#it hurts so much. to keep reaching out and offering it with trembling hands and tears in my eyes.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 23/?

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on Ao3 (current chapter)

Read on Ao3 (from beginning)

Evan thought he should be more afraid, having a vampire’s fangs this close to a vulnerable point.

He thought he should be panicking, in fear for his life, wondering what the fuck he was thinking, offering to let Tommy drink from him.

And yet, all he felt as his vampire took his hand and brought it to his mouth, inhaling deeply as though he were savoring the bouquet of a fine glass of wine…was calm. His magic was a warm and content glow throughout his whole body, radiating the rightness of what he was about to do. He was helping his vampire, sharing the power of his blood to help him heal, to keep them both safe. He was not looking forward to the pain of the bite, exactly, but he didn’t fear it. And he didn’t need Tommy to—to hypnotize him into accepting it, or whatever it was that a vampire’s thrall did. He didn’t want to be lost in a haze of false perception while Tommy drank from him.

The bite hurt when Tommy’s fangs sunk into the flesh of his wrist. He could tell his vampire was trying to be as gentle as possible…but it was still the teeth of a predator tearing into him. It wasn’t much worse than the burn of a tattoo needle, though, and he breathed through it until he felt Tommy’s lips close around the bite, not quite cold, but not the wet heat he was used to when people put their mouths on his body. Then he felt the bizarre sensation of suction, felt a pulling draw from the wound, though Tommy didn’t withdraw his fangs.

He hadn’t pulled off to slow the flow of blood, Evan realized. To make it harder to take too much, even accidentally. His magic trembled in his chest, a surge of warmth racing through him at the simple care. His eyes fluttered shut as Tommy swallowed, mouthful after mouthful of his blood, his magic swirling inside him, the warm glow of it intensifying, growing brighter and brighter until he felt like it was spilling out of him, wrapping around both him and his vampire, rushing over the two of them like a wave as Tommy drew part of Evan into him. The pain of the bite faded, swamped under a growing sense of connection.

He swore he could feel the connection the way Tommy was—heat and life rushing through him, his heart swelling with gratitude for the gift he was being given, a desperate desire for the closeness, the intimacy of the connection to never end.

He was shocked to realize he didn’t want it to, either.

He reached with his magic, throwing himself headlong into the bond between them, letting out a gasp when he felt it surge, strengthen, grow. He could feel his vampire, could feel Tommy, could feel the two of them together…the way it was supposed to be. The way it was meant to be.

And then an electric charge raced through him, his magic flaring the way it had the first time Tommy had drunk from him, the way he couldn’t remember it had until this very moment.

He was lying on a sagging bed in a cheap motel room, his vampire looming over him, and he had never felt so safe, so protected.

He was cradling his witch’s hand in his palms, his fangs deep in the wound his witch had trusted him to make, the sweetest blood he had ever tasted spilling into his mouth, and he could not remember if he had ever loved anyone so fiercely.

He was sitting in the cold snow, his baby brother in his lap, growing limp and quiet as the spell their parents had set on them tore his magic away from his small body, and he had never felt more scared or determined.

He was standing in the moonlit, snowy field watching the shadows of the night that had changed his family forever—the night that had haunted every aspect of his life for as long as he could remember—play out in front of him as they had a hundred, a thousand, a million times before, and he had never felt more exposed.

Tommy would know. He would know the secret that Evan’s family had kept for over twenty years, the single, horrible act that had hung over Evan his entire life and colored every interaction he had with his parents, his sister, and his coven. Tommy would know it all. His vampire would know why his magic was the way it was, why Evan’s own family treated him like a dangerous animal that couldn’t be trusted, why his coven had turned on him so easily when he’d stood accused of Doug’s murder.

Why there were only three beings on the planet who had ever seen something worth loving in him.

Tommy would know.

His magic spiraled around them, fragmenting his perceptions into what felt like a hundred different viewpoints, watching the memory from a hundred different perspectives. His vampire’s hand tightened on his, the pull of his blood into Tommy’s mouth blending with the remembered pull of the spell that had been meant to steal his magic until he was caught in a dizzying loop of sensation. Tommy would know.

He blinked heavy eyes and watched a bit of color start to creep back into his little brother’s chubby cheeks, the relief sweeping through him almost great enough to cover up the pain of the spell latching into his magic.

He watched the boy he’d never known and had loved all his life bend over the baby that he’d been and kiss his cheek, whispering love and reassurance with his last breath.

He watched a child he hadn’t known existed until this very second sacrifice himself for the infant that would grow into the man he was coming to realize he’d do anything to keep.

Evan gasped, his eyes flying open at the same time Tommy’s did. He gaped up at his vampire, his chest heaving as he watched the haggard pallor and lines of pain vanish from Tommy’s rugged features. The shirt he’d been wearing was bloodstained and torn, but before Evan’s eyes, the gaping wound in his chest started knitting together at an incredibly fast rate.

He winced as Tommy withdrew his fangs, moving as though he was about to brush his lips over the twin puncture wounds that now decorated his wrist. Blood pulsed sluggishly from the punctures and he tried to pull his hand back, only for Tommy to tighten his grip. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to even prevent him from pulling away, really. But his vampire didn’t want to let him go, and God help him, he didn’t want to, either. The reassuring feel of Tommy’s calloused fingertips pressing against his skin felt grounding. Soothing.

“Evan,” Tommy said, his voice low and quiet…and faintly horrified. Evan swallowed roughly, devastation welling up inside him.

Tommy knew.

“What was that?” his vampire asked.

*

He didn’t speak immediately. He couldn’t. He’d never had to explain what had happened…everyone in his life either already knew and had been forbidden from speaking of it or absolutely could never know. Tommy seemed to understand, busying himself with gathering up the blankets and sheets he had bled on and tossing them in the corner of the room. He grabbed a threadbare, but surprisingly clean, towel from the bathroom and tore a neat strip off of it and took Evan’s wrist back in his hands, efficiently wrapping the makeshift bandage around the still slowly bleeding wounds.

He did not appear to be even a little tempted by the sight of the fresh blood, and Evan wondered how fucked up it made him that he was actually touched.

“We’ll hit up a drugstore or something as soon as the sun sets…get an actual first aid kit.” He plucked at the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing with a grimace of distaste. “And something I can wear until we get back to the house.”

Evan blinked slowly, irritated with himself that it hadn’t occurred to him to take care of the shirt yet. At least as much as he could—try as he might, he’d never quite mastered the kind of charms it took to repair things. He chanted the cleaning spell, though, watching as the horrific bloodstains that told the story of how badly his vampire had been injured dissolved away, seeming to bleed back into the fabric in reverse, any remaining traces of it vanishing from his skin.

“Can’t do anything about the hole,” he mumbled, his voice sounding slow and exhausted even to his own ears.

Tommy had been running his hand over the clean—though still badly torn—shirt but looked up sharply when he spoke. “How do you feel?” he demanded urgently.

Evan couldn’t help but smile, despite the anxiety swirling in his gut. “Just tired,” he said. It was true. His limbs felt heavy, and he wanted badly to just stretch out on the bed and go to sleep for a little while. He didn’t feel weak or dizzy, though, and told Tommy as much when his vampire pressed him.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Tommy suggested, as though reading his mind. His stormy blue eyes raked over Evan’s body, a small furrow of concern etching itself on his brow. “We’ve still got an hour or two before sunset.” He sat down at the small table, his leg bouncing slightly as he watched Evan.

Evan could almost hear the questions racing through his vampire’s mind.

Tommy was clearly willing to put his curiosity on hold for Evan’s comfort, and for some reason that simple fact almost had tears rising in Evan’s eyes. He bit them back stubbornly, breathing through his nose until the sting subsided. He had not felt this cared for since the night he’d left Maddie standing in a parking lot near the border between Pennsylvania and Ohio.

The last five years had not been completely devoid of kindness for him. He’d had casual friends and acquaintances. There had even been a few lovers, though nothing that had ever progressed beyond infrequent hookups. He’d thought Jonah Greenway had cared about him, at least a little—though of course that had all been a spectacular lie. No one had looked at him like this since Maddie and Sally, though. Like he was something precious. Like he was something that deserved to be treated gently. Like he was worth caring about.

Like he was worth…loving?

He remembered the strange feelings that had swamped him when his magic latched onto Tommy as he was drinking from him. The way that for just a few heartbeats, he felt like he was seeing through Tommy’s eyes, feeling what Tommy felt. He wondered how much of the emotion that had washed through him was what his vampire was actually feeling…and how much of it was his own desperate desire.

“Could you…” He stopped, a lump rising in his throat and his cheeks heating.

“What do you need, Evan?” Tommy asked gently.

You, Evan thought and couldn’t bring himself to say. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “Would you, uh, sit with me for a minute?”

Damn it, he was not some touch-starved child in need of reassurance. He hadn’t needed someone to hold his hand until he fell asleep since he was six years old and had nightmares for a month after Maddie snuck a copy of The Wizard of Oz into the house so they could see at least one of the movies that their parents didn’t want them watching. But…he desperately wanted Tommy close. His magic ached for it, the phantom feel of his vampire’s calloused fingers stroking the skin of his wrist driving him crazy. He just needed Tommy beside him right now.

His vampire tilted his head, a strange look flickering over his face. Evan was afraid to let himself believe it looked like longing. “Of course,” Tommy said, as though there was nothing he’d rather do than indulge even the smallest of Evan’s whims. Evan couldn’t help the sigh of relief as Tommy stood up and slid onto the bed next to him, maneuvering himself so that he was sitting up against the headboard the same way Evan was.

It was only a double—nowhere near big enough for two men of their height and bulk to lay comfortably separate. The mattress sagged even further under their combined weight, and their bodies slid naturally closer to each other. Out of the corner of his eye, Evan saw Tommy lick his lips, and then his vampire hesitantly raised one arm, reaching slowly towards Evan, giving him time to shake his head or shy away from him. Instead, Evan sighed in quiet relief as Tommy’s heavy arm draped over his shoulders, pulling him even closer. Some tension he hadn’t even been aware of seeped out of his body, his magic settling in a way it hadn’t in years. For a single, mad moment, all he wanted to do was turn and bury his face in the juncture of his vampire’s neck, let Tommy hold him until the rest of the world faded away.

“I don’t know what that was, or how you saw it,” he said, unaware that he was going to start talking until the words were already out. “I’ve never, uh, I mean…I’ve had that dream, or memory or whatever before but no one’s ever, uh, no one’s ever shared it with me. Is it—was it you? Does that happen when you drink from people?”

He could sense Tommy turning to look at him, could feel the weight of his vampire’s gaze on the side of his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from a patch of mildew on the cheap wallpaper above the old TV mounted on the wall. “Something like that can happen,” Tommy said carefully. “When we’re thralling someone. But it’s usually just flashes. Pieces. Never that clear or that solid. It…I saw something when I drank from you at Gerrard’s party. Not the—not that. I think I saw the day you were banished.”

A dull pulse of surprise shot through Evan at the admission. Then that meant…

“You already knew who I was before Grant and her coven came to your house?” he asked, stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He felt Tommy stiffen beside him, felt his arm start to lift, ready to let Evan get up and away from him if he wanted to…but Evan found he didn’t want to. He was curious, not angry. After a moment, Tommy seemed to realize that as well, and he slowly relaxed.

“I mean…I think it’s obvious why I didn’t say anything at first,” he said, a wisp of wry humor creeping into his words. “You did try to fry my ass at least a couple times when we first met.” Despite himself, Evan let out a snort of laughter, and he felt his vampire relax further. “After that—it was your secret. Your business. I didn’t want you to tell me unless you wanted to.” He sighed softly. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said significantly. He sounded like he meant it.

Evan knew he meant it.

“Daniel was my brother,” he said quietly, the familiar ache he felt whenever he thought of his older brother pulsing beneath his ribs. “He got sick when he was seven or eight, I think. Leukemia. And there are, I mean, there are healing spells and rituals, but bodies are…complicated. Witches aren’t gods, you know?”

“The spells didn’t work?” Tommy asked. Evan shook his head, biting down hard on his lip.

“My, my parents took him to doctors too, of course. But nothing worked. Not medicine, not magic. He just kept getting sicker and sicker. Eventually, there was nothing the doctors or the coven could do.”

“So, what I saw when you let me drink from you. That was a…”

“Memory,” Evan whispered. He finally turned to look at his vampire, in time to see him reel back a little in confusion.

“You were a baby,” he said. “How could you—”

“It wasn’t my memory.” He started twisting the hem of his borrowed sweatshirt in his hands, barely resisting the urge to reach over and grab Tommy’s free hand instead. “There’s a ritual. It’s left over from ancient times…back when it was a lot more dangerous to be a witch. When…when losing a powerful coven member, if, if they were sick, or hurt, or whatever—it could mean life or death for the whole coven. It lets you transfer someone’s magic to another member of their coven. To, to make them stronger, and give healing magic a better chance of working.”

Tommy’s face went carefully blank, but the faintest sheen of red shimmered in his eyes. “I’ve never heard of anything like that,” he said. “In almost a thousand years, I’ve never heard of witches being able to do something like that.”

Evan looked away again, taking a shaky breath. “It’s a forbidden ritual. The magic can only come from someone who hasn’t started formal training. It can’t be…settled, I guess? So, the witch has to be young. Too young to have a familiar, at least, but, uh, the younger the better. Apparently the spell works best with, with a baby.”

Tommy’s arm tightened around him, and when he glanced over, the red in his eyes had grown brighter. “What happens to them?” he asked, his voice deadly quiet. He sounded like he already knew the answer, but wanted Evan to confirm it.

He shrugged. “Officially? They just lose their magic, and never get to be full members of the coven.”

“What about unofficially?”

Evan’s lips twisted into a bitter, humorless smile. “Unofficially, the Venn diagram between covens who had someone ‘miraculously’ recover from something and covens who had a family lose a baby to SIDS or something would be a circle.”

Tommy let out a sharp hiss, his eyes flashing fully red for a moment before he forced it away. His grip on Evan stayed tight, though, even pulling him closer to Tommy’s side. “And your parents performed that ritual,” he growled.

Evan nodded, a barely perceptible jerk of his head. “You saw,” he said. “They were trying to save Daniel.”

“Don’t talk like—” Tommy started, but then broke off, shaking his head. “How did you…your brother did something to the spell, right?”

“He refused it,” Evan said quietly. “Refused to take my magic, so the spell turned on him instead. I was…I was only a few months old, I couldn’t…there was nothing I could do.”

“Evan,” Tommy said. Something faintly horrified in his voice. “You were children.”

Evan shrugged, one shoulder. Logically he knew it was ludicrous to think he could’ve done something when he’d barely started to sit up on his own. Logically, he knew that nothing that had happened was his fault. Both Maddie and Sally had tried over and over to get him to believe that with both his heart and his head. Some days he could do it better than others…but he didn’t think he’d ever quite gotten there entirely. After all…

“He died for me. When he refused the spell and let it reverse—he knew it would kill him.”

Tommy didn’t speak for several long moments, and only the fact that he hadn’t let go of Evan, was still holding him as close to his side as possible, kept Evan from spiraling into the fear that Tommy would see it the way his parents had—that his vampire would look at him and see only a parasite, vicious, murdering leech. “It—that felt like I was watching it from the outside,” Tommy said finally, his voice coming slow and deliberate, as though he was thinking through his words carefully. “But it was also like I was living it.”

Evan shrugged again, frowning. “That’s how it always feels. Almost like it’s some kind of divination magic? I don’t know—I’ve never been very good at divination. Or maybe it’s a side effect of me taking his, his magic. But it’s his memory. It’s…it’s the only memory of him I have.”

The only way his older brother had been real to him and not just a figure in faded pictures that his parents hid in the attic. The memory of the night he died and the magic that he’d given up to save Evan were the only parts of his older brother he had left. His parents and coven had done their very best to erase every memory of Daniel’s existence…but they could never pluck out the visions from Evan’s head. It was both a blessing and curse. The memory was the absolute worst moment of his brother’s life—Daniel had been hurting and terrified. Terrified for Evan, terrified for himself, terrified because his parents had betrayed him in the worst way possible. But it was also indelible, tangible proof that his brother had loved him.

“That’s why your magic is so strange. Why the banishment didn’t affect you the way Howie and Grant thought it should,” Tommy said, again not sounding like he really needed Evan to confirm anything. Evan nodded anyway.

“Not to, uh, brag or anything, but our coven is really strong. Buckley witches are always powerful, anyway, and I—”

“You have twice as much magic as any other Buckley witch,” Tommy finished for him.

“Even if I’d been guilty, it would have taken years for my magic to fade. Being innocent? And having so much power to start with? It’s only just started to fade in the last couple of years. Not having a coven bond is what actually holds me back.”

“God, Evan,” Tommy said, staring out over the room with an angry, bewildered frown. “And the rest of your coven just…went along with this?”

“Most of them don’t know. They think my parents took all three of us on a family trip when the doctors started talking about hospice for Daniel. You know, so they could ‘make memories’ and be together. They think Daniel died while we were all on the trip. My parents kept their familiars from talking about it. Our coven leaders swept it under the rug. Gotta protect the reputation, you know?” He laughed softly, and there was no more warmth to it than his smile.

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a coven like that,” Tommy said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Evan went quiet, daring to lean a little harder against his vampire, and closing his eyes when Tommy just pulled him impossibly closer, tucking Evan against his side like he never wanted to let him go. Evan was startled by how intensely he wanted that to be true. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had wanted to just sit and hold him like this, and he was seized with the need to soak the comfort of his vampire’s touch up for as long as Tommy would let him.

“I hated it,” he whispered, the words spilling from his lips before he could think better of it. “I felt like a ghost in my house. If it hadn’t been for Maddie and Sally—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I used to wish Daniel had just let the spell take me, sometimes.”

Not often.

And never for very long.

He’d had Maddie and Sally. His sister and his familiar had loved him with all their hearts, and between the two of them he’d never truly been alone until the day he was banished. Sometimes, though…when his parents seemed to look right through him instead of at him; when coven members treated him like he was something to be avoided, something that might taint them if they got too close (whether it was because they knew the actual story or simply because they saw others treating him that way)…sometimes he’d wondered if his brother’s sacrifice had been worth it.

He heard Tommy inhale sharply, and then his vampire’s arm shifted around him. Tommy turned his body slightly onto his side, drawing Evan into the same position as easily as if Evan weighed nothing. “Don’t say that,” he said fervently, reaching up with his free hand to cup Evan’s face. The touch of his rough palm against Evan’s cheek was almost electric; Evan swore he could feel sparks where the vampire’s cool skin brushed against his. “Please don’t say that.”

“Tommy,” he started, but was unsure of what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry for what they did to you. To both of you. But it wasn’t your fault…and I’m so glad you’re still here. Fuck, Evan—you have no idea how glad I am you’re still here.”

Evan’s heart skipped in his chest, his magic sparking through him like fire in his blood. He leaned forward, helpless to resist the pull he felt towards this man, resting his forehead against Tommy’s with a shaky sigh. He reached up and covered the hand resting on his cheek with his just breathing as his magic rushed through him, pulling him, guiding him, calling him ever, ever closer to his vampire.

He didn’t mean to kiss him.

It wasn’t a conscious decision on his part. Not something he thought out or considered or weighed and measured before he did it.

He just did it.

He pressed his lips to Tommy’s, and had only a fraction of a heartbeat to fear, to think he might have made the worst mistake of his life, before Tommy groaned low in his throat, shifted his touch on Evan’s cheek to grip his jaw, and kissed him back. Softly, at first, almost reverently, until Evan ran the tip of his tongue over the seam of his lips and then he surged against Evan like a starving man offered a seat at a feast. Evan tilted his head to a better angle, fisted his hand in the torn remains of Tommy’s shirt, and licked into his vampire’s mouth with just as much fervor.

He felt Tommy’s arm slip down around his waist and was ready when Tommy slid down backward onto the mattress, stretching out and drawing Evan on top of him. Evan pulled back for a heartbeat to take a breath, and then kissed him again. Again, and again, and again, and it had never felt like this with any of the girls and boys he’d kissed growing up. Never felt like this with and of the random hookups or one night stands he’d had over the years. Kissing Tommy felt like finding a part of himself he’d been missing his whole life. Kissing Tommy felt like coming home.

They only pulled apart when Evan’s lungs started screaming at him, and he sat back, straddling Tommy’s hips as he stared down at his vampire, want and desire and need rushing through him like a forest fire. Tommy’s eyes were sheened with red, and he ran his hands roughly up the sides of Evan’s thighs.

“Are you sure?” Tommy asked, sounding almost as breathless as Evan felt, which had to be some kind of feat for a vampire. Or maybe just proof that he was affecting Tommy as much as Tommy was affecting him.

He grinned down at his vampire, sliding his hands up under his torn shirt and spreading his palms against the hard muscle of Tommy’s stomach. “Are you?” he countered, and Tommy’s answering laugh sounded like pure delight.

“God, Evan,” his vampire groaned, his hands sliding up to curl possessively over Evan’s hips.

Evan shoved Tommy’s shirt up further, his fingers catching on the rough skin of a raised scar, high on the side of Tommy’s chest. He bent low, needing to taste, wanting to kiss and suck and bite until Tommy was just as dizzy with want as he was. He feasted his eyes on Tommy’s firm, broad chest, his eyes skating over the scar he’d felt as he…

Evan froze.

It was a cluster of faded red marks, the shape vaguely circular…almost like some kind of flower painted onto Tommy’s chest. He stared at it, all of his desire, his arousal, his desperate, breathless need draining away until he was absolutely ice cold.

“Evan?” Tommy asked, sensing the change in Evan’s mood and motions immediately.

“No,” Evan breathed out, a tremor running through his hands where they rested over the ridges of the scar. “No, nonono…oh God. Oh my God!” He scrambled backwards, almost throwing himself off of Tommy, scrabbling to the end of the bed as Tommy sat bolt upright, frantically calling his name.

“Sorry,” Evan gasped, almost hyperventilating, his eyes riveted on the scar, unable to look away. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry!”

[gojodickbig]

To Be Loved Is To Be Seen. | Gojo Satoru x f!Reader.

warnings: self-doubt, mutual pinning, mental health struggles, emotional hurt/comfort.

A/N: hehe i know i said that i don't write but this is a little thing i wrote yesterday, (first time posting something that’s not a smau, so bear with me!) this is for my avoidant attachment cuties who have so much love to offer but that are also always scared of ruining things with the person they love and think they’re not enough. i feel you—i struggle with this too. but remember, you’re always enough and deserve love so don't push it away. i wrote this while crying (lol) because i found myself in a similar situation with my actual boyfriend when we first started "dating". hope you enjoy reading, let me know what you think!

also likes and reblogs are appreciated! :)

word count: 2320.

“No,” you say, stepping back and resting your hands on the kitchen counter. “Stop that. You don’t mean what you’re saying right now.”

“You’re wrong,” Gojo says, stepping closer to you. “I mean every word.” He raises a hand, reaching out to touch you. “Please, look at me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, avoiding his touch. “You should go.”

“I love you.”

“You don’t.”

He falters, and for a moment, the silence between you and him feels like a heavy weight. His gaze never leaves yours, though you can’t bring yourself to meet it.

“I do,” he insists, his voice low but unwavering. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

“I’m a mess,” you choke out, your voice trembling as you turn away, desperate to hide the tears that threaten to fall. “I don’t deserve your love. I’m broken.”

“You deserve better.” Your voice cracks. “Someone who isn’t afraid of loving you.”

The silence stretches as Gojo watches you, the pain in his eyes mirroring yours. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, as if he’s struggling to hold himself together. He takes in the way your shoulders hunch, the way your hands grip the counter behind you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. The tension is palpable, each second stretching out, heavy with unspoken fears.

“Stop,” he interrupts, his voice hoarse, filled with raw emotion that makes your heart stutter. “You’re all I deserve—and more than I ever thought I could have. Don’t you see? It’s always been you.”

He steps forward, ignoring the space you tried to put between you and him, until there’s only a breath between you. “None of that matters to me. I see you, all of you. And I love you. Every part of you, even the parts you think are too much to bear.”

“You don’t understand.” Your voice cracks, a sob catching in your throat. “I can’t… I can’t let you in. You’ll get hurt, and I can’t let that happen.”

“Then let me decide,” he says softly, his voice full of tenderness. “Let me be the one to choose.”

You shake your head, wiping your eyes, not wanting him to see how vulnerable you feel. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I don’t know how to love anyone… I don’t even know how to love myself.”

He steps even closer, his voice a soft but firm whisper. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for you. All of you, as you are. Because you are enough for me.”

You back away, the ache in your chest intensifying, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are full of something you can’t name, something that pulls at the deepest parts of you, something that terrifies you. “I can’t… I can’t let you do this.”

“Why?” Gojo’s question is quiet, almost a plea. “Why can’t you believe me? Why can’t you see that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere?”

The words catch in your throat. The wall you’ve spent so long building starts to crack, but you can’t let it fall. Not now. Not like this.

“Because I’m afraid,” you finally whisper, your voice barely audible. “Afraid that if I let you in, you’ll leave when you realize how much of a disaster I really am.”

He takes another step forward, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer, some sign that you’ll let him in. “I’m not going anywhere,” Gojo says, his voice steady. “I’m staying.”

Your breath hitches, and for the first time, you let yourself meet his gaze, really meet it. His eyes are open, raw, like he’s offering you every part of himself. The tenderness in his expression is almost too much to bear.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” you say, shaking your head, but your voice is quieter now, softer.

“I know.” He murmurs, his hand hovering just inches from you, like he’s waiting for you to make the choice. “But I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of your pain. I’ll take all of it if it means I get to love you.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you try to wipe it away quickly, but he reaches out and gently catches your wrist. “Let me love you. Let me stay.”

The words hang in the air between you—heavy and final. For a moment, the room feels like it’s shrinking, the tension pulling at your chest, at your heart. You want to believe him, want to let yourself fall into the safety he’s offering. But the fear, the doubt—it feels like a weight too great to lift.

“I’m not… I’m not ready,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the truth. “I’m not ready to let anyone in. Not like this.” You look at him, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Gojo, you should go.”

He lowers his hand but doesn’t pull away. He steps closer, closing the distance until you’re standing so close you can feel the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breath. “You don’t have to be ready,” he says softly, his voice low and insistent. “Not right now. Don’t send me away. Just let me stay.”

You don’t know how to respond, don’t know what to do with the storm of emotions crashing inside you. But in that moment, you feel something shift. Maybe you can’t let him in completely—not yet. But maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to push him away completely either.

“I’m too much for you,” you whisper, almost as if saying it out loud makes it more real. “I can’t fix myself. No one can… not even you.”

Gojo takes another step forward, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch is warm, grounding. “You don’t need to fix yourself. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to be anything but you. And I’m not going anywhere, no matter how many times you tell me to.”

A shudder runs through your body as the tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over. You close your eyes, trying to hide the vulnerability from him, but he doesn’t let you. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you, holding you with a tenderness that feels like home.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice muffled against his chest. “I’m so scared that if I let you in, I’ll destroy everything.”

“You’re not going to destroy anything,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “You’re not going to destroy me, and even if you do, I wouldn’t mind being hurt by you if that means I could actually be with you, to love you. I’m choosing to stay, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”

Gojo pulls back just slightly, his thumb gently wiping the tears from your face. His gaze softens, full of affection. “I wish you could have my eyes for just a moment, to see how perfect and incredible you are. You’re an amazing woman. Don’t you see that?” he says quietly, his voice filled with warmth.

"I’m not perfect,” you say, your voice cracking again as more tears fall.

He lifts your chin with his finger, making you meet his gaze. “I don’t want you to be perfect. I never did. I just want you—exactly as you are. All the imperfections and scars, they’re part of what makes you who you are. And that’s more than enough for me.”

You inhale shakily, the weight of his words settling into your chest. “But what if I can’t love you the way you deserve?”

Gojo’s hand cups your cheek now, his touch gentle and sure. “You don’t have to love me perfectly. You just have to try. We’ll figure it out together, one step at a time. But you don’t have to be afraid to love me, or to let me love you.”

You let out a broken laugh, wiping your eyes. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

“Then let me help you,” Gojo says, his voice soft, yet strong. “I’ll be right here, through the fear, the pain, and everything in between. Like i said, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying. Always."

His words wrap around you like a blanket, offering warmth you didn’t think you could feel again. Maybe you’re not ready to let go of all your walls, but maybe, just maybe, you don’t need to be. Because with him here, you’re starting to think that it’s okay to take that first step toward trusting someone with your heart.

And as you stand in his arms, the fear doesn’t go away—but it starts to feel like something you can face, as long as he’s by your side.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe him. Hope stirs in your chest, fragile but present. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to do this alone.

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[bcbdrums]

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[itsallyscorner]

At Fault | MV1

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max invites his ex to a gp and upsets you. Soft and stubborn Max, but he’s a cutie. A mix between angst and fluff, but mostly fluff towards the end. Lots of reader just ranting. Plus a little cameo from the Ferrari WAGs <3.

warnings: Does Kelly count as a warning? Kinda of toxic, I’m not really sure? But who actually likes seeing their boyfriend’s ex girlfriend??

author’s note: Italics are flashbacks! This turned out longer than expected, but I hope you guys like it! It’s also been a while since I’ve written fics, so it there are any errors pls ignore them😭

The tension in the car was thick. So thick, Max believed he could cut it with a knife.

Your arms were crossed as you stared out the window while Max glanced at you wearily every other second. Thankfully, there were only three of you in the car. You and Max in the backseat, and the driver in front being separated by a divider. Though, Max was sure the driver was able to hear the current disagreement between you and him.

Max fidgeted with the lanyard of his paddock pass and stared at the side of your face. He knew he had upset you and honestly you had every right to be. You were biting the inside of your cheek in frustration trying to keep your emotions at bay. As much as you wanted to argue with Max about how you disagreed with his actions, he was due to race in a couple of hours and you didn’t want to add any more stress on his shoulders.

But Max wanted to talk about this now while you were both alone.

“Schatje, are you really mad?” Max asked quietly, leaning closer to you and trying to get you to face him. He truly didn’t mean to dampen your mood before the race. Most importantly, he didn’t like that he was the reason for you being upset. Your brows furrowed ever so slightly and a faint pout was on your lips, both indications that you were in fact not happy with him.

“Yes, Max, I am mad.” You answered, your voice trembling a bit. You had finally turned away from the window and were looking at him. Max felt a pang of guilt in his heart once he saw the look in your eyes. They weren’t glaring at him with the heat of anger, but they were soft and glossy, you were hurt—he hurt you.

Max cautiously reached out for your hand and tangled your fingers together, though your hand felt limp, like you didn’t want to hold his hand at all.

“I told you the truth.” Max said, leaning his head down trying to catch your eyes again. You took in a deep breath before turning to fully face him.

“Yes Max, you did and I absolutely appreciate it. I really do.” You began, grasping his hand between yours. “But that doesn’t make up for that fact that you’ve had this planned out for nearly a month and only told me thirty minutes ago!” You argued.

Thirty minutes ago, before your ride to the paddock can pick you guys up, Max had revealed that his ex-girlfriend, Kelly, and her daughter would be at the garage to watch the race. When you asked how they got passes to the garage, he shared that he had flown them out and provided them with passes for the weekend.

“So she’s been here all weekend?” You questioned him, arms crossed and a brow raised at him. The Italian heat felt even ten times worse as you grew frustrated with your boyfriend.

“Yeah, but they were at the Paddock Club, they’re going to watch the race from the garage though.” Max shrugged, as if it were not a big deal. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and grasped your hand in his free one.

You couldn’t help the feeling of insecurity seeping into your bones. Kelly was rich and gorgeous, she was a model, and you weren’t. You had a normal job that offered you stability, paid you good money, and you knew how to clean up nice. However, you were no where near her level of anything or any of the other WAGs at that.

“You’ve known this whole time that she was here?” You asked quietly, your brows furrowed at him. You hated that you kept asking him questions, it was like you were interrogating him.

Max looked down at you, confusion etched on his face, “I did, schatje. I flew them out and got them some paddock passes.” You acted before you could speak, and shook your head at him, rolling your eyes in annoyance. Your boyfriend was one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met, however, many people took that as a sign to take advantage of him. While it took him longer to realize it, you noticed it instantly.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset though, I told you the truth, it’s not like I’m doing anything with her.” Max defended himself, his hands wildly moving around. “She reached out telling me that P missed me and wanted to come to a race, it’s not for her, it’s for Penelope.”

“I understand that Max and as harsh as this sounds, Penelope isn’t your responsibility. I get that you helped raise her, but you guys broke up, you don’t need to provide for her anymore.” You threw a hand in the air, emphasizing your point. “Kelly’s fully capable of flying herself out and buying tickets to a race weekend.”

“I was just being nice.” Max raised his voice, also growing frustrated with the situation.

“And she’s still using you!” You fumed, tears welled in the corner of your eyes. “How many times does she have to use you for you to realize it? You guys broke up and she still manages to get what she wants out of you! Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk in and see her there?” You tried to reason with him. While many of his fans didn’t approve of Kelly, you knew Twitter would have a field day clowning you when they find out Kelly was present in the garage. Social media was never always a nice place and you’ve learned to ignore it, but that didn’t mean it stopped the hate from happening.

Max ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath, you scoffed and leaned back into your seat, staring at the window again.

“Do you not trust me?” Max asked forcibly, staring at the side of your head again. You let out a defeated sigh and turn your head to look at him, “I do trust you, Max.”

Max’s shoulders slouched as he leaned on the seat sideways, his body fully turned to you.

“Then why do you not trust me with this?” He pushed, nudging your knee with his, trying to get an answer out of you. He knew he was at fault and he just wanted to make it right.

“I don’t trust her.” You simply answered, feeling done with the conversation. The car turned, nearing the entrance of the paddock. You sniffled as you untucked your hair from behind your ears, removing your sunglasses from the top of your head.

“You don’t have to worry about her, schatje. I want you not her, there’s a reason why we broke up.” Max reassured, trying to ease the tension between the two of you.

The car came to a halt, a knock came from the driver, indicating that you guys arrived at the paddock. Before you could leave, you turned to Max and said, “Yet, she’s still here.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Entering the paddock was always a frenzy. The moment you stepped out the car, fans were quick to recognize you, knowing that one of their favorite drivers were right behind you. You slid your sunglasses on and smoothed out the white maxi dress you wore. Max followed in suit and flashed a smile at the fans.

Shouldering his bag, he held his hand out to you, “I know you’re upset, but can I please hold your hand?”

You nodded and entangled your fingers with his. The two of you began your walk into the paddock hand in hand, as fans screamed and waved at Max. He gave your hand a squeeze before guiding you guys to some of the barricades and signing a few things for the fans.

After you guys scanned your passes, Max led you guys to the Red Bull garage. However, you came to a halt. Max was quick to look back at you, “You okay?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna meet up with Alex and Rebecca, if that’s okay? We were planning on seeing each other before the race.” You tell him. A small pout formed on Max’s lips, “Oh, okay, I’ll drop you off.” He offered, still holding your hand.

You and the girls decided to meet up at the Paddock Club. In front of the entrance, Max stood in front of you.

“You’ll come to the garage to watch, right? I need you there.” He asked quietly, so that people passing by cannot hear your conversation.

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be there before you’re in the car.”

Max mirrored your actions, “Okay, I love you.” He pulled you in by the waist and pressed a kiss onto your forehead. You squeezed his waist in response, “I love you too.”

Max watched as you entered the building, huffing to himself, while he watched you walk further and further into the building.

Placing your sunglasses above your head, you scan the room until you see one of the girls, Alex was the first to spot you, standing in her spot and waving at you to come over.

“Coucou mon amour!” She greeted you, (Hello, my love!) immediately wrapping you in a hug. You squeal as she squeezed you, “Helloo!” You giggled. You go to greet Rebecca, who is immediately giving you a knowing look. Being the older one amongst the three of you, she was often looked up to as the older sister.

She wrapped an arm around you and smoothed your back, “What’s wrong?” She asked while you got situated in the chair beside her.

You shook your head, “It’s just Max.”

Rebecca grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table and poured some into a flute glass. She offered you the glass, “Thank you, I needed this.”

She smiled watching you take a long sip from the glass, “Oh honey, I know.”

Alex pouted and nudged your foot with hers, “What happened with Max?”

“He invited Kelly to watch the race at the garage today.” You bluntly shared, slumping yourself in your chair.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, “Shut up.”

You raised a brow at her, “Oh, I didn’t even get to the kicker yet.”

Alex’s brows raised, “Which is?”

“He flew her out—he fucking flew her out and gave her tickets for the entire weekend.” You revealed through gritted teeth, still being aware of your surroundings. Rebecca cursed under her breath as Alex took your glass and refilled it with champagne.

Grabbing the glass, you continued, “She’s literally been here all weekend and he only told me this morning. I just don’t get it, they broke up, I don’t know why he’s still so concerned about her.” You took another long sip of champagne,

“What was the reason why?” Rebecca asked you.

“Apparently Penelope missed him—which I can believe, but did he really have to do all the providing when she can financially support herself? I get that he was trying to be nice, but still.” You grunt, fiddling with your glass.

Alex comfortingly rubbed your arm, “No, I get it, if Charles did the same thing with his ex, I’d also be upset.”

“I literally told him that she’s using him once again.” You threw your hands up. “If he wants her to be there so much, he might as well just get back with her. Like—am I crazy for losing my mind at the fact they were in contact with each other, even if it wasn’t in a romantic sense?”

Rebecca shook her head, “No, your feelings are absolutely valid. You’re just concerned and it obviously caught you off guard. He shouldn’t have been texting his ex in the first place.”

You groaned and held your head in your hands, “I hate feeling like this, it makes me question if he actually wants to be with me or not.”

Rebecca held her finger up, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Placing her hand on your shoulder she says, “Max might be acting very stupid right now, but one thing I know for sure is that Max loves you and absolutely adores you. Without a doubt.”

Alex nodded, agreeing with Rebecca, “Like have you seen the way he looks at you? He literally worships the ground you walk on. I’m sure he’s beating himself up right now for doing what he did.”

“He loves you, (y/n), everyone who’s seen you guys together knows it. I don’t think he’d put himself in this kind of position on purpose, you’ve got that man wrapped around your finger, babe.” Rebecca reassured you, throwing her arm around your shoulder and pulling you into another hug.

“Come on cheer up, who cares if she’s in the garage today? You’re the one he’s gonna be going home with tonight.” You laughed shaking your head at her teasing.

“Hey! Tonight and every single night!” Alex pointed out raising her glass at you.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Two hours. It’s been two hours since Max has dropped you off at the Paddock Club and he still hasn’t heard back from you. He’s been distracted all day. During a meeting with Christian and some of the engineers, he couldn’t help but constantly check for a text from you, earning himself a scolding from the team principal. Checo and a couple of people from the team tried talking to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes wandered wondering when you would enter the garage.

He did in fact see Kelly and P—obviously he was expecting to see them since he invited them, but all he felt while talking to them was guilt. Guilty because he remembered the look of hurt and betrayal in your eyes and how he was the reason behind it. He hated it, he felt grimy, and dirty for going behind your back and texting Kelly. Not even ten minutes into catching up with the mother and daughter, Max realized that you were in fact correct. Kelly had used him again, instantly making advances on him despite knowing he was happily taken. But for the sake of P, Max made sure to be friendly though kept his distance to not feed into her mother’s schemes.

It was nearing lights out and you were still not in the garage. He had gone through his warm ups with Bradley, had his fireproofs and suit on, and even laced up his shoes. Still, no sight of you whatsoever in the garage. He was beginning to worry about you, sending you a couple of messages to your phone.

The car was due to be on the grid and there was about half an hour left till lights out. Max looked around the bustling garage, checking to see if you had snuck in without him seeing, though to no avail, you still weren’t there.

“Max…Max…Max?” GP tried to get Max’s attention. Snapping a finger in front of the driver’s face, Max’s eyes flickered over to his race engineer.

“What do you want now?” Max groaned, throwing his head back. To onlookers, it looked like a typical interaction between Max and GP. Though, GP felt like he was babysitting a child whose attention span couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds.

“Mate, I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.” GP claimed. Choosing to ignore the information he had just “briefed” Max on, he decided to be a friend.

“Where’s your head at?” GP asked Max. The Dutch man sighed, leaning against one of the storage units in the garage.

“I messed up with (y/n). I did something and it was my fault, I know it was. But she’s not happy with me at the moment and I just want to make it right.” Max summarized, not sharing any more details to protect the privacy of your relationship.

GP motioned towards Kelly who was talking to one of the other influencers in the garage, “Does it have to deal with that?”

“Unfortunately.” Max mumbled, crossing his arms and choosing to stare at the floor.

GP took a minute to stare at his driver. Max was deflated, he wasn’t as hyped for the race or over explaining some random fact about god knows what. Instead, Max kept to himself, greeting people when he had to and communicating with his team prior to the race. Other than that, Max chose to stare at his phone and look longingly outside the garage.

“Listen, I don’t know what exactly went down. But I’ve seen you with (y/n) and she clearly makes you happy, we’ve all see how lively you are with her around. You’ve got a lot of groveling to do bud, but it’ll be worth it.” GP advised, clapping Max on the back to wake him up.

“She’ll always be worth it.” Max quietly said, taking another glimpse at his phone. Only to be met with his wallpaper of you and him, with no notifications.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Christian Horner stared at his monitor at the pit wall watching as drivers and their teams gathered on the grid. He saw Checo by his car, taking a few sips of water before the race. When the camera panned to Max’s Red Bull, the driver was no where to be seen. Sparing him a second of wondering where his driver was, the camera cut to the garage where Max stood, race suit at his waist, looking no where near ready to participate in the race.

“Why is Max not in the car?” He turned to GP, stress evident on his face. GP turned in his seat and looked back into the garage to see Max pacing. Cursing under his breath, he excused himself from Christian and rushed to Max.

“Max, the race is literally about to start!”

Max stops his pacing and places his hands at his hips, “I need my girlfriend.”

“What?” Bradley and GP both stuttered out. Max deadpanned at the two men in front of him.

“(Y/n), I need to see her before the race.” Max demanded. Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, “Max, she’ll be here after the race, you’ll be fine.” He pushed the balaclava towards Max’s chest, who simply let the mask fall at his feet.

GP sighed at Max, before calling one of the Red Bull employees.

“Please send out a search for (y/n), Max is refusing to get in the car.” He whispered to the intern. The girl looked at him confusingly but nodded and set out the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You rushed as best as you could in kitten heels towards the Red Bull garage. You were supposed to be at the garage at least half an hour ago. You and the girls got caught up catching up with each other’s lives that none of you realized it was getting close to lights out. It truly was a funny sight, the three of you rushing out of the Paddock Club and running through the paddock like a bunch of maniacs.

“(Y/n)!” You heard someone yell. You stopped in your steps and looked around, only to see a girl dressed in Red Bull uniform. You recognized her, you believed her name was Nicole and was an intern for the team this season.

“Hey! Is Max on the grid already?” You approached her, a little sad that you missed seeing him before the race.

“No, he’s actually waiting for you. They’re sending out a search for you because he’s refusing to get in the car.” Nicole explained, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you through the crowd of fans and towards the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

GP released a sigh of relief once he saw you enter the garage. He shoved Max’s shoulder to avert his attention to you.

“What—oh,” Max began, only to stop himself and rush towards you. You met him half way, placing a hand on his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to stay there for too long.” You quickly apologized. Max shook his head, “I don’t care, I’m just happy you’re here.”

Your brows furrowed at him, “Why are you here? Why aren’t you in the car yet?”

Max placed both his hands on your waist with a faint blush on his cheeks, “I need my goodluck kiss.”

You paused your actions, “You’re kidding me. Max, the race is about to start in five minutes!” You scolded your boyfriend.

“Please, schatje.” He pleaded, leaning closer towards you. Other team members and guests watched the both of you, the scene in front of them peaking their interests.

You gazed up at his stormy eyes, giving in because you knew he was stubborn and wouldn’t stop until he got his way. Plus, the team would hate you if you lowered their chances of scoring points this weekend.

“Just because I kiss you doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you anymore.” You clarified quietly. His forehead nodded against yours, “I know schatje. I promise to make it up to you, I really do.”

A small smile forms on your lips, “I know, Maxie.”

Max takes that as his sign to crash his lips onto yours. One of his hands support the back of your neck while the other rests on your lower back. You smile against his lips, pulling back and placing a peck right above the small mole on his upper lip.

“I love you.” You whispered to him.

“I love you too.” He whispered back. Before you can fully pull away from him he quickly adds, “I’m serious about my promise.”

“I know, baby.” You squeeze him comfortingly. “Now get out there and win the race. Stay safe.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead as both you and GP ushered him towards his gear that’s been waiting to be put on.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

A man of his word, Max won the race. With at least a five second gap between him and Lando, your boy was top step yet once again. As much as he won, the thrill of seeing him win and crossing the finish line never got old. You celebrated every win of his as if it were his first. You’d always be proud of him, whether he got pole or not.

Many of the engineers and members of the team began to rush towards the grid, eager to greet Max once he got out the car.

Looking around, you suddenly make eye contact with Kelly, who seemed to have been sizing you up. You weren’t really sure what look was on her face, but the hints of a snarl were on her lips. With her nose stuck up in the air, you watched as she carried her daughter and began to follow the rest of the team.

“Don’t mind her. You’re the one he wants to see when he gets out that car.” A voice said from beside you. You jumped, coming face to face with Christian. Your eyes widened at your boyfriend’s boss. Prior to the race, he was informed of the search party the entire team had for you to get Max in the car. While he was annoyed earlier, he thought it was rather cute that Max was so fond of you.

“You know, he’s never begged her for a good luck kiss.” Said Christian, a knowing look on his features. “You on the other hand—he can’t seem to function whenever you’re not around.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was gonna put that much of a fight earlier today.” You apologized, feeling a bit flustered. “He’s a bit stubborn sometimes.” You added, to which Christian chuckled at.

“Oh, I know. Max and I have worked together for years.” He stated. He glanced out the garage and motioned towards it, “C’mon now, I’m sure he’s already looking for you.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You make your way through the crowd of Red Bull members, many of them recognizing you and helping you squeeze through till you were at the very front of the barricade.

Max was already out, helmet in his hand, while his other embraced GP and a couple other engineers. You watched as he high-fived Penelope, barely sparing a glance at her mother. A little burst of pride went off in your stomach, you couldn’t help it.

His blue orbs scanned the crowd of red and blue, looking for you. You yell his name, his eyes immediately finding yours. A smile breaks out on his face as he rushed over to you, dropping his helmet in the process. Despite the barricade between you two, he wraps both his arms tightly around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Max!” You squealed, your arms wrapping around his neck. His large hand found your cheek, slightly pulling you away from his neck so he can connect his lips with yours. Naturally, your lips moulded perfectly against his moving in synch. The team erupted in cheers around you.

“I’m so proud of you!” You tell him once your lips separate.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” He grins, gently pinching your bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb.

He couldn’t stay long, being told that he had to get to the podium for the trophy ceremony.

“I’ll see you after the podium, schatje!” He yelled with a wink over his shoulder, causing a blush to form on your cheeks.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

The ceremony and the media tent took a while, you finally got to see Max an hour later. You were sitting in his driver’s room, when he bursted through the door already looking for you.

You stood up, smiling at him, “Hey.”

He mirrors your smile. Placing the trophy on the couch he opens his arms for you. You walk into the comfort of his hold, burying your head into the crook of his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso.

Finally it was just the two of you.

“I’m sorry.” You said, though it came out muffled against his skin. Max’s hands stopped the circular motions they were rubbing on your back.

“For what?”

You pulled back looking at him, “I overreacted about the whole Kelly thing. I should’ve taken your word for it.”

Max immediately shook his head, disagreeing with you. “No, you were absolutely right about her. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. The moment I said hi to them she was already trying to come onto me—I avoided her by the way, I just entertained P.”

“I’m also sorry for what I said about P. I was in the wrong for that comment.” You said, a small grimace on your face when you remembered the off hand comment you made about the poor child.

Max chuckled, “Schatje, seriously, it’s okay.”

His calloused hands were rough against the soft skin of your face. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and cradled your jaw in his hand.

“I may have a soft spot for P, but they’re in my past. You’re my future, (y/n). The future that I only want and see myself in.” Max admitted. Your eyes gleamed at him, “You’re the future I want too, Maxie.”

“Good because you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me.” He joked, squeezing your cheeks.

“I love you. So much. I know it seemed like I didn’t trust you today, but I want you to know that I do. I fully trust you with my life and I mean it.” You said, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Max nodded, “I believe you. I love you too.”

The two of you basked in the silence and comfort of being in each others arms. Max was the first one to break the silence, “You don’t have plans after this right?”

You hummed against his neck, “Besides celebrating your win, nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out on a date.” Max proudly announced, a goofy smile on his lips.

“Don’t you wanna celebrate with the team?” You asked him. Max shook his head, “Nope, the only person I want to celebrate with tonight is you.”

You giggled at Max’s antics, “Whatever you say, Champ.”

[charliemwrites]

Part 2 of Woof Woof Konig

Content: Animal Injury (Non-Descriptive)

The walk back to your home is slow. Johnny stays glued to the new pup’s side - as much as he can given how the other towers over him. Ghost pulls ahead to patrol the path, always circling back to press his nose to your hand.

The new dog is so big that his head nearly reaches yours. He keeps his chin down, though, almost ducked, eyes flicking shyly to you. His eyes are big, one sky blue and the other deep brown.

When you reach the house, you nearly have to push his big butt in the door as he hesitates on the porch. Ghost stands watch behind you while Johnny tip-taps on the other side, and you pat at flanks breathing like bellows.

Finally, he inches far enough inside that Ghost can squeeze in and you can close (and lock) the door. You take a deep breath once you do, feeling the last hour crashing over you.

“Jeez, bud,” you sigh, offering your hand to your newest charge. “What a day, huh?”

A quiet, almost shy “snarf”. You grin and scritch gently at his chin, then flick your eyes to the bloody cut over his eyebrow. You click your tongue sadly.

“Alright, baby. We gotta take care of that. Then you can be done for the day, okay?”

You should probably take him to the vet - big fuckoff sized dog with an injury. But you can’t imagine trying to bundle him into your reasonably sized car. Even getting Ghost in there is a struggle the two times you’ve had to do it.

So you leave the pup awkwardly standing, trembling, by the door and collect the dog first aid. You also grab the jar of dog-safe peanut butter. Even Ghost loves that shit.

When you come back, the dog seems to droop when he sees the kit in your hands.

“I know baby, it’ll be okay. I got something that’ll make it better.”

You approach slowly, carefully, watching for any signs of fear aggression. Issue is, there’s every chance he could snap without warning, but you’re praying he’s not one of those. Your boys would go ballistic.

Thankfully, he lets himself be bribed with globs of peanut butter while you clean up the cuts around his head. There’s a chip taken out of his ear that nearly brings you to tears. And the poor boy only whines every once in a while, pressing his face into your chest while you work as quickly and gently as you can. No aggression, no lashing out.

In the end, you press your face to his neck and scratch gently at his shoulders.

“No one is ever going to hurt you again, honey. Not here, not with me.” You press a gentle kiss to his muzzle. “I take care of everyone.”

You get him settled with some blankets and a fresh bowl of food while you check on your boys. Ghost leans into your side while you cry a bit, whispering that you love him and he’s been so good.

Johnny whines and licks the tears away (smelling a bit like peanut butter of course) when you turn to him, pressing his face up under your chin.

“Such good boys,” you sniffle. “Dunno what I’d do without you.”

They practically baby you for the rest of the evening. One with you, one with the new pup, who’s resting and warming up by the heater, bowl empty. They don’t even bark too much when you decide to order food and the delivery comes - perhaps sensing that you’re too drained for their overprotective antics.

When it’s time for bed, you cross over to your new boy and scratch at his hind leg.

“You wanna come to bed, sweetie? You don’t have to, but I don’t want you to be alone out here.”

He stares at you, mismatched eyes way too big. You make one last kissy noise at him and then head to your room, Ghost and Johnny following as usual. Just as you’re about to turn off the light, a big form lumbers into your doorway.

“Hi bud!” you call softly, patting the mattress. “You wanna try coming up?”

He seems to consider it, eyeing the bed and the space available between you and the other two dogs, before politely walking to the dog bed. It’s technically Ghost’s bed, though he only uses it when you’re getting ready to go out.

“You can sleep there, sweetie. I’m sure Ghostie boy doesn’t mind.”

You glance at him as if to confirm, but Ghost is predictably pretending that you’re not talking. Grumpy boy hardly ever responds once he’s tucked into bed.

You smile as the new dog carefully climbs onto the cushion.

“Alright, good night boys. I love you.” You pause, make eye contact with your new pup. “Even you, bud.”

Late in the night, you could swear you hear voices. The low rumble of men talking. Even dream of someone kissing your forehead.

Main Story | Konig pt. 1 | Happy Birthday!

Masterlist

[queenimmadolla]

𝐍𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐬

Summary: Eddie being sleep deprived because his three month-old baby won't go down for a nap.

A quick little blurb that's been bothering me since last night so I just had to jot it down. More of Eddie and Penny here.

“C’mon, sweet pea. You’re killin me.”

  Eddie sighed, placing his three month-old on her back, alongside him on the bed. 

  Just as she had the last seven times he’d tried to lay her down, his baby began grunting, straining herself as she attempted to sit up on her own, neck muscles working overtime. She wouldn’t be able to sit up, of course. Still smaller than his forearm, Penny was much too little, nor did she have that kind of control over her body, but still she tried, wrinkly fingers curling into fists, face darkening as she trembled and her upper half tensed.

  She could hurt herself, though. So once more, Eddie sighed, carefully lifting her up and settling her on his upper torso, her little head bobbing clumsily in the crook of his neck as she continued to grunt and squeak.

  Penny wasn’t supposed to be awake, she was fighting sleep and doing so fiercely. Twenty-seven minutes past her nap time and she was trying to stare at the world around her in wonder rather than rest as she should so she wouldn’t be up through the night and keeping the two of you up. But this was now Penny’s world. And they were just living in it and caring for her, completely at her mercy.

  He’d set the sleepmosphere; turned off the lights, closed his blinds, and was playing a lullaby that came from the giant baby monitor that stayed above her crib. Plus, his little baby had a plump tummy full of breastmilk and no gas to upset her. Eddie had rocked her until she got quiet, but everytime he so much as peaked around to see if her big brown eyes were open, they were. Wide open and flickering to everything in the room, little mouth parted in awe. She even had the audacity to struggle against his hand, cradling the back of her soft and dainty head.

  Penny was getting stronger and stronger every day.

  “Okay, why don’t we make a deal? You go to sleep right now, and I’ll convince your mom to up the ounces of your bottles and distract her with conversation when she’s breastfeeding you. Look at that, you’d get more food and more rest. It’s a win-win because then you wouldn’t be screeching at daddy in the middle of the night while he’s sleep deprived and warming up a bottle for you.”

  And when he felt his baby’s bobble head whack into the side of his neck, “That’s unnecessary. I made you a fair offer with no cons on your part—violence is not the answer.”

  He waited a beat, eyes staring at the wall as he became overly aware of the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion that had settled over him that he’d since learned to run on. Eddie had reached the manic state already, now it was just acceptance.

  Penny let out a particularly protesting squeak, loud and demanding as she seemed to finally run out of strength, face rubbing into his collar bone until she could replenish it and lift her head again.

  “Fine. You win. Just know, when I’m old and senile and you’ll have to change my diapers, I will be returning the favor.”

[gemstone-roses]

I've got you

Geralt x Reader

Summary: geralt comforts you in the middle of the night.

Warnings: general anxiety themes, anxiety attack, fear, bit of sad, crying. Fluff. Bit of Size kink if you squint (whoops) can't help myself can I.

Huge hurt/comfort vibes, I need it okay.

Note: I'm having a bad week okay,🫠 reblogs and comments much appreciated ❤️ reminder this blog is 18 plus and so are all my works, including the sfw ones.

Hope this helps someone if they need it 🖤

Flames dance in front of you. The heat from the fire the three of you had made at your camp that night had stopped feeling warm a while ago.

Jaskier slept soundly in his sleeping bag by a tree, the dense forest you found yourselves in provided more than enough safety for you to rest for the night.

And of course, geralt too.

He sits opposite you, legs spread wide, hands falling in-between them. He's keeping watch for any danger.

You wrap your arms around yourself. Habit, when you feel like this.

You'd felt it coming when you woke this morning. It starts in your throat, your chest.

Jaskier struggled to get on his horse this morning.

Usually you'd make a sarcastic comment at his expense, earning an eye roll from him and a small chuckle from geralt.

Today you stayed quiet. You knew irritation would lace your words without actually meaning it.

Leaves rustle beside you as the witcher moves from his spot and sits back down on the log you were sitting on.

Geralts thighs touched yours, he was so big it couldn't be helped.

The slight touch comforted you though.

"I can hear your heart racing over the noise of the fire"

Of course he could.

"oh, sorry?" You say softly.

You feel your chest tighten, you try to swallow but your mouth is dry.

Geralts brows furrow, he's heard your sharp intake of breath, your heart picking up.

"fuck" he whispers, getting up.

You startle slightly when you feel two hands on your thigh, geralt kneeling in front of you. His Amber eyes laced with concern for you.

"Y/n" he says gently, giving your thigh a squeeze.

"Look at me sweetheart" he continues. He gently grasps your chin and turns it towards him.

Tears pool in your eyes as his gaze feels like it's seeing right through you.

"You need to breathe, okay?breathe with me y/n" he reaches for your hand, places it on his chest.

Your hand trembles, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on him. One of his hands holding yours on his chest, the other is still holding your face.

"Keep looking at me, good, it's okay, that's it , your safe, ive got you". He soothes, caressing your cheek as he speaks.

The tears pooled in your eyes spill free

"Geralt" you choke out

"I know" he swipes your tears away, his calloused hands still gentle.

"Just keep breathing with me, hm?" He keeps stroking your face, until he feels your racing heart calm slightly.

You stay like that for what feels like hours. His touch not leaving you. Your still trembling slightly.

"Im s-

"Don't" he pushes up from the floor , wrapping his arms around you and leaning down to place a kiss to your head.

"Come" he says offering his hand

You take it, standing up

"Let me hold you tonight, hm?" He brings your hand up to his lips and places a feather light kiss to it.

You nod, and geralt wraps his huge arm around you as he guides you to his sleep bag.

"I've got you" he whispers, pulling you tighter into his embrace.

[whateveriwant]

Choice

Summary: Simon forces you to choose. Him, your husband… or the other man he found in your bed.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Warnings: ANGST

A/N: Forgive me.

“Simon!” you gasp, bolting upright in bed.

There, darkening the doorway to your bedroom, stands your beloved husband. You thought you'd spotted something lurking in the shadows of your periphery, but rather than it being a mere figment of your imagination like you'd hoped, you've come to find out that's not at all the case.

Simon’s brows are knitted tightly together, the lines framing the sides of mouth deepening as he begins to scowl. “Fuckin’ knew it,” he grits out. “Knew you were a fuckin’ liar.” His eyes flit back and forth between you and the figure lying beside you in bed, and if looks could kill, you'd both be six feet under.

“Simon, no, wait–!” You're quick to shoo the other male from your bed even as your husband storms away. Jumping to your feet, you chase after him, tugging your shirt into place from where it had ridden up. Simon’s just reached the living room when you manage to catch up with him. “Simon, please just–”

“When will enough be enough?” he cuts you short as he whirls around to confront you. You've never seen such anger rippling from him before, and it makes you recoil, stopping dead in your tracks. “When's it gonna end, huh? You promised me you were gonna fuckin’ stop this.”

“I-I-I know I did, Simon,” your voice trembles under the weight of your shame.

He's right. After the last time, you’d told him that was it, that it would never happen again.

So much for keeping your promise.

“I'm– I'm so sorry,” you try to offer him, for whatever it may be worth.

Apparently, it's worth very little as he proceeds to scoff right in your face.

“You’re ‘sorry’?” His expression pinches to show how he takes offense to that apology. “That’s three times this month I've caught you. Three. Let alone how many other times I'm sure have been behind my back.”

Again, he’s right on the target. You’ve been dishonest with your husband, been deceiving him more times than you can even remember at this point. Though you're in no place to feel as if you're the one that's been hurt in this situation, you can't help how his biting words feel like daggers plunging right into your stomach.

Simon sighs and brings a hand up to rub his forehead, the self-soothing gesture doing nothing to soften the lines creasing his skin. After a while, he asks, “Why?” his voice much calmer than it was a moment ago. “Why d’you keep doin’ this? Lyin’? Sneakin’ around?”

When he drops his hand to look at you again, you can see how quickly his emotions have shifted from fury to sorrow. The sight of his grief almost wrenches your heart in two, and you swallow the lump in your throat, your own emotions threatening to spill forth and choke you.

“I… I don't know,” you tell him, yet another lie.

You know the truth behind your actions, the real reason you can't break this bad habit. It's because you're selfish; because you're spineless; because you're fucking weak.

Your answer, the unconvincing slop that is, isn't good enough for Simon, and his shoulders rise in a show of perplexity. “Am I not treatin’ you right? I've been withholdin’ from you? Is that it?”

You're shaking your head before he even finishes the inquiry. “No, Simon. It's nothing like that,” you say.

“Well then, explain it to me.” He tosses a hand into the air, the frustration in his tone palpable. “Because I'm tryin’ to understand what makes him so bloody special. What is it about him that makes you treat me like a fuckin’ afterthought?”

“I don't–!” you begin, the accusation immediately putting you on the defense. But then you pause and intake a deep breath, trying to rein yourself back in. The last thing you want is to strike a match against this highly combustible conversation. If ignited, this powder keg runs the risk of taking you both out with it.

You take another moment to collect yourself before releasing an audible exhale. “Yes, he means a lot to me–”

“Oh, well, I'm bloody well aware of that, thank you.”

You ignore the derisive comment as you continue, “–but you're my husband, Simon. At the end of the day, I always want you,” you emphasize. You can feel a stitch forming between your brows as they slowly pull together. “I know you're upset with me – and I understand, truly – but I… I-I just…” your voice trails off as you consider your next words.

You know what you want to say, what niggling thought you want to express. But you're not sure if voicing it aloud is the right move to take. You're trying to cool down the tension here, not potentially add fuel to the fire.

But as Simon prompts, “What?” you realize there's no backing out of it now.

You sigh. “I just think you're blowing this whole thing out of proportion.”

The way your husband's eyes immediately widen tell you it was probably better to have kept your mouth shut.

“Blowin’ thi–?!” Simon blinks wildly in disbelief, his anger from earlier surging back tenfold. His voice is venomous as he spits, “I catch you lyin’ to me, catch you continuously goin’ behind my back.” He points an accusatory finger in the direction of your bedroom. “I catch you with that filthy shite in our bed–”

“Hey, don't call–”

“–see him lyin’ there, sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow, and you think I'm ‘blowin’ this out of proportion’?!” he's fully shouting now, his volume having risen alongside his fury. Simon lets out a dry chuckle that's entirely devoid of humor. “Do you even hear yourself? Do my feelings mean nothin’ to you anymore? Do you– Do you even really love me?” his voice peaks as a wave of despair washes over him.

“Wha–?” Now it's your turn to blink wildly as you're caught off guard by that last sentence. “Of– Of course I do, Simon! Of course.” How can he even ask you such a thing?

“You just love him more, then, right?” The question stings like a punch to the gut.

You shake your head vehemently, asserting, “No. No, of course not!” even as you feel a twinge of guilt pricking the base of your skull.

Just as you're slightly skeptical of your own words, so too is Simon, and he brushes you off with a, “Pssh, right.”

The heightened emotions of the last several minutes persist even as you and your husband lapse into a tense silence.

As you stand there, you watch as Simon begins to harshly run both hands through his hair, not sure what you should say – if there's anything to say in this moment. Though you and he have had this same argument more times than you'd like to admit, something about this time felt different to you, felt like there were higher stakes in the mix. And as you reflect on the quarrel, you can't help how one line in particular sticks out in your mind. ‘You just love him more, then, right?’ he'd accused, bluntly, bitterly.

The idea is ridiculous to you, loving someone else more than your own husband. It sounds like something only a fool could believe.

But if that's the case, why did Simon say it so assuredly?

And why does the thought of it make your stomach clench like there could be some truth behind the claim?

After another few moments of him tugging at his roots, Simon releases a billowy breath. He briefly closes his eyes and shakes his head to himself, before dropping his hands back down by his sides.

“I don't know how much longer I can keep this up,” his voice sounds as exhausted as his body looks. As he peels his lids open to once more lock with your gaze, you feel your own eyes narrowing in your confusion.

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice quiet, timid.

“I mean you need to choose,” he tells you. “Me or him.”

That statement has you balking, the cords that hinge your jaw shut practically snapping. “Si, you– you're not serious.” This has to be some kind of sick joke, right?

“I am.” He nods resolutely. “I can't keep doin’ this – goin’ back and forth with you, wonderin’ if you're really all here with me or not,” he says, frowning. “So you need to choose. Right now. Me… or him.”

It's like you've just witnessed your worst fears materialize before you. Simon, your loving husband, has just asked you to do something that was once completely inconceivable to you. He's asked you to make a world-altering choice: pick between him and someone else.

The decision should be easy – should be obvious – and yet, you find yourself frozen, unable to speak the words you know you should say.

Simon is your husband, the first and greatest love of your life. But this other man he's making you choose between is… well, he's something else to you entirely.

When you're having a rough day and feel like the world is collapsing in around you, he's the first one you want to run to when you need a shoulder to cry on. And conversely, when you're feeling on top of the world, feeling so high up you could reach out and touch the clouds, he's the one you want to call so you can share your joy.

From the moment you met him, you knew he was one of a kind. He's got a smile that could rival a thousand suns, a kiss that could warm the coldest of nights, and the way he looks at you – like you hold the entirety of his universe in the palm of your hand – you think it could keep your heart beating long after it's chosen to stop.

He's your best friend, your other half of a whole, your personal ray of sunshine that cuts through all the gloomy rain. Simon is your husband, yes, that’s true. But this other man is your soulmate, and you know that however long you both shall live, you will love each other until you take your final breaths.

Tears start to bead in your eyes as the answer to your predicament reveals itself to you. And as Simon eventually pushes, “Well? Who's it gonna be?” you know there's only one thing you can tell him.

“Him,” you mutter, feeling the first tear spill over. “H-Him, Simon. Him. I choose… him.”

It's like the planet ceases to spin for a moment as your choice floats in the air like a ghost. At first, you think Simon must assume you're bluffing, what with the way he has no immediate reaction to your response. But as the silence stretches between you and you've yet to renounce your decision, you watch as the realization hits him like a slug to the chest.

Simon's face falls, the color zapping from his skin, and as his eyes start to shine with tears, you find your cheeks flooding with your own.

Simon blinks rapidly, his nostrils flaring as he tries to keep his emotions at bay. His brow furrows like he wants to say something – to argue something – but when he opens his mouth to speak, no words escape. He closes his mouth for a second but then opens it again soon after, once more nothing leaving him but the sound of his breath.

Open then shut, open then shut, he repeats the cycle over and over again, never once managing to get a word out. Finally, after several minutes of waging an internal battle with himself, Simon eventually lets out a low sigh of defeat.

“Then go,” he mutters, gaze falling to the floor. “Just… Just go.”

Your own heart shatters at seeing the pain you've caused your husband. But you can't take back what you've said now, and even if you could, you both know it'd be a lie.

Thus, all you can offer him is a whispered, “I'm sorry.” Any louder and your voice would break from the strain of your cries.

The room falls quiet again as you both let everything sink in. Simon, your husband, the man you'd promised forever to, just put his heart on the line, practically flayed himself open for you… and you didn't choose him.

“I'm sorry,” you say again because you don't know what else there is to do.

Simon waves your apology off with a dismissive hand, still refusing to meet your eye.

Over the next few moments, you continue to sob softly, the sounds of your sniffles puncturing the otherwise quiet house. After a while, you feel the faucet behind your eyes gradually slow to a trickle, and you wipe your face with the back of your shaky hands, swallowing down the last of your tears.

You take another minute or so to compose yourself, still standing before your forlorn husband. Once you feel somewhat well again, you clear your throat, then tip your head back to let out a short, high whistle.

Almost immediately, you hear the telltale noise of feet moving against the hardwood floor. Then, not a beat later, you see the man you'd just chosen rounding the corner to the living room.

“Come here, pup-pup. Come here,” you encourage Riley, your fourteen month old shepherd-mix, forward.

Like the good boy he is, Riley trots closer at your beckoning. But before he reaches you, he makes a pitstop by Simon, shoving his cold, wet nose into the man's empty palm.

Riley gives him a couple boops to the hand, politely asking him for pets. And Simon, for his part, despite still being obviously disgruntled, obliges and gives him a brief, dispassionate rub to the snout.

Having received his desired scritches, Riley then continues over to you, and you crouch down so you can meet him at his level.

“You wanna go cuddle with me some more? Yeah? Do you?” you pitch your voice up in that babyish way Simon pretends to hate.

Riley, however, absolutely loves it, and his tail wags back and forth in a way that says he's all too eager to agree.

“Okay, let's go!” You wave him after you as you take off down the hall.

As you both walk back to the bedroom you'd been occupying earlier, you hear Simon speaking behind you, muttering angrily to himself.

“Mangy fuckin’ mutt. Knew he was gonna be trouble,” he murmurs as he makes up a spot for himself on the couch. “First he steals my bed, then he steals my cuddles, next he'll be stealin’ my fuckin’ car…” his voice peters out the further away you walk.

“Don't mind your daddy. He's just being grumpy as usual,” you stage whisper to Riley as you approach the door to your bedroom.

Letting yourself inside, Riley quickly follows after. You shut the door and then waltz over to the bed, patting the empty space beside you as you settle in.

Swiftly, Riley jumps up to join you, taking the side normally reserved for your husband. He moseys all the way up the mattress until he reaches Simon's pillow, where he proceeds to lay down.

You roll onto your side and start to pet him, scratching that spot behind his ears you know he loves. As you do, you see that infectious smile of his slowly take shape, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as his eyes drift closed.

The sight of him so content makes your own lips upturn into a smile. He is so sweet, so perfectly innocent, that it makes your heart want to burst inside your chest.

And as you continue to cuddle Riley, making little kissy noises in his ear, you know you made the right choice as you grin and ask him, “Who's my favorite boy?”

__________

A/N: April Fools! Hope I didn't break your heart too much lmao!

As always, I'd love to know what you thought! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

[revelboo]

can I just say how much I love! your!! writing!!! I wasn’t really a Starscream or Bluestreak fan before because I have a tunnel vision on Bumblebee but stumbling upon your account made me adore them so much!! I like how neat your writing style is even though you make it as bullet points because I’m usually not fond with bullet points style, however! Something about how you focus on the description and “show not tell” the most is sooo tasty idk how to describe it. Thank you for your wonderful writings 😔🙏💕

Thank you! The bullet points were mostly a way to clearly demarcate a view point shift since these are snippets rather than anything fully fleshed out. Normally, I’d only head hop every other chapter in a paranormal romance manuscript, but that wouldn’t work here.

Also: Pleasure to Meet You by Motion City Soundtrack is my theme for this fic

Everything is Alright pt 34

IDW Starscream x Reader

• Watching you walk over to your stash of human things on his desk, a little more tension eases. Everything right again, even though he’s fully aware of how fragile it is. That worry still there eating at him, a dark tide just waiting to crash down on him. But not at this moment. You offer him a little smile as you drape that old cleaning cloth he first gave you about your shoulders. Like a ghost, Soundwave’s disdainful ‘inadequate’ floats through his processor.

• Somehow going back with Starscream feels more like reality than going home to your actual life had. Like everything else was a dream, less real than this. Because this has become home. Well, not quite if you’re being honest. It’s not this place at all. It’s him and it’s a curious new feeling, fragile. Breathing in the scent of him from your blanket, something settles inside you and you look up as he runs a big hand over his helm, wings fidgeting. “After my rotation, we’ll refuel together,” he says, optics flicking to your dwindling supply of stolen junk food. It’s not a request to share a meal, but a certainty that you will do this. You smile anyway.

• “I’d like that.” You’re smiling at him, happy to be near him. Glad to see him and it almost hurts, a bittersweet ache that he’d almost given this away. Let you slip out of his hands. Reaching down, he runs the tip of a servo over your soft cheek, the touch lingering as you reach up to lay a hand on him. Such a small thing, but it means more than you can ever realize. It takes an effort of will to break that contact instead of curling his servos around you and bringing you to cradle against him.

• There’s an impulse to call out after him when he leaves, and your fingers fist in your blanket to keep yourself still. To not run to the edge of the desk and reach out. He’s not leaving you again. You know it, but that jangling uncertainty is still there. That he might leave and not return.

• You’re back. Soundwave hesitates, feeling that now familiar tangle of emotion at the back of his processor. When you’d just disappeared from his awareness, he’d assumed Starscream had accidentally killed you. It had always been a possibility with the Seeker’s temper. Thought that you were just gone and that loss has twisted about his spark, because as frustrating as the chaos of your mind is, he’s gotten to where it’s familiar. Always just there at the back of his processor, a warm presence he can’t shut out like music softly playing. He’s pushing up from his desk, aware of his cassettes looking up in surprise.

• When the door slides open, you stand up expecting Starscream, but it’s Soundwave. His helm turns, visor flaring slightly as he spots you and strides over. Head tipping back as he reaches a huge hand for you, almost not noticing the faint tremble as his servos curl around you and he lays his other palm on the desk, big frame bowing over you. Silent aside from the ragged sound of him venting. One of his servos slides against your neck over your pulse, but otherwise he’s still aside from that strange shivering. You lay your palms on his hand, staring at that unreadable, hidden face. Had he been worried about you? That fragile feeling you don’t dare examine too closely stirs as you wish you weren’t so very small so you could wrap your arms around him. Around them both, because they’re yours. And it’s worth fighting for.

Previous Next

[leejenowrld]

2:00 am — lee jeno smut — 1.3k

tears slip silently down your face as you lie there, the bed feeling impossibly cold, empty in a way that seems to seep into your bones. the sheets that should be warm are chilling, offering no comfort, no sense of safety without him next to you. your arms wrap around yourself, but it’s not enough—nothing ever is when jeno isn’t there. you wish more than anything that he was holding you, his warmth and steady breathing lulling you to sleep like always. the silence is deafening, the loneliness overwhelming. you can’t sleep, your body aching for his presence, for the way his arms feel around you, how he’d pull you close and make everything okay. instead, you’re left with nothing but the cold emptiness of the bed, your chest tight with longing, wishing desperately for him to be there.

when you and jeno are apart for too long, it’s always the same—nights without him feel empty, cold, and endless. his oversized hoodies is the only thing warm on your skin, it still smells faintly of him, the ache of missing him gets too much to bear. it usually hits in the early hours, long past midnight, when the quiet is too loud, and the weight of his absence feels crushing. that’s when you find yourself reaching for your phone, tears brimming in your eyes as you call him. sometimes, you don’t even have to say anything. the second jeno answers and hears the soft, broken sobs on the other end of the line, his voice shifts—gentle, soothing, his concern immediate.

“baby?” his voice is soft but firm, that familiar warmth wrapping around you like a hug through the phone. “what’s wrong? talk to me.”

you’re trying to hold back your tears, but the sound of his voice makes them spill over. “i miss you,” you choke out, your voice trembling. “i can’t sleep. i hate being without you. i need you, jeno.”

jeno’s heart aches hearing you like this. he knows how hard it is for both of you when you’re apart, but he can’t stand the idea of you crying, of you feeling this way. “hey, hey… it’s okay, baby. i’m right here,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet balm. “you’ve got my hoodie, right? pull it tight, pretend it’s me. close your eyes and imagine i’m holding you. i’ll stay with you, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

his voice is low, soft, like a gentle hand reaching through the phone, and with every word, he pulls you a little closer to him, even from so far away. the tears are still fresh on your cheeks, but then he says something—something playful, teasing—and the corners of your lips twitch, unwilling at first, but then there it is, a small giggle slipping out. he doesn’t stop there, his tone shifting, light and full of warmth, coaxing more laughter from you until it’s spilling out, each sound a little brighter, a little fuller. you clutch the pillow tighter, his hoodie wrapped around you, and the more he talks, the harder it becomes to hold back the giggles, bubbling up until they mix with the lingering tears, drying them away. his laughter is soft in your ear, and you can feel the intimacy of it, the way it wraps around you like an embrace, filling the space where his arms should be. he keeps you there, in that tender place between laughter and comfort, until the tears are gone, replaced with the warmth of him, and for now, that’s all you need.

… until it isn’t

the sound of his voice alone is always enough to calm you, but tonight, it’s not enough. you want him there, want his touch, want him so bad that it hurts. the longer you talk, the more you start to realize it’s not just the emotional closeness you miss—it’s everything about him, every inch of him, and the fact that he’s not there to take care of you is driving you crazy.

“jeno…” your voice is quieter now, softer, laced with something more than just sadness. “i miss you so much, i just want you inside of me — want to feel your cock in me, baby. i can’t stop thinking about you. i need you. i need you so bad.”

his breath catches slightly on the other end of the line, and you can practically hear the smirk forming on his lips. he knows exactly what you want. but he’s still gentle with you, always making sure you’re okay, that you’re comfortable first.

“you’re missing me, doll?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, taking on that smooth, sultry edge that makes your heart race. “what do you want, baby? tell me.”

you bite your lip, the warmth pooling between your legs as his words wash over you. “i want you,” you whisper, feeling bold now. “i want your hands on me, i want your mouth… your cock… i want all of you.”

there’s a pause, a quiet inhale from jeno, and when he speaks again, his voice is darker, rougher with desire. “you’re always so needy when i’m not there, aren’t you?” he teases, but there’s a softness underneath, his affection clear even in the heat of the moment. “you’ve got those toys i bought you, don’t you? why don’t you use them for me, baby? let me hear how good it feels.”

you swallow hard, heat rushing through your body as you reach for the drawer beside your bed, where the toys he bought you sit waiting. he’s cocky about it, though—always reminding you that nothing will ever compare to him. “you know they’ll never be as good as me,” he says with a chuckle, and you can hear the confidence in his voice. “but go ahead, baby. show me how much you miss me.”

and you do. your breath catches as you follow his instructions, your body responding to his voice like it’s the only thing that matters. every word he says sends shivers down your spine, his deep, smooth tone guiding you as you touch yourself, imagining it’s him instead. the sound of your soft gasps and moans fills the air, and jeno’s low growl from the other end of the line makes your pulse quicken.

“that’s it,” he breathes, his voice husky with need. “just like that, baby. you sound so good. wish i could be there to take care of you properly.”

the tension builds quickly, the ache between your legs intensifying with every passing second. jeno’s words are like fuel to the fire, his voice low and commanding, telling you exactly what to do, exactly how he’d be touching you if he were there. you can’t help but moan his name, your breath coming faster as you imagine his hands, his mouth, his body against yours.

and then, when you’re on the edge, so close you can barely think, jeno’s voice turns dark, almost a growl. “come for me,” he demands softly, but there’s no mistaking the authority in his tone. “come for me, baby. i want to hear it.”

his name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as you come undone, your body trembling with the force of it. jeno’s quiet praise fills your ears, his voice soothing and warm as you come down from the high, his words wrapping around you like a blanket.

it’s not over yet. after you catch your breath, jeno’s voice drops even lower, almost a whisper. “i’m not done with you yet, baby. you’re not going to sleep until you’ve taken care of me too, yeah?”

your body reacts instantly, heat flooding back to your core as you realize what he means. “send me a video,” you whisper, your voice still shaky. “please.”

there’s a soft laugh on the other end of the line, and moments later, your phone buzzes with a notification. you open it, and there he is—hard, heavy in his hand, the sight of him making you bite your lip. he’s smirking at the camera, his voice coming through your phone again, low and teasing. “see what you do to me?” he murmurs. “now be a good girl and show me how much you want it.”

the call always ends the same—with you moaning his name, breathless and needy, while jeno whispers sweet nothings and filthy promises until neither of you can take it anymore. even through the distance, even through the phone, he knows exactly how to take care of you, emotionally and physically, leaving you feeling both comforted and completely wrecked.

because that’s the thing about jeno—he might be miles away, but he’s always there for you.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Keyhole

Pairing: Dark!Marc Spector x Reader 

Summary: After a break-in at your apartment, your neighbor offers you comfort in a time when you most need it. 

Warnings: Fluff, Meet-cute-ish, Romance, Smut, Overstimulation, Breeding, Canon Typical Violence, Murder, Stalking, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Murder, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Drugging, Implied torture, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

A/N: that request for dark Marc just really got all the gears turning lol. i don’t have the triple PoV in this fic (sorry everyone) but i do reference steven and jake! do trust that they are there and they are thoroughly enjoying themselves, haha. mind the warnings! bottom divider courtesy of @firefly-graphics

The door is open. 

It shouldn’t be—you’d locked it securely when you left, you know you did. Human memories are fallible, sure, but not now. Not this time. There was no comforting thunk as the deadbolt slid out of its home when you had turned your key. 

There was no sound at all. 

With a trembling hand, you reach out to touch your front door, laying your palm flat against the faded white paint. The metal is cool under your hand, but you only feel it for a moment as the door swings open easily. You clap a terrified hand over your mouth at the sight of your apartment. Even from the doorway you can see its been ransacked; the cupboards you can see are all open, dishes thrown onto the floor in broken shards of porcelain. There are clothes in the hallway, your things strewn about haphazardly. You begin to take a step over the threshold to assess the damage and pause immediately. 

What if Jamie’s in there?

He was out now, as per the email you’d received two months ago. You’d moved states away by now of course, but the fear was unshakeable, and now neither was your suspicion. You don’t want to go in, not now and certainly not alone. You take a step back instead, keeping your eyes on the open door—or, at least, you try to.

“Careful, neighbor.” You turn with a start, though your shoulders sag with relief when instead of Jamie, you see your neighbor. Marc smiles at you, though his expression darkens as his eyes dart over your shoulder. “What happened here?” He steps around you to peer worriedly into your apartment. “Everything okay?”

You’re not a dramatic person—and not usually a crier on the worst of days. Even Jamie had had to raise a fist to get you to shed a tear, and those were more out of anger at your own helplessness and the pain rather than fear. But you feel them gathering in the corners of your eyes now, your chin trembling as you try to hold the pieces all together. 

“I—I don’t—” You swallow thickly. “I think my ex…” You trail off, and he places a hand on your shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t go in there alone.” He casts another dubious look at your apartment. “Is he still in there?” You shake your head, shrugging with a choked sob. 

“I don’t know!” You wrap your arms around yourself as you feel a shiver work its way through you. “I don’t know.” 

“Okay, why don’t you come with me. We’re going to call the cops, okay? And they’ll check everything out, make sure it’s safe for you to go home.” You’ve met Marc on more than a few occasions. There’s only so much you can learn about a person on a twenty minute bus ride, but you don’t think he’s the sort to hurt you. 

At least, you hope not. You suppose you don’t have the greatest track record, given the circumstances. But you don’t want to stand out here in the hallway, and you can’t go in there. 

“Okay.” 

—

Marc’s apartment sits opposite yours, but you realize as he shuts the door behind you that you’ve never even caught a glimpse of it before. He tosses his coat on the little bench by the door, and you kick off your shoes next to his, nudging them beneath it with your toe when you’re done. The apartment itself seems to be the inverse of yours in layout. There’s a strange mish-mash of furniture; old, antique chairs and side tables, with a sleek, modern couch and bookshelves. And God, are there bookshelves. They line nearly every room, and they’re crammed to the max with all manner of books, and what looks to be a mix of actual scrolls and loose papers. 

You’re ashamed and embarrassed, but too upset to stop the tears, panic tightening your throat until you’re gasping and choking with every sob. You don’t mean to cry in front of him—you really don’t, but once they start they don’t stop. How had he found you? You’d been so careful, had done everything the attorney had suggested and more and it still wasn’t enough. Jamie had sniffed you out, and it hadn’t even taken him very long. You’re so focused on that that it escapes your notice that every wheezing breath you draw into your lungs is smaller than the one before it until your vision narrows. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you realize—

Panic attack, I’m having a panic attack—

“Hey, hey, Sweetheart I know this is awful, but you have to calm down.” Marc squeezes your shoulders as you stare unseeingly at him, willing the noise in your head to stop.  “Can you focus on me? On what I’m saying right now?” You can barely hear him over your own frenzied thoughts—where Jamie was, what his next move would be, why he couldn’t just leave you the fuck alone. Marc threads his fingers through yours, holding both your hands against his chest. 

“I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay? You have to breathe, Sweetheart. Can you do that for me? Take a nice deep breath in, okay?” You inhale a shaky breath, whimpering as you release it. Mark’s warm brown eyes are so easy to focus on, and he nods encouragingly. “

When the police arrive, he lets them in, standing protectively over you as they question you. 

“So your old boyfriend’s jealous of your new boyfriend, here.” The dismissiveness drips from the officer’s tone. He isn’t even writing anything down, his thumbs hooked through the loops of his belt as he shakes his head at you, like this is your fault somehow. You shoot an apologetic look at Marc. 

“Oh, we’re not—” You shake your head. Of course he’d want to chalk everything up to a little domestic disturbance, and it’s hard not to be angry at his dismissal. “My ex’s name is Jamie Parrish, and he got out of prison almost two months ago.” He has the good grace to look ashamed of himself, at least. “I have reason to believe he’ll be back, if he’s not still…” 

“He’s not, ma’am.” The second officer shakes his head. “There wasn’t anyone. But we did find this.” He produces a small, square jewelry box from his pocket, and you feel your stomach lurch. It’s white, a gold stripe running along the edges. “Have you seen this before? It was sitting on a plate in the kitchen.” He opens it, and you nearly puke. 

It’s that goddamn fucking ring.

You’d hated that thing when Jamie had showed it to you—and his pouting at the store had become full fledged screaming in the car when you’d said you’d rather have something else. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he’d said, ignoring your panic as the car accelerated, swerving wildly. Didn’t you want to fucking get married? Why didn’t you want to be with him? Why were you making this so goddamn hard—

“Yes.” You lick your dry lips. “I’ve seen that ring before.” 

In the end, they take your statement and leave, and you feel much the same as before they’d gotten there. You had thought, naively, maybe, that the police’s presence, their sweep of your apartment would make you feel safer, not worse. 

Fool me twice, I guess. They’d never been particularly helpful, even when you’d answered the door bearing the marks of Jamie’s displeasure. 

“Fucking assholes.” Marc slams the door behind them. He shakes his head. “At least there’s a paper trail now.” You nod, and force a thin smile. 

“Right. Thanks, Marc.” He sits down beside you on the couch. “You okay?” 

”I want to lie and say I am, but I am really, really, not.” 

“Can’t say I blame you.” When he rests his hand on your thigh, it feels friendly, not forward. “Look, I know we don’t… You don’t have to go back there tonight. If you don’t want to, I mean.” The offer is tempting. You don’t want to go back to your apartment, not tonight. Hell, maybe not ever. You feel like turning tail and running now that Jamie’s found you, but you know you can’t do that tonight, either. And Marc is nice. 

“Would it be weird if I took you up on it?” You ask with a little laugh. “I just… I don’t want to be alone in there, you know?” He smiles warmly, and you feel your cheeks heat.

“It’s not weird if I offered it.” He stands up. “Let me change the sheets on the bed.” 

“W-what?” You stare at him. “I’m not taking your bed.” 

“The couch is fine for me, trust me.” His smile goes a little sad, somehow. “I don’t get much sleep anyway.” 

—

You help him change the sheets on his bed, noting the large fish tank on the opposite wall. There’s a fish inside, and as you step closer, you realize he’s only got one fin.

“What’s this guy’s name?” You ask, jerking a thumb at the tank. Marc snorts. 

“Gus.” He smooths out the comforter. “The one-finned-wonder.” He smooths the comforter down with both hands before standing back up. Marc  had been sweet enough to accompany you back to your apartment long enough to get some clothes, but the entire time you’d been there you’d felt watched, and you wonder if Jamie had found time to bug the place, or something. 

“I’ll be right out there if you need anything.” 

Sleep is slow and reluctant to come, and you toss and turn in your neighbor’s bed, staring at his ceiling. It’s not that it isn’t comfortable—it is. It’s more that you just feel uneasy, something you attribute to Jamie’s sudden return to your life to wreak havoc. 

Around midnight you give up and decide to get a glass of water. You take extra care not to make a sound as you creep out of the bedroom, though your efforts prove fruitless when you spy Marc sitting up at the table in the living room, back bent over a book. You pad into the kitchen and search the cupboards for a glass.   The water comes out of the tap surprisingly cold, and you take a grateful sip before peeking back out of the kitchen. 

You realize he’s muttering to himself in a low voice, so low you can’t hear him. He shakes his head like he’s responding to someone else you can’t see. 

“Marc?” He goes silent, sitting straight up. He doesn’t respond for a full ten seconds, before he shudders, and turns. 

“Hey.” 

“Are you okay?” You ask, your brows knitted together with concern. He glances at the table, and then back to you.

“Yeah, I—” He scrubs his hand down his face. “I was just reading.” Marc closes the old looking book in front of him, before running his hands through his hair. “Can’t sleep either?” He asks, and you laugh bitterly. 

“I guess not.” You take another sip of your water. “I can’t shake the thought that Jamie’s still there, or something, I know it’s ridiculous but I can’t.” 

“It’s not ridiculous. He sounds like a real piece of shit.” Marc actually looks angry, his fingers twitching against the table like he wants to curl them into fists. You sit in one of the wooden chairs next to him at the dining table. “You said he was in prison?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was supposed to be ten years.” 

“And how many did he do?”

“Three.” 

“Fucking Christ.” 

Marc pushes himself away from the table, shaking his head. He heads into the kitchen, and you find yourself drawn to the book on the table. There are hieroglyphs on the cover, though, not English as you’d expected. Post-its stick out of it, scrawling handwriting on them. Marc didn’t much seem like the scholarly type, much less the type to take notes and do homework for fun, but who were you to begrudge people their interests?

He returns with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses, each with a couple of cubes of ice.

“Here.” He pours you one and then himself, lifting it in a silent toast, and you take yours gratefully. “You earned it.” The whiskey burns pleasurably as you sip it down. 

“You’ve been… thank you,” you say, stumbling over the words embarrassingly. “Tonight has been a nightmare.” 

“No problem. I mean, I figured you wouldn’t try to rob me or stab me in my sleep,” He says, laughing. “Thought we might have enough good will built up from all those bus rides.” He winks and your cheeks warm. You laugh too, and it actually feels good—needed. When you drain your glass, he picks up the bottle, offering you another pour. You nod. 

“Please.” You’re feeling comfortably warm and fuzzy by the time you’re finished with the second glass, shaking your head when Marc offers again. “I better not. I still haven’t decided if I’m going in to work tomorrow.” 

He clucks his tongue. “Seriously? You can’t actually be thinking of going in after this.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of your apartment, and then shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m not—I’m really not trying to tell you what to do. It’s just… I don’t think it’s a good idea. With what you told me about this guy, we need to make sure you’re safe.” 

“We?” You ask teasingly. “Is that like the royal we?” He doesn’t answer. “I’ve been dealing with Jaimie for years on my own. It just feels… normal.” You admit. He’s your own personal boogeyman, showing up when you least expect it just to wreak havoc on your life. He gets off on it, you know he does. The control of it all. 

“That’s exactly why an outside perspective,” Marc points a finger at himself, “is necessary.” You tap thoughtful fingers on the rim of your glass. You grimace. He does have a point. 

“Maybe calling out until the cops have him back in custody is a good idea.” 

“Just sleep on it.” Marc says, holding his hands up placatingly. “That’s all I ask.” He’s just as easy to talk to as he had been on the bus, all charming smiles and pleasant banter. “I just… I would hate for something to happen to you.” The words sound like an admission, and they bring heat to your cheeks. Your fingers slip against the rim of the glass and it tilts dangerously, the ice nearly spilling out until you right it with a clatter. The thought occurs to you that your  very handsome neighbor might be interested in you in a more than neighborly way. 

“You would?” 

“I—well, isn’t it obvious?” He asks with a little laugh. He sets down his half full glass on the table. 

“Not to me, apparently.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “But I am notoriously bad at reading the room.” Marc laughs and you do too. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this after finding out I have an insane ex.” Marc snorts, glancing at the window beside you before meeting your eyes again. 

“We’re not worried about him.” 

“Again with the we stuff,” you say, shaking your head. “Your apartment isn’t the one that got ransacked.” You shiver. “I’m just… I’m glad I wasn’t there. I’m glad you weren’t there.” It’s all too easy to remember just how hard Jamie can hit. Absently, your fingers trace the scar just beneath the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Sweetheart, I’m more than capable of defending myself. And you.” The confidence in his words makes you shiver pleasantly. “Trust me.” There’s a heat in his eyes and in his voice that leaves you both interested and a little apprehensive. It’s a bad time to date—though it seems lately it’s always a bad time to date. Jamie had been practically breathing down your neck even from prison before you’d moved, calling, sending letters ranging from promises to do better when he returned and threatening that you would regret ever having involved the law in the first place. 

Not exactly the stuff budding relationships are made to withstand. 

You lick your dry lips. “And you’re anticipating having to do that?” 

“If you needed me to.” He says it plainly and without hesitation, and a little chill travels up your spine at his matter-of-fact delivery, and the dark intensity of his gaze. 

“Awfully neighborly of you.” The whiskey burning in your belly has emboldened you—you want to hear him say it. Hear him admit it, instead of dancing around it. You need Marc to make it real—mostly because you’re afraid to. He grins at you, and your stomach twists itself into a gordian knot. 

“Maybe I’m interested in being more than neighborly.” His hand is warm when he places it over yours on the table. You revel in it for a second too long before withdrawing your hand, curling it against your chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I—” He pinches the bridge of his nose before scrubbing a hand down his face. “Whiskey.” 

You nod with a soft laugh. “Yeah,” you say, swallowing thickly. “Whiskey.” The silence is even louder than his admission, and you find yourself making excuses to escape it. “I should, um. I should head to, to bed.” 

“Mm.” Marc nods, his eyes back on the window. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

When you close the bedroom door you linger in front of it, rocking from foot to foot. It’s been so long since you’ve dated, you’re unsure of the etiquette—you don’t remember the proper order of operations, not anymore. The debate in your head leaves you paralyzed, fingers twisting in the hem of your t-shirt. Should you go back out? Talk more? Do you even have anything to say? 

Should you tell him that you like him too? 

That you look forward to your Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday shifts the most because those are the ones that start with him? Honesty’s a stranger to you now, mostly because being honest about your feelings had usually been a one-way-ticket to Jamie’s shit list—but Marc isn’t Jamie. 

He’s not. 

You place a hand on the door handle, and when you push down it swings back open easily, revealing Marc on the other side. His hand is outstretched, like he’d been about to do the exact same thing. 

“Come here.” Marc groans as he pulls you hard against him. You’re dizzy from him—and from the whiskey you can still feel warming your veins. His mouth feels so good on yours that you whine a little in protest when he stiffens and pulls away. 

“I—fuck, I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his curly hair, looking up at the ceiling before mouthing another curse. “I’m sorry. I—you’re vulnerable and I fucking—shit.” Marc shakes his head again. “I have wanted to do that since goddamn April.” He admits with a soft laugh. He presses another to your forehead, and you laugh too. 

“April, huh?” You grin at him. Marc’s body is solid against yours, hard muscle boxing you in against the door, but you don’t mind it. “You—o-oh,” His hands skim your sides hungrily, bunching up your t-shirt as they slide beneath it. You gasp as he cups your breasts beneath the fabric, and Marc curses again. 

“Marc—”

“I don’t think you’re going to work tomorrow.” His thumbs flick across your nipples, and you moan, head falling back against the door with a thud. “Okay?” You nod as one of his hands drops to your hip, pulling at the elastic of your pajama shorts. He snaps it against your skin and you hiss. “Good.” His mouth finds yours again and you melt against him, knock-kneed and sighing. Marc kisses you breathless, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. 

“It’s okay, right? Fuck, tell me it’s okay,” he pulls your t-shirt over your head, groaning at the sight of you. Marc crashes over you like a wave. There’s so little space between his words and his actions you don’t really have time to consider yourself if it really is okay before you’re nodding your assent. 

“I-it’s okay.” His hands are everywhere, tugging at your nipples, cupping your chin affectionately while he sucks on your tongue, tugging down your pajama shorts— “Marc, Marc slow down—”

“M’sorry, Baby,” he presses a line of heated kisses down over the curve of your hip. “Just—just wanted this for so long.” His desperation is palpable, his touches hungry, reverent. You feel him settle himself between your legs, his hips fitting neatly between your thighs. “Fuck, you are so fucking beautiful.” He presses his lips to the space between your breasts, and then you see his eyes go dark before he caresses the burn mark on your arm with soft fingers. 

“Jamie?”

“Jamie.” 

He mutters something then, something you don’t quite catch. You don’t even hear it, not really, the words barely registering as background noise before he kisses you again—“fucking deserved it” before they’re gone, disappeared into the heated air between you. 

To his credit, Marc does slow down, taking his time lavishing his attention on each of your breasts until your nipples are puffy and oversensitive, each pass of his tongue making you squirm and whine. As he does so, he slides a hand down to cup your cunt, and you gasp, hips rolling shamelessly into his hand. He moans, grinding the thick weight of his cock against your thigh. 

“Didn’t you tell me to slow down?” He asks, his tone mocking. You had, but you don’t have the bandwidth to explain that that wasn’t what you’d meant, but you aren’t really sure you want him to stop now, no, not when his fingers feel so good—

“F-fuck, fuck, Marc-!” He rolls your clit between his fingers, his eyes trained on the slick mess he’s making between your thighs. 

“Again,” he says lowly, repeating the motion as you squeal, thighs locking around his hand. “Say my name like that again.” And when he drops to his knees and latches his mouth onto your cunt like he’s starving for you, you do. His name, mixed in with strings of curses as he curls his fingers inside of you and circles your clit so perfectly with his tongue. 

“M-Marc!” 

He sighs against you, mumbling curses and praises into the slick folds of your pussy. With the hand not buried between your writhing thighs, he holds you down, keeping your hips pressed against the bed. You whine as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and you throw your head back against the mattress as your hips buck pitifully. He mumbles something against you that you can barely hear, “He didn’t fucking deserve you,” but you don’t get the chance to ask him about it as his tongue finds you again. 

“Sweetheart I need to know—” Marc scissors his fingers inside you—“do you want to cum on my face or on my cock?” Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and he hums, shaking his head. “Use your words.” He punctuates the demand with a long, slow lick through your sopping folds, and you hate that you can’t make yourself look away. The choice is taken from you when he rolls your clit hard against the roof of his mouth and electricity arcs through you down to your toes. 

You’re cursing and crying as it happens too, rocking against his face as he mumbles unintelligible words into the skin of your inner thigh. Your twitching fingers are tangled in the sheets and his curly hair, you realize, though Marc’s voiced no complaint, though when you release him, he leans up to grin at you, pressing a damp kiss to the side of your knee. His face is half soaked from you, and he absently draws the back of his hand across his mouth before he gets to his feet. 

Your head is still spinning as he tugs you down the mattress to meet his hips, and you gasp at the feel of him. Thick and throbbing, Marc rocks against you with a moan. 

“Feels good, right Baby?” He asks lowly, reaching down to press the head of his leaking cock against your clit. You’re still sensitive, and you whine, attempting to retreat from the feeling but Marc holds you still with a chuckle. He spreads your thighs with one smooth motion, his hands pressing outward steadily until you’re wide open before him. “Too good, maybe.” Your response is a slurry of syllables and his name, cut short as he pushes inside without preamble and the words all cease. You’re practically choking on them—on him, the thick weight of him burning deliciously as he parts you. 

You would whine and plead and moan Marc’s name, only you can’t get the air in. There’s not enough room with his cock inside you, and the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress. He mumbles a curse as he draws back before sliding all the way home again with a satisfied sigh. There is no cool-down with Marc, no, only one exhilarating peak to the next. Tears gather in your wide eyes as you feel the pull again, only deeper, and more—

“Baby are you crying?” He asks breathlessly, and you feel him throb hard inside you. “Ah, fuck.” Marc’s hands are everywhere then, squeezing your chin as he forces you to look him in the eye, two fingers resting on the flat of your tongue, the other gripping the curve of your hip as he slams into your over, and over. You cum again, you can’t help it, drool leaking down your chin and tears tracking down into your hair as he stares hungrily down at you. You clutch at his wrist, mumbling his name against his fingers. 

“Fucking—you are going to make me—” You haven’t even finished cumming yet when Marc does too, holding you so tight you know there will be bruises. Marc pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping them on the sheets. He doesn’t pull out though, humming with pleasure as an aftershock makes you clench down around him. 

Good thing I have the IUD. He hadn’t asked, but you’d learned your lesson well enough already to get the stuff no one could sabotage—not that you thought Marc would do that. It was spur of the moment—not time, or thought to grab a condom, you were sure. He smiles down at you, as if in reassurance. 

“You okay?” He cups your chin. Your body is still humming with the echoes of the pleasure from before, your thigh muscles twitching every few seconds, and you feel warm, like you’re floating in blissful soup. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod with a smile of your own. “I’m, um. Really good.” 

He slips out of you then, and crawls up onto the bed beside you with a huff before tugging you against his chest. “Come here.” You giggle when he presses a kiss into your hair. Your thighs slide together, wet and sticky, and you groan. 

“At least let me clean up first,” you say, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Okay?” Marc folds his arms. 

“Only because you asked so nice.” When you get out of bed, the palm of his hand cracks across your ass and you squeal, batting his eager hands away. 

“I’ll be right back, jeez.” His eyes are already closing as he dozes off, nodding absently. You shrug into his t-shirt, grabbing your own shorts before heading off to the bathroom.

His bathroom is in much the same place as yours, if a little larger. You help yourself to his body-wash, rinsing the evidence of your romp from your still tender skin. As you dry off, you realize you’d been right in your earlier summation that Marc would leave visible reminders on your body, the hollows where his fingers had been already turning dark and angry. 

He’s strong.

You exit the bathroom and turn back toward the bedroom—when a dull thump makes you pause. 

“Marc?”

There’s no answer from your paramour, and when you peek back into the bedroom, he’s full asleep, eyes closed and lips ever-so-slightly parted as his soft breaths puff through them. You hold yourself as you stare into the darkness of your lover’s apartment, fear twisting in your belly. Could Jamie have gotten in somewhere? Another door? An open window? 

In your own apartment, the hallway ends just past the bathroom, with just enough room for an end table to fit neatly beneath a rather expensive looking painting you’d bought for three bucks at Goodwill. In Marc’s, there’s a whole other bedroom. You hesitate, your fingers trembling above the handle before you open it. You’re expecting another bedroom like the one you’ve been sharing with Marc, and to some extent it is—but the far wall is simply… missing. There’s a hole roughly eight, maybe nine feet wide smashed through the brick, though there’s drop-cloths and tools littered around it like it’s a work in progress. 

“Hello?” You pick up a hammer, hefting the weight of it in your hands. “Jamie, if you’re here… you better fucking not be.” You’re not ready for a fight—you’re not even wearing panties under these damn shorts—but when have you ever been? You step through the plastic sheeting into the room on the other side. The building next door isn’t finished—and you don’t know that it ever will be. The perfect fucking location. What if your ex had set up shop here? Watching you? Waiting?

Your foot catches against something and it almost sends you sprawling, your palms scraping against the exposed brick walls. You’ve never been particularly adept at seeing at night, and you squint down at the dark shape slumped against the wall in the narrow space. It takes your eyes some time to adjust, and your heart leaps straight into your throat as you make sense of it. 

It’s a leg. 

You feel the scream building in your throat, and you clap a hand over your mouth to keep it down. The owner of the leg doesn’t move, though, doesn’t rise from their position slumped over on the floor like a puppet with slack strings. You swallow. 

“Hello?” There’s no response. Timidly, you tap their foot with your own, and when they don’t move, don’t breathe, the terror in your chest becomes concern. You kneel down slowly, squinting in the dark. “Are you okay—”

This time you do scream as finally your eyes adjust, and Jamie’s blank, dull eyes stare back into yours like glassy marbles. 

Why is he here? What the fuck, what the fuck— You stumble backwards against the wall, covering your mouth with your hands. It was Marc’s apartment—you’d gotten here through Marc’s apartment. You feel the urge to vomit, but there’s nothing in your stomach but bile. You retch it up anyway, before drawing the back of your hand against your trembling mouth. 

“I really thought I locked this.” Your head snaps up. There, silhouetted against the gently swaying plastic sheeting, is Marc. You can only see the shape of him, but your skin prickles at his presence anyway. You don’t answer. “I’m sorry, Baby. I really didn’t want you to find out like this. I was going to tell you you were safe, I promise. I was just enjoying being with you so much.” You watch his hands curl into fists, before he drops them back down to his sides. “I couldn’t let him hurt you again.” 

This time, you do answer. “You killed him,” It’s hard to keep the accusing note out of your voice. 

“I saw him trashing your apartment. I knew he was going to wait for you to get back from shopping with your mom—” You practically choke on your tongue. How did he know that? How did he know you were with your mother? “And I couldn’t take the chance he’d get to you.” He shakes his head. “He’s not a good man, Sweetheart. He had to go.” 

“I see why you weren’t worried. Hard to worry about a dead man.” No sooner than you force the words out, Marc lunges at you, grabbing at you through the sheeting. He misses, though, and you stumble around behind him, practically tripping back into his apartment. You feel dizzy and uncoordinated, like your body can only give you the bare minimum of responses. 

“You need to rest, Sweetheart. It’s been a long day for you.”

“F-fuck you.” The words are like loose marbles in your mouth, rolling around aimlessly. You pull the door shut as you throw yourself through it, realizing belatedly that you’d never seen Marc take a single sip of his Jack Daniels—and you beat the hammer against the  door handle until it bends unnaturally, and you drop it from your clumsy fingers. 

You can hear Marc shouting, but the words are too far away to make sense, or at least, that’s how they sound in your cotton filled ears. You don’t even realize you’re down on your knees until you feel the hallway rug on your hands, the short, hard fibers digging into your raw palms. The door isn’t that far away now, but it still feels like miles as you drag yourself towards it, blood roaring in your ears.

It is cruel irony when you reach it, cool air flowing from the sliver of space between the door and the threshold while you pant on the floor. You can’t reach the handle, are too weak drag yourself to your feet so that you can—so you beat feebly against the thick metal, your tongue flopping uselessly in your mouth. 

As you lay your heavy, throbbing head against the cool floor, your fingers skip across deep scratches in the wood. The bench has been moved. Many times. On the floor across from you are more scratches, like the bench had been moved to sit parallel to the door. Tears leak from your bleary eyes, pooling on the floor beneath your cheek. It was the perfect height for someone to sit at. 

The perfect height for Marc to watch you, through the keyhole. 

the end.

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[notaboypossiblyagenius]

And when I call, you come home — E. Prentiss

warnings: depictions of blood, r has a pretty bad injury (a gunshot), angst, so much angst, no use of yn, technically no death, i’ve never seen snow, idk how it works so this is probably inaccurate, that’s not my problem tho. no happy ending, but whatever happens after the ending is up to you not me mwuahaha

wc: ~1,400

a/n: thank you to the sweetest ever @emilys-bangs for proofreading, shes getting many forehead kisses. i wrote this whilst listening to i know the end by phoebe bridgers. that’s all i’m gonna say.

let me know what you think, pretty please :3 comments, reblogs, and feedback are so super very appreciated!

In any other situation, the sight of snow resting on Emily’s eyelashes and the rosy hue coloring her cheeks would have made you smile. But now, the contrast of pink against Emily’s pale skin was akin to the blood seeping into the snow beneath your thigh.

"Take a deep breath." The words echoed in your mind just before the piercing pain of pressure shot up your leg. You gritted your teeth and inhaled sharply, unsure whether to feel relieved or terrified that your leg had gone numb.

“I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” Emily muttered, her voice tight as she tied the sleeve she'd torn from her jacket around your leg, the makeshift tourniquet pulling painfully. Through the haze of agony, you could catch a glimpse of her expression—a flicker of apology behind her determined gaze. A sheen layer of sweat covered your forehead as the last traces of color drained from your face. Your lips quivered in the biting cold, and suddenly, it felt like the tree you were propped against was sinking its teeth into your back.

The sound of blood rushing through your ears made it difficult to discern the sounds around you, but what you could hear was Emily barking desperate commands into her communication device. Your vision blurred, and you could barely make out her crouched form, her hand trembling slightly as it held the sleeve in place.

Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink, and your ragged breaths became slower. In any other situation, Emily might have thought you were simply falling asleep, but she knew better now. She knew you couldn’t. Her cold hands patted your cheeks frantically, the rough texture of her calloused palms scratching at your skin, but you didn’t have the energy to protest.

“Hey! Hey, stay with me,” she urged, her voice taut with fear, her eyes wide as she searched your face for signs of fading consciousness. “Keep your eyes open. Keep ‘em on me.” You tried—God, you tried to keep your focus on her, to cling to the anchor of her presence like you always had. But the pain was loud, the adrenaline had long since drained from your body, and all you wanted to do was succumb to the temptation of sweet relief your brain was offering.

“Hurts like hell,” you mumbled, your trembling hand reaching for her wrist. Your fingers weakly closed around her skin, the pressure barely there, but Emily felt it—she felt you hanging on, even if only by a thread.

“I know, I know,” she soothed, her voice cracking ever so slightly as she leaned closer. “But you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Your grip tightened subtly, a silent gesture. Of what? She couldn’t tell. But in that moment, she took it as a lifeline, clinging to the hope that you were still fighting.

“Where the hell are the medics?!” she shouted into the mic on her wrist, her lips pulling back in a snarl, frustration and fear overtaking her composure. You had spent hours studying Emily's face in quiet moments, memorizing every nuance—the slight crease in her brow, the tiny twitch in her eye. So when you saw those familiar signs of distress, you knew things were bad.

“What is it?” you croaked, forcing the words through your dry throat, fighting to stay conscious. Emily pressed her palm against her forehead, trying desperately to keep it together for your sake. But with your blood seeping into her hands, the icy air cutting through her lungs, and the knowledge that the paramedics couldn’t reach you, she felt like she was on the verge of breaking.

“The roads are icy. The medics... they can’t get to us.” Her voice wavered, betraying the terror she was trying so hard to suppress. You closed your eyes, a silent curse slipping through your cold lips followed by a shiver.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said, her voice shaking. You looked at her and she looked up at the darkening sky, sending a silent prayer to the one she hadn’t talked to in years. She licked her lips, inhaling deeply as if the cold air could steady her nerves. She looked back down at you, taking in the face she’d memorized over the years. The face she’d walk through hell for.

“They,” She began, her voice betraying the fear that coursed through her. the fear of not being able to do enough for you. “They’re not that far out.” She looked out into the woods, perhaps towards the road? you couldn’t tell. “We can meet them,” She assured, squeezing your hand.

You shook your head, you were more than appreciative for her stubbornness. She never knew when to stop; but, you were tired.

“No..” you shuddered, a faint smile on your lips as if you were trying to ease the hard to swallow pill you were about to shove in her mouth. “I— I can’t feel my leg, Emily.”

Emily’s face dropped and a bitter taste flooded her senses. She had two options, she could either let the fear paralyze her or she could paralyze her fear and save you—It was a no brainer.

She wrapped a hand around your left wrist, tucking her head under your arm. You winced in surprise, your sore muscles pulsing, reacting to her touch.

“Emily—” your protest died on your lips as she hooked her right arm under your non-injured leg, effectively distributing your weight across her shoulders as she stood.

A fireman’s carry, the most basic skill taught and practiced at the academy. A carry executed during sparring sessions and physical tests. A carry that she had associated with giggles and kicks as she used it to get you from her couch to her bed when you’d fall asleep. After years in the field, she’d finally applied it outside of a controlled environment, but as she took heavy-footed steps through the snow she wanted to close her eyes and be back in her living room. She wanted nothing more than for you to throw punches as you giggled and protested to be put down.

Her shoulders dug into your chests and stomach, the feeling making your breath ragged again. You didn’t know how long you’d been walking for, everything had blurred together after the bullet tore through your thigh.

"We're almost there," she promised, her voice steady despite the tremor in her breath. Her fingers dug into your leg, the pressure of her grip grounding you as the wail of sirens screamed in the distance, growing louder with every step she took. The dark stain of your blood seeped through her jacket, a vivid reminder of the weight she carried—not just your body, but the possibility of your life slipping through her hands. Every step was agony, her muscles burning with the strain.

The flashing of red and blue came into view and she could feel tears stinging in her eyes. She could hear Morgan yelling her name, and as his figure got closer she almost yelled at him for being in her way. Her legs gave out under her, and she placed you on the ground as gently as she could. “She’s concious—She’s concious but she’s lost a lot of blood, I—” She rambled, her hands holding yours impossibly tight. The paramedics surrounded the both of you, and Emily was afraid to let go. Afraid that this would be the last time she held you.

She pleaded with the stars above that they would consider her, that for once in her life they’d consider her. She felt you squeeze her hand back and that made her all the more reluctant to let go. But she couldn’t be selfish. she couldn’t do that to you.

“Prentiss! Woah, Prentiss! Let her go, you’ve done enough.” Derek’s voice cut through the haze that had overcome her, His hands enveloping her as she watched the paramedics take over.

Everything else seemed to blur together, is this what it’d been like for you?

After some back and forth with one of the paramedics, she gave in to being checked out. Derek sat next to her as she pulled the thermal blanket closer to herself, the thought of your blood being on her hands—figuratively and literally—made her shiver, though she chalked it up to the cold.

“She’s going to make it, Emily.” Derek voiced, but how could he know? He had no way of knowing, neither did she. She watched the sirens grow distant from the spot where she sat, all she could do was hope she’d done enough for you.

[chestersturniolo]

𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

ties to the past , part 2

Chris Sturniolo x fem!reader

Warnings; angsty, swearing, pet names, use of y/n. if you’ve read part one i suggest a re-read for full effect of part two hehe, enjoy !

••••••••••••••••

You shake your head, wiping away a tear. "I just need to know the truth, Chris. Where do we stand? Is this… are we real, or am I just filling in the gaps of what you lost with her?"

He looks at you, desperation in his eyes, searching for the right words, something that could possibly make this better. But all he can do is sit there, feeling helpless as the reality of the situation weighs down on both of you, the silence between you more telling than any words he could offer.

"I…-" he started, but his voice faltered. He looked up, meeting your tear-filled eyes.

"-I don’t have an excuse," he finally said, his voice soft and raw. 

"I’ve been a fool, and I didn’t even realize how much I was hurting you. I never wanted to make you feel like you were second to anyone. You’re not. You’re the most important person in my life."

You wanted to believe him, wanted to let his words soothe the ache in your chest, but the doubt lingered. 

"Then why, Chris?" you asked, your voice trembling. "Why does she still have this power over you? Why can’t you let her go?"

Chris ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his face.

 "I don’t know-" he admitted, his voice cracking. "Maybe because she was my first love, and I never really got closure. But that doesn’t mean I want her back. I’ve moved on, I swear I have, but…"

"But you haven’t really moved on," you interrupted.

Chris looked at you, his eyes pleading.

"No,no,you’re…you’re everything I want, everything I need. I know I’ve been an idiot, I know I’ve messed up, but I love you. I love you, not her”

You took a deep breath, as you took in Chris’ words. But they felt empty now. You wanted to believe him—desperately—but you couldn’t. 

"Chris-“ you began, your voice firmer now, though the tears still glistened in your eyes. 

"I love you too, but this... this isn't something we can just brush aside. You need to figure out what you really want, I can't keep living in this limbo”

His face fell, panic flashing in his eyes as he reached for you. "Please, don’t say that. We can work this out together. I’ll do anything—"

But you gently pulled away, shaking your head. "No, Chris. I think we need some time apart. You need to sort through this on your own, and I…i need some space right now"

The room seemed to grow colder as the reality of your words settled in. Chris’s hand dropped to his side, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear. He didn’t want to let you leave, but he knew that trying to deny you, would only make things worse, pushing you further out of the door. So, with defeated sigh, Chris slowly nodded.

The silence of the room was heavy, as you grabbed your things and headed for the door. You paused, looking back at him one last time, trying to etch the image of him into your mind, just in case this was the last time you saw him like this. Then you left, closing the door softly behind you, the finality of it hitting you like a punch to the gut.

---

A few days had passed. You had been throwing yourself into work, into distractions, anything to keep your mind off the gaping hole Chris had left behind. But no matter how hard you tried, he was always there, in the back of your mind, a constant presence you couldn’t shake.

It was on one of those restless afternoons that you found yourself wandering through the city, the bustle of life around you a contrast to the dull ache in your chest. The sky was overcast, a perfect reflection for your mood as you absentmindedly roamed the streets, unsure of where you were going until you stopped in front of a familiar coffee shop. 

You paused, something drawing your gaze to the large windows that lined the front of the shop. And that’s when you saw him—Chris—sitting at a table near the window. For a moment, relief and longing surged through you, but then your heart plummeted when you realized he wasn’t alone.

There she was, his ex, sitting across from him.

It felt like the world stopped, everything around you fading into a blur as you stared at the scene in front of you. His words from that night echoed in your head, louder and louder until they were all you could hear. 

“You’re the most important person in my life… I love you, not her”

Liar.

The words tore through you as you stare at the two of them from afar, and before you knew it, tears were streaming down your face, hot and relentless. You turned away quickly, heart pounding as you forced yourself to walk, then run, until the coffee shop was far,far behind you.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were shaking, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. The tears wouldn’t stop. Feeling broken, you sank onto your couch, burying your face in your hands as the weight of it all finally came crashing down.

~~~

~The following day~

The morning had barely begun when you heard a knock at the door. It was the last thing you wanted to deal with, especially after the night you’d had. 

Every part of you ached with exhaustion—physical, emotional, everything. But when the knocking persisted, you forced yourself to get up, dragging your feet across the floor as you made your way to the door.

When you opened it, there stood Chris. His eyes immediately fixing onto you. Your emotions were numb. With no more tears left to cry for him, you stared back at him, your expression remained blank and cold. 

"Can we talk?" he asked, his voice hesitant, almost fragile. 

You stay silent, raising your eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

"I miss you like hell ma,I want to work through this, through everything. I’m ready if and when you’ll have me…she's not a factor anymore”

You shook your head slowly, a small laugh of disbelief escaping you. 

"Fucking liar" you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Chris’s face fell, confusion and hurt flashing across his features. 

"What?"

Your voice hardened as you repeated yourself, louder this time. 

"I said, fucking liar. I saw you yesterday, Chris”The memory of seeing him with her burned fresh in your mind, making your voice shake with barely suppressed anger.

His jaw dropped slightly, and he stammered

"I-it wasn’t what it looked like, I swear”

You’d heard enough. You moved to slam the door in his face, but he quickly wedged his foot in the gap, stopping it from closing. 

"Wait, please!" he begged, desperation thick in his voice. "Just hear me out… please y/n!" he pleaded.

With a tired sigh, you relented, letting go of the door and letting it swing open again. Chris’ eyes were filled with tears now.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before he spoke. 

"I only met up with her to end things for good. She wouldn’t leave me alone—she kept calling, texting. I thought if I saw her in person,she’d finally get the message”

You felt a flicker of doubt as you listen 

"And you expect me to believe that?" 

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "Yes. Because it’s the truth. I know I messed up, but I’m telling you—it’s done. i have my closure now. And yes,she was my first love. But you…you’re the love of my life-“ 

Chris let’s put a shaky breath.

“-you’re my future y/n. I need you to believe that."

For a long moment, you said nothing, just staring at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit. He looked back at you, his eyes desperate. The numbness you felt,now faltering after hearing chris’ words, as a wave of emotion crashes over you, tears pricking in your eyes.

“How can I trust you?” you whisper 

Chris took a step closer

 “Let me prove it to you. Give me the chance to show you that I’m committed to us. I’ll do whatever it takes to earn back your trust”

A flicker of hope ignited in your chest, mingling with the remnants of your hurt. It was a risk, opening your heart again, but maybe it was a risk worth taking.

“One chance, Chris”

His face lit up with relief as he reaches his hands to cup your cheeks

“That’s all i need baby-“ he starts as he brings his forehead to rest against yours, letting out a huge sigh of relief.

“-thankyou thankyou thankyou” chris repeats to himself in a whisper.

~~~

Days turned into weeks, and Chris worked hard to rebuild your trust. He was there for you, listening, being open about everything, proving through his actions that he was serious about making things right. You began to feel the walls you’d built around your heart start to crumble again as time went on. The ties to the past untethering. 

••••••••••••••••••

A/N; FINALLLYYYYY!!! i’m sorry it took so longgg i just wanted to make sure i had enough time to put the effort into it, i hope you guys enjoyed!!! 🤍

- 𝑺𝒂𝒈𝒆 ♡

Part 1 - ties to the past

MASTERLIST

tag list;

@sturnobsessedwh0re @nayveetbhh @phone4pills @demzzz @dripgodnay

@sturniooolos @monroesturnns @mattsbitchh @slutforsturnioloss @pvssychicken @tsturniolo4 

@brianna-grace12 

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Another celebration ficlet. The ask for this one somehow got deleted from the inbox, but I know it was sent by @weirdandabsurd42 - hope you enjoy! 🥰

On being seen

Rated: T

Words: 990

Tags: Post-Vecna; Injury; Hospitals; Hair loss; Referenced parental death; Hurt/comfort; Steve Harrington is a sweetheart; Pre-Steddie

“Brought you these,” Dustin says, stacking some books on the bedside table. Eddie spots The Hobbit at the top of the pile. “They’re mine, but you can keep them until …” 

“Until what?” Eddie asks. His voice is a thin rasp, grating on shredded vocal cords. “Until they unearth my home from that interdimensional sinkhole? Fat fucking chance, huh?” 

Dustin swallows, hiding his face under his cap. Guilt churns in Eddie’s gut like acid. His left hand - the one that’s not hooked to the beeping machines - flies up to fiddle with his hair, only to come up blank. 

Oh, right. They cut it off during the surgery. It’s gone, just like half his face and jaw. 

“You should go,” he says. “s getting dark and your mom will want you home.” 

Dustin looks up, eyes bright. “But-” 

Eddie shakes his head as well as the bandages will let him. “C’mon, I need my beauty sleep. I promise I won’t go anywhere.” 

Dustin hesitates and Eddie’s afraid he’ll start to argue, or worse, plead. But then, the kid sighs, rising from his chair. 

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” 

Eddie raises his hand for a wave, pausing when he catches sight of his bare fingers. 

“Henderson?” 

Dustin turns in the door, face gaunt in the sterile light of the hospital corridor. 

“You haven't heard about…?” 

Eddie wiggles his hand. Dustin’s expression morphs into one of regret.

“Sorry,” he says. “I asked the nurses, but there were so many emergencies. Maybe they got thrown in the trash or something.” 

Eddie nods. Tries to tug at his hair again. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Dustin shuffles uncomfortably. “Listen, I could-” 

“I said it's okay, Henderson. Good night.” 

Dustin sighs. “Night, Eddie.” 

The beeping of the machines follows Eddie into his dreams, where it turns into the shrieks of the swarm.

*

When he startles awake, it's dark outside his window. 

There's a figure in the chair beside his bed, backlit by the heart monitor.

“Fuck, Henderson,” Eddie groans. “I told you to go home.” 

The figure jerks upright with a snort. 

“Shit,” it mumbles. “Sorry, ‘m awake.” 

It’s not Dustin.

Eddie freezes, terror sinking into his every limb like lead. The noise of the machines drowns under the roar of his own blood in his ears. 

“Hey,” says the figure, voice low and soothing, and he realizes a bit belatedly that he made a sound - a raw, terrified thing, like a trapped animal. “Hey, it’s okay. Eddie, it’s me. It’s Steve.” 

A hand reaches for his. It’s warm and strong and so much bigger than his own. He jerks away so violently he almost pulls the iv-cord from his arm. 

“No,” he rasps. “Don’t touch me. Get away from me.” 

Steve flinches, hand falling limply into his own lap. Eddie can’t see his expression in the dark. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want Steve to see him, not like this. Hurt and bare and small with nothing left to hide behind.  

Neither of them speaks or moves for a while, the slowly calming heart monitor the only sound in the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says at length. “I just … I’ll go. Just wanted to give these back.” 

He rummages for something in his pocket, then holds out his open palm - carefully, like an offering. Eddie’s breath catches in his ruined throat. 

“Where’d you find these?” 

“Um,” Steve shuffles in his seat. “Saw them lying on the nurse’s desk the other day. Sorry I didn’t return them sooner, things have been sorta crazy out there.” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just snatches the rings. He attempts to slip them on, but he can’t use his right hand, and his fingers haven't stopped trembling since he first woke up. Nerve damage, the doctors said. He fumbles and drops the rings, but Steve is there to scoop them up before they can fall to the ground. 

“Here, let me.” 

Eddie watches, frozen in place, heart in his throat, as Steve slips the rings onto the fingers of his left hand. Cross on the index finger, boar in the middle, skull on his ring finger. His breath tickles the skin of Eddie’s wrist. 

“This one's special, right?” 

Eddie blinks out of his stupor. Steve has taken a hold of his right hand, infinitely careful to not disturb the needles and cords, and slipped the last ring back on. The delicate one with the dark, oval stone.

Eddie nods. His voice won't obey him, but this time, it has nothing to do with his injuries. 

“My mom's.” 

Steve hums in understanding, and Eddie knows he doesn’t need to say more. 

“Tell me about her?” 

Not a request. An offer. Eddie squints at Steve’s shadowy face as he settles back in his chair. 

“Why?” 

Steve shrugs. “You’re one of us. I’d like to know more about you.” 

Eddie can’t help it, he needs to laugh. It burns in his throat and sends tears to his eyes. He tries to tug a strand of hair in front of his face to hide them and grasps only at thin air. 

“Not sure what to tell you, big boy. Not a whole lot left of me, is there?” 

“You’re brave and kind and tough,” Steve says, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “You’re great with the kids, and an amazing musician, and you were willing to die for a town that hates your guts. I think that’s a whole lot. The outside stuff will come back.” 

Some of it already has, Eddie thinks, fingertips rubbing against the familiar shape of his rings. 

“Her name was Elizabeth,” he says. “She died when I was seven.” 

Steve listens for a long while, not interrupting once. He doesn’t switch on the light. He doesn’t need to, Eddie thinks. He feels more seen than he has in a long while, sitting here in the dark, allowing Steve to get to know him. 

Somehow, it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

More celebration ficlets

[its-avalon-08]

bound by heartbreak (cl16)

✦ pairing - charles leclerc x female!reader

✦ genre - coping with death, angst, alot of tears, happy ending

summary: bound by tragedy, charles leclerc and y/n bianchi, sister to the late jules bianchi, find solace in each other. on the somber anniversary of jules’ passing, their grief collides, pushing them to the brink. as they navigate the complexities of loss and guilt, their love and support become their only lifeline.

The weight of the world seemed to press down on Charles as he stared out of the Monaco apartment window. The city, usually a vibrant tapestry of lights and life, appeared muted, a reflection of the somber day. Today was the anniversary of Jules Bianchi’s death, a scar that wouldn’t heal, a wound that reopened with every tick of the clock.

His phone buzzed, pulling him from the abyss. It was Y/N, Jules’ younger sister, his anchor in the storm. "Hey, are you okay bebe?" her voice was a gentle caress, a soft whisper in the chaos of his mind.

"I’m trying cherie," he managed, his voice barely audible.

There was a long pause, the kind that held more meaning than words. "I know," she replied, her voice trembling slightly. "I know charlie. I just want you to know that Maman is having a lunch tonight to celebrate Jules. He would want you to come." Charles swallowed a lump in his throat and then agreed. The loss was unbearable but Y/N made everything better.

They had shared a bond forged in grief, a silent understanding that transcended words. Y/N was more than just Jules’ sister; she was his confidante, his solace, his love. Their relationship, born from tragedy, had blossomed into an oasis of support in the desert of their shared pain.

Later that evening, they sat on the terrace, the city lights twinkling like distant stars. A gentle breeze carried the salty scent of the Mediterranean. Y/N reached out, her hand finding his.

"Remember that time Jules taught us how to make pasta?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Charles. He could almost hear Jules’ infectious laughter, see his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "He was a terrible chef, but we had fun."

They laughed, a bittersweet sound that echoed the complexity of their feelings. Sharing memories of Jules was their way of keeping him alive, of honoring his spirit.

As the night deepened, a silence fell between them. It was a heavy silence, filled with unspoken words and unyielding grief. Y/N stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace. She looked out at the vast expanse of the sea, her silhouette a stark contrast against the city lights.

Charles watched her, his heart aching. He knew that look, the mask of composure slipping, revealing the raw pain beneath. He stood up and joined her, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"It’s okay to not be okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Y/N leaned into his embrace, tears silently tracing paths down her cheeks. "I miss him so much, Charlie, it's not fair. Why was he taken away so young? He never got to see me grow up, fall in love with you or make a family. I'll never get to see him again and it hurts." she sobbed, her voice muffled against his chest.

He held her tighter, offering silent comfort. Charles spoke up after a moment, "You know cherie, Jules spoke about you every second he could. He loved his little sister and I know for a fact that he is looking down at us smiling, knowing that you'll be okay. Maybe even wanting to chase me with a broom for dating you." They laughed as they cuddles closer. They stood there for what felt like an eternity, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of emotions.

Later that night, as Y/N slept peacefully, Charles woke with a start. A cold sweat drenched his body, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The nightmare, a recurring visitor, had returned. It was always the same – the car, the crash, the helplessness. He remembered watching the screen, as Jules's car went under the safety vehicle and the pure agony on Y/N's face.

He stumbled out onto the terrace, the cool night air providing a momentary respite. He leaned against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The pain was overwhelming, a physical ache that consumed him. He was strong, he was Charles Leclerc, but even he had his limits. His body trembled, a silent earthquake within. The memory of Jules, sharp and vivid, was a relentless tormentor. His mind replayed the accident on an endless loop, a horror film he couldn’t escape.

He was alone, or so he thought. The weight of the world was crushing him, and he couldn’t breathe. The guilt was a suffocating fog, a constant reminder of his own survival. He was a Formula 1 driver, a man of speed and precision, but in this moment, he was nothing but a broken vessel.

A soft touch on his arm startled him. He turned to find Y/N standing there, her eyes filled with concern. She had woken up, sensing his absence from the bed.

"Charles?" Her voice was soft, a gentle anchor in the storm.

He tried to compose himself, to mask the turmoil within, but the facade crumbled. Tears, hot and uncontrolled, streamed down his face.

"I’m so selfish Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the city's hum. "I’m the worst kind of person. You lost your brother and I'm crying and making this about me. What kind of person does that?"

Y/N stepped closer, her arms opening wide. Without hesitation, Charles fell into her embrace, his body shaking with sobs. She held him tightly, her warmth a comforting shield against the storm raging within him.

"You’re not selfish, Charlie," she said softly, stroking his hair. "You’re hurting, and that’s okay. We’re hurting together. You lost Jules just as much as I did. He was your godfather bebe. You loved him and he loved you. Of course you're in pain."

"But it’s different for me," he protested, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I survived. I’m still here, living my life, while he... he’s gone."

"And that’s incredibly hard," Y/N acknowledged, her voice filled with empathy. "But that doesn’t make you selfish. You’re grieving, Charles. You’re allowed to feel everything you’re feeling."

"I just want to make it stop," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper.

"I know," she replied, her voice steady. "But it won’t stop overnight. Healing takes time, and it’s a journey we have to take together."

They stood there for what felt like hours, the city lights a distant blur. In the quiet of the night, they found solace in each other's presence. It was in these shared moments of vulnerability that their bond deepened, a testament to their resilience.

Eventually, the intensity of Charles’ emotions began to subside. Y/N continued to hold him, her presence a constant source of comfort. Slowly, the storm within him began to calm.

"Thank you Y/N, I don't know what I could do without you." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Always cherie," she replied, squeezing him tighter.

They stood there for a few more moments, the silence between them filled with unspoken understanding. And as the first light of dawn touched the horizon, they returned to the apartment, hand in hand, facing the new day with a renewed strength, born from their shared sorrow and unwavering support.

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, a sense of calm washed over him. He took a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs. He would face the day, one step at a time. He would be there for Y/N, as she had always been there for him. Together, they would carry on, honoring Jules’ memory by living their lives to the fullest.

The sun rose, casting its golden light on the city. A new day was dawning, filled with hope and resilience. And as the world woke up, so did Charles and Y/N, their hearts heavy but unbroken, their love for each other a beacon in the darkness.

[hotluncheddie]

for the @steddie-spooktober day 5 prompt : "Did you hear that?"

rated: T | cw: weed | tags: pre s3 events, pre relationship, Steve Harrington has PTSD, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart

( please also remind yourself of this gem first - take note of the hotdog on a stick uniforms pls & ty )

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‘Did you hear that?’ Eddie asks, sitting up from his slouch in the back of his van, hat discarded and vertical striped vest untucked from his shorts.

Steve tenses, blood rushing and adrenaline pumping his heart faster. He wades through their hot box mist to look through the front window, taking in the parking lot. Looking for people, monsters, anything that could make a sound.

‘What. What did you hear?’ He asks, short and direct. This could be bad. ‘What kind of noise was it Eddie.’

Steve scopes the deserted Star-Court lot once more, turning to Eddie, confused by his silence. ‘Eddie? What did you hear?’

But Eddie just stares at him, eyes red and sleepy and concerned.

‘Stevie.’ He says softly. They got too high, they smoked too much. Steve doesn’t even know what time it is, he can’t loose his wits like that. Cant keep sinking into the solace Eddie’s drugs give him. The solace the man himself seems to offer, friendly and understanding and somehow so so kind under everything.

‘What?’ Steve’s voice is raising, he can’t be high and fight, in his stupid sailor uniform. What if it’s back? What if it comes for Eddie this time?

Eddie shuffles over to the back doors, throwing them open and slipping down onto the concrete in just his socks.

He bends down and scoops something from off the floor.

Turning back to Steve with a black cat in his arms.

‘S’just Miss Noire Stevie. Just the parking lot cat I see sometimes.’ And Eddie smiles at him, sweet and small and still so achingly concerned.

Steve realises then that his fists and jaw are clenched. That his shoulders hurt and his knees ache from being crouched and wound so tight.

He laughs shakily, crawling over and reaching out a trembling hand for the little black ball of fur.

The cat sniffs him, taking her time to decide if he’s friendly or not. But eventually her little head bumps up against his palm and Steve giggles breathlessly, his eyes stinging. The tension seeping out of him again. His high mostly gone and the stress leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but it’s okay. They’re okay.

The monsters are gone.

They’re gone.

It’s just him and Eddie again, in the back of a van after their shifts at equally shitty jobs.

Him and his now good friend Eddie. Who gets it. He doesn’t get it, but he gets Steve, or wants too, tries too.

‘Sorry.’ Steve says, eyes on the cat.

‘You’re good man. Sorry for not explaining quicker.’ Eddie whispers.

Glancing up their eyes meet. Steve feels vulnerable and open under Eddie’s stare. His neck heating.

But maybe if it’s Eddie. Just Eddie looking. Maybe he doesn’t really mind.

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