. There's so many shops opening that he knows you would've loved to see.

Simon who's heart breaks at how quickly the world turns without you. Everything's moving so quickly, leaving him behind like it's already moved on, and he hates it. He hates how there's less clothes to fold now. Food is served, but only for one. The taste of it is flavorless, and dry. It's times like these, that he wishes he should have took the time and learn your recipes.

But what's worse, is that your side of the bed is cold. And it'll remain that way forever. At times he'll reach for you absentmindedly. Nightmares about war traded for dreams about you, but during those dreamless nights where sleep doesn't visit he'll stroke your pillow the same way he'd do to keep your hair out of your face, and pull the covers over the empty space you once occupied. He wonders if it's cold where you are right now. But just know that he's always willing to warm you up if ever you come back.

Simon who...

Stands at the doorway. Bag slinged over his shoulder, full of everything he needs and more for deployment. He knows he can't leave without properly saying goodbye, so he fishes out his wallet, and digs out a picture of you. He holds it up to his face, and it's funny. How you're not even staring at the camera when the photo was taken. No, you were staring at him. This one's always been his favorite. So he clears his throat, and wishes you don't hear the slight shake in his tone.

"..By now you would've told me to be careful.. And I will, by the way. But, m' sorry for all the times I didn't...'

....

" I have to go now. Don't need them gettin' on my ass for 'being late.. so.."

....

"..You just rest now, ok, love? There's nothing else for you to worry about' anymore. I love you, always. Wish me, and the boys luck, yeah?.."

He gives a light kiss to your photo, and it's as if you're with him when he steps outside the door..

a/n: This was a challenge to write, and I don't know what to feel about the results. I'm just polishing my english, I guess. M'not good at writing angst, you can probably tell, also my grammar feels off on this one, again. English isn't my first language, sorry. So please correct me on any mistakes I've made! But putting all that aside, I hope you like this more than I do! And, always remember that you are loved, and cared for! Have an amazing day, my darlings!

Yours, truly,

–dolly