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jhyoos · 2 days ago

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Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl 3

bronc rider abby x reader

mentions: romance, kissing, jealous abby, angst, lesbians being lesbians, time jump, proposal, marriage, lev mentioned

summary: you and abby have been together for 5 months.

notes : thank you guys for supporting me throughout this! its gonna be a long finale, but no smut. i wasnt exactly inspired to do so. i also didnt proofread this

part 1 | part 2

It’d been five months since Abby asked you to be hers—half a year since that night in a random Airbnb, all golden warmth and sleepy grins, the kind of night that felt like it could stretch into forever. And for a minute there, it did. You were so happy. Like… stupid, in-love, nothing-can-touch-me happy. The kind of happy that lives in your chest like fireworks on slow burn.

But then the season picked up, and Abby hit the road again—arena after arena, bronc after bronc, town after dusty town. You tried to keep that high alive, clutching onto the glow through glitchy Facetime calls and texts that came in at 2 AM. It wasn’t her fault—she was chasing her dreams. You admired the hell out of that. Still, it left this hollow little ache in your ribs. Like you’d been laughing too hard and suddenly stopped.

So you did what anyone trying not to drown in missing someone does—you distracted yourself. Nights out with Dina, Ellie, and Jesse turned into hazy parties, neon lights, and laughter that felt a little too loud, like you were trying to cover up the silence that always followed you home. You’d stumble in with smeared eyeliner and a phone full of selfies, only to meet the stillness of your apartment. Just you, your pounding head, and the echo of a love that felt too far away.

Your dad kept you grounded in the weirdest, most comforting way—parked next to you on the couch, both of you watching Abby on TV as she took yet another win. There she was, fierce and unshakable, the kind of woman who made dirt and danger look like ballet. You cheered for her from the safety of your living room, voice raw from pride, chest heavy from longing.

And then—like the universe finally decided to toss you a bone—she called you after work. Her voice warm, tired, but laced with something bright. “Babe,” she said, “I want you to come with me. For the last few competitions. Travel with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. Of course you said yes. How could you not?

Because loving Abby was easy. It was the waiting that hurt.

And now? Now you were gonna close that distance, one dusty road and rodeo at a time.

The trips were like something out of a movie—dusty highways traded for high-rise skylines, small-town gas stations swapped with rooftop bars and glittering hotel lobbies. It was new terrain, but the same Abby, steady at your side, even when she was too busy to hold your hand. You met her team for the first time, all easy smiles and backstage chaos. Her manager, Manny, was this fast-talking, big-hearted guy who looked like he hadn’t slept since the 90s but still somehow ran the whole operation like a well-oiled machine.

The hotels? Insane. Plush robes, room service pancakes at midnight, elevators that whispered instead of dinged. You were swept up in it—this world she’d built, this life she lived on the edge of dust and spotlight. And when she rode? God. She was electric. Each competition was like watching lightning try to outdo itself. And she won—again and again, like the universe owed her.

But then finals came.

The moment you checked into that glossy glass-and-gold hotel, something shifted. Abby barely set down her bag before she grabbed her gear, threw on her hat, and kissed your cheek with a distracted “I’ll be back,” already halfway out the door with Manny. You sat on the bed surrounded by the emptiness of luxury, her absence suddenly louder than any TV could cover.

You didn’t see her again till sometime around 3 AM. The room was dark, cool, and quiet when you felt her—soft lips pressing kisses down your shoulder, warm hands tracing the shape of your body like she was memorizing it again. She tasted like rain and adrenaline. What followed was a blur of breathless moans and running water, bodies colliding beneath the steam. She fell asleep right after, wrapped around you like armor, only to wake again at dawn and press a kiss to your temple like none of it was real.

And then came the finals.

Before the event, she kissed you. Not just a quick “see you later,” but something slow, deep. “For luck,” she whispered, brushing your nose with hers. You wore the hat—the same one she gave you the first night you met at the rodeo, when you were just a pretty buckle bunny she couldn’t stop staring at. That hat had history. Sweat, stories, so much damn love stitched into the band it felt like it buzzed with it.

The arena roared.

You watched her enter the ring, all calm fury and perfect form. The bronc bucked like it had something to prove, muscles snapping like whips beneath Abby. The crowd held its breath—so did you. Every second felt like a knife’s edge. But she held on, knuckles white, jaw clenched, focus locked in. Until—

Her grip faltered.

It was a blink. A gasp. She slipped—hard.

The sound when her body hit the ground was sickening, a sharp crack that silenced the crowd. Her head bounced against the dirt, limbs limp for just a second too long. Your heart dropped straight through your stomach. The bronc was still raging, hooves inches from her skull before the handlers wrangled it away.

Medics were on her in seconds.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just sat there in the stands clutching that cowboy hat like a lifeline, willing her to blink, to breathe, to move.

The hospital was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. It was the kind of chill that sank beneath your skin, into your bones, into that trembling, panicked part of you that refused to calm down no matter how many deep breaths you tried to take.

They rushed her through those sliding glass doors, sirens still echoing in your ears. You tried to follow—your legs moving before your brain even caught up—but a nurse stepped into your path, her hands outstretched.

“Ma’am, you can’t go back there.”

“Please, please—she’s my girlfriend!” your voice cracked, raw with desperation. “She needs me.”

The nurse’s face softened, just for a moment, but the rules were rules and you were left standing there, helpless, as the doors swung shut behind Abby. Like some invisible wall had slammed down between you and the only person in the world who made sense.

You found yourself beside Manny in the waiting room, both of you pacing, sitting, standing, pacing again. Time stopped making sense. Minutes bled into each other, stretched long and thin by worry.

You’d been staring blankly at the tiled floor when a voice cut through the silence.

“How’s Abby?”

You looked up. A man stood there—tall, sturdy, with a presence that carried weight. His eyes were locked on Manny.

“I don’t know,” Manny said, voice low. “They haven’t said anything yet.”

The man nodded once, jaw tight. “I’ll go find out…” Then his gaze shifted, landed on you. “You must be the girlfriend.”

There was a beat of silence, your heart tripping over itself. You straightened up, nodding, uncertain. “Yes, sir.”

His face softened just a bit. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jerry. Abby’s father.”

You blinked, startled, and reached to shake his hand—but he didn’t just shake it. He took it gently, and kissed the back of it with this old-school grace that caught you completely off guard.

“Come on,” he said, voice calm but full of something steady. “We’re gonna find out what’s wrong with her.”

You nodded, swallowing down the fear trying to rise in your throat like a tidal wave. You rose to your feet and followed him, step for step, as the halls stretched ahead of you like a maze.

The weight of that cowboy hat still rested on your head—Abby’s hat. Her heart. Her everything.

And all you could do now was pray you’d get to see her wear it again.

The hospital hallway buzzed with that sterile kind of quiet—machines beeping behind doors, murmurs of nurses, the squeak of shoes on polished linoleum. You walked next to Jerry, your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your palms. Manny trailed just behind, his usual confident stride dulled by the weight of the moment.

A nurse sat behind the front desk, eyes flicking between screens like she was watching a thousand lives play out in real time. Jerry stepped forward, that protective edge in his voice suddenly softer.

“Hi. Abigail Anderson—she was just brought in from the rodeo.”

The nurse clicked through the system, her face unreadable as her eyes scanned lines of text. You held your breath like the words on the screen might determine the rest of your life.

“She’s in the OR now,” the nurse said, her tone professional but kind. “Head trauma. CT scans showed a depressed skull fracture on the left parietal bone, just above the ear. The pressure was building fast—we had to move quickly. But the surgery’s underway now, and she’s stable.”

“Wait, wait—skull fracture?” you asked, your voice trembling, like the words tasted foreign in your mouth.

The nurse nodded, glancing at you. “It’s called a comminuted fracture. The bone shattered into fragments and was pressing against her brain. The swelling was dangerous, but the surgeon went in to relieve the pressure and remove the bone shards. So far, there haven’t been any complications. She’s responding well under anesthesia.”

You leaned against the desk, knees nearly giving out. Jerry stepped closer to you instinctively, like his body knew yours needed something solid to hold onto. Manny just stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes glassy like the words were still echoing through him.

“She’s in good hands,” the nurse said, her eyes softening. “The team operating on her—some of the best we have. If all goes well, she’ll be out of surgery in an hour. Then it’s recovery. Monitoring brain function. But for now… she’s okay. We’ll keep you updated.”

You could’ve cried right there.

Stable. No complications. Okay.

It wasn’t over—but she was fighting, even now, even unconscious, just like always. Strong. Stubborn. Still Abby.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and whispered, “Thank you.” You clutched the brim of her cowboy hat in your hands like a prayer, and sat down beside Jerry and Manny.

All you could do now was wait.

And hope.

The wait dragged on like time had molasses in its veins. Every second felt like it was trying to strangle you. You sat between Jerry and Manny, heart thudding in your throat, replaying every second of Abby’s fall over and over in your head like a broken film reel. The nurse had said an hour, but it felt like forever.

And then—finally—the surgeon stepped out, mask down, eyes calm. He spoke with Jerry first, quiet and low. You watched Jerry nod, the tension in his shoulders softening by degrees before he turned back toward you and Manny.

“She’s out of the OR,” he said, his voice like an exhale. “Stable, but real weak. She’s got a long way to go… but she made it.”

Manny covered his mouth with his hand, his relief visible in the way his knees buckled for half a second. You felt your body finally release the breath it had been holding since the arena.

Jerry reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder. “She asked for you.”

Those four words nearly undid you.

You stood on shaky legs, holding her hat to your chest like armor. As you followed Jerry down the hallway toward the recovery wing, the world blurred around the edges. The white walls, the nurses, the hum of machines—it all faded as you reached her door.

Jerry stepped in first, made sure everything was okay, then gave you a little nod and stepped out, letting the door ease shut behind you.

Abby was in the bed—pale, too still, with wires curling around her arms like vines and a monitor rhythmically ticking out the beat of her survival. A thick white bandage was wrapped around her head, just above her temple, stark against her golden skin.

Her eyes opened slow, sleepy. Dazed.

And when they landed on you, they lit up with something soft and star-bright.

“God…” she whispered, lips dry, voice hoarse. “It’s like I see an angel.”

You let out a broken little laugh, walking toward her like you weren’t sure your legs would carry you all the way. “That’s not funny, Abs,” you murmured, voice catching, eyes already stinging.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips—gentle, lingering, like you were scared she might vanish if you let go too soon.

She blinked up at you, eyes glassy but full of something fierce. “I know…” she breathed out, her voice trembling like wind through cracked glass, “…but I had to make sure you remembered how pretty you are.”

You laughed again, watery and disbelieving, forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And right then, in that too-bright hospital room with the machines humming like lullabies and her hand barely holding yours, you knew—love like this didn’t break easy.

It bent, it burned, it bled—but it survived.

A few days passed, slow and tender. Abby’s color started coming back, her voice a little stronger each morning. You brought her breakfast with way too many syrups, fluffed her pillows like it was a full-time job, and sat by her side every time the nurse came in to check vitals. The machines came off, one by one, and the bruises on her face started to fade into soft purples and yellows like a sunset trying to disappear.

When the doctor gave her the green light to leave, you’d already made up your mind.

You extended the hotel stay—no hesitation. There was no way you were putting her in a car for hours when she still winced from bending down to tie her shoes. You didn’t care how fancy the hospital discharge paperwork looked. She needed time. Real time. Not just to heal her skull, but to let her heart catch up to the trauma her body had been through.

You made a cozy little nest out of the hotel room, full of takeout containers, ginger tea, soft music, and quiet, lingering kisses on her temple. You were patient. Gentle. You didn’t push her.

But when it came to bronc riding? That’s where the softness ended.

“Abs,” you said one afternoon, tucked beside her in bed, her head in your lap. “You can’t go back to riding. Not yet. Not for months. You almost died.”

Her fingers twitched against yours, jaw tight. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’m not planning on anything right now.”

It felt honest. Grounded. Like she was finally seeing what you saw.

Then Manny showed up, practically bouncing through the door with this grin that said everything’s changed.

“She won,” he announced. “Abby—you won the finals. They gave it to you. Even with the fall. You’re number one now. Top bronc rider in the league. You're officially the best.”

Abby lit up. Not just a spark—an explosion. Her whole face transformed. She sat up straighter, eyes wide, like every ache in her body disappeared in that one breath.

“No way,” she whispered, then louder, “No way! I did it!”

You saw it immediately—the way the fire flickered back into her eyes. Not just joy, but hunger. She was already reaching for the reins again, already leaning toward the ring.

And just like that, your heart dropped.

“No,” you said, firm. “You’re not getting back on that bronc. Not for months. You agreed.”

“Babe—”

“No!” Your voice cracked like a whip, sharp and scared. “You’re chasing death. You think being number one means it’s worth it? Worth nearly breaking your skull open?”

“It is worth it!” she snapped. “I worked my whole damn life for this. You want me to just sit here while everything I built fades away?”

“It’s not fading,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s just pausing. For your safety. For us.”

She didn’t hear you. Not really. The gears were already turning in her head—future interviews, comeback rides, glory burning behind her ribs.

That’s when the fear turned into anger. A bitter, aching, sharp-edged kind of love that clawed its way out of your throat.

“Then fine,” you said, standing up, the hotel light casting your shadow over her. “If you get back a bronc in these next few months, we’re done. I mean it.”

Abby blinked, like you’d just slapped her.

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” you said, voice trembling. “Between the ride that almost killed you… and the person who sat in a hospital praying you’d wake up.”

The silence that followed could’ve cracked stone.

You didn’t want to leave her. Didn’t want to fight. But love wasn’t just kisses and winning smiles. It was boundaries. It was saying no when saying yes might cost everything.

And now… she had to choose.

Abby didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you like she couldn’t recognize the weight of what you just said. Her breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling like she’d just taken a hit—but not from a bronc. From you.

You didn’t want to hurt her. God, that was the last thing you wanted. But watching her get tossed like that, head slamming against dirt, blood soaking into the ground—you’d never unsee that. You couldn’t just sit back and let her flirt with death again, not while calling it passion.

Her fingers clenched in the sheets, jaw tightening. “You don’t get it.”

Your heart cracked a little. “Then help me. Help me understand why being number one matters more than being alive, Abby.”

“It’s not about the title,” she muttered, eyes burning. “It’s about me. It’s who I am. If I walk away now… it’s like all the bruises, all the broken bones, everything I’ve fought for—it’s like it never meant anything.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice, trying not to let it tremble. “It meant something. It still does. But it’s not worth dying for. And it’s not worth losing me for.”

Abby looked away. Swallowed hard.

You watched her wrestle with it—watched pride and pain and fear wage war behind those storm-colored eyes. And you knew this was deeper than just a sport. It was legacy. Identity. The only thing she ever truly called hers.

But you also knew that love meant sometimes being the anchor when the person you love is lost in the current. And right now, she was drifting.

You sat beside her again, softer this time. “I love you, Abby. That’s why I’m saying this. Because I want more time with you. I want to grow old with you. I want you in one piece.”

Her eyes welled up, but she blinked the tears away fast, like letting them fall would be surrender.

“I don’t know if I can stay off that long,” she whispered, voice cracking. “What if I lose everything while I’m gone?”

You gently reached for her hand. “Then we build it again. Together. But you can’t ride if you’re gone. And I can't keep standing by if you're choosing danger over us.”

There was another beat of silence.

Then finally, she exhaled. Shaky. Heavy.

“Okay,” she said, so soft it barely reached you. “Okay. I won’t ride. Not yet.”

You didn’t trust it fully. Not yet. But it was something. A crack in the armor. A promise, maybe.

And for now, you took her hand, pulled her into your arms, and let your heartbeat speak the things words couldn’t. That you were scared. That you were here. That you loved her enough to draw the line—and stand at it, hoping she’d cross back to you.

The months that followed were golden—soft-lit and slow, like the world finally let the two of you breathe.

Abby kept her word. She stayed off the broncs, at least for a while, and during that time, you two found something even more powerful than adrenaline or spotlight. You found each other—fully, deeply, without distraction.

Your nights weren’t wild or extravagant, but they were full of the kind of magic you don’t realize you’re living in until you look back. Takeout scattered across the living room floor, your favorite show half-playing in the background. You’d sit wrapped in a blanket, your head on her shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing hearts on your thigh. Some nights, when the mood was just right, you’d throw on a slow country song and dance barefoot in the living room, her hands on your waist, your head tucked beneath her chin. Just two girls, in love, swaying under cheap lighting like it was moonlight.

One of those nights, when everything felt almost too perfect to be real, she pulled back mid-dance and looked you straight in the eye.

“You gonna marry me or what?”

You laughed. “Is that your proposal?”

Then she got down on one knee, with nothing but her eyes shining and a promise trembling on her lips.

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the dream kept unfolding.

By the time the rodeo season came back around, Abby was ready—mind sharp, body stronger, heart steadier. She kissed you before her first ride back and whispered, “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

You believed her. And she didn’t let you down.

Month by month, ride by ride, she rose again. Not like before—more calculated now. Wiser. Safer. But still electric. Still Abby. And the crowds? They loved her even more for it.

When your wedding day finally came, it felt like time had slowed to give you space to soak it all in.

The garden was blooming—roses and peonies and wild little blossoms that caught the sun just right. The very place you’d dreamed of since you were sixteen, flipping through bridal magazines and sketching your future in a tattered notebook.

And your dress?

It was everything.

A backless mermaid silhouette, hugging you in all the right places, designed by you, sewn by your hands, born from your vision. Silk that shimmered like moonlight and lace like whispers. People gasped when you walked down the aisle, but all you saw was Abby—tears in her eyes, hands shaking, heart wide open like a promise she never planned to break.

You said I do with voices cracking and hands trembling and hearts racing. And when she kissed you—when she held you—it felt like every version of you that ever hurt, ever doubted, ever feared... finally exhaled.

Abby posted the wedding photos the next day, and within hours your dress was everywhere. Viral. Trending. Everyone wanted to know who made that dress. And the answer?

You.

Your online boutique lit up overnight. Sales pouring in. Clients requesting customs. And soon, you had a space of your own—a little shop with big windows and your name etched on the front like a crown.

Abby stayed right beside you through it all. She didn’t just support your dream—she believed in it. While she kept climbing back up the rodeo ranks, every fall she took was met with grace, every win with humility. It took time, sure. But eventually, she was number one again. No shortcuts. No risks. Just grit and growth.

Now, when you walk past your closet, you see that dress—the one you wore when you became hers forever—and you smile.

Because this? This wasn’t a fairytale.

This was earned. This was real. And this was just the beginning.

It had been a few years since you stood under that wildflower arch and promised forever, and now… you were Mrs. Anderson. A name that still made your heart skip when you caught it on letters, packages, little tags Abby left on the fridge when she forgot to kiss you goodbye.

The broncs were behind her now. Abby had hung up her saddle from competition, traded in the roar of the crowd for the quiet power of the earth. You both bought a patch of land so wide you could breathe in every direction—and turned it into something out of a painting. A white wraparound house with creaky wood floors and a porch that caught every color of the sunset. Behind it? Acres of open sky and warm earth. Horses that she raised with her bare hands. Cows with names. Sheep that wandered like soft little ghosts through the pasture.

Abby became a rancher like it was what she was meant for all along. Sunrise woke her before the alarm. She’d tie her hair up, pull on her boots, and disappear into the misty morning to tend to the land. She looked right out there—sun spilling through the trees, hay in her hair, humming old songs her father once sang while fixing up fences or brushing down the horses. She’d come back sweaty, tired, glowing. Sometimes you'd just sit on the porch watching her like a dream you never knew would come true.

And you? You had your boutique. One hour into the city, one hour back, but every mile was worth it. Business was good, real good. Clients with high expectations, influencers dying to wear your designs, and every now and then someone would come in just to see the “wedding dress girl.” You still sold online, but the shop was your world—mannequins draped in silk, sketches pinned to the walls, laughter between fittings. It was work, sure, but it was your kind of work. The kind that made your soul hum.

But everything changed the night you found Lev.

You were closing the shop, locking up after a long day, when you saw him across the street—skinny, tired, holding a half-eaten bag of chips like it was all he had. He had an edge to him, sharp-eyed and stubborn, but there was something in the way he looked at you… like he wanted someone to notice him. Just once.

You crossed the street.

You asked if he was okay.

He lied, of course. Told you he was fine. That he didn’t need anything. But you offered him a warm meal anyway, and after a moment—he followed.

You didn’t ask questions until he was fed, and even then you were gentle. He told you his name was Lev. Told you he was trans. Told you that when he came out, his parents kicked him out and said never to come back.

That was all you needed to hear.

You brought him home.

Abby wasn’t thrilled at first—she had that protective, guarded look in her eyes, the kind she got when something she didn’t understand wandered too close to her heart.

But Lev… Lev had a way of earning space. He didn’t ask for permission to belong. He just started helping. Fed the animals. Cleaned the stalls. Rode bareback like he was born to do it. He had a temper, sure. Wasn’t always polite. But he tried. And the animals adored him. And soon, so did Abby.

One morning, you woke up to find them both outside fixing the chicken coop, laughing at some dumb joke you couldn’t hear. Abby called him “kid.” He called her “boss.” They were thick as thieves before the month was over.

Now? He’s family. No papers, no courtrooms, just a quiet, unwavering truth that lives in the way Abby leaves an extra plate for dinner without asking, and the way Lev calls you both “moms” when no one else is around.

And the house—your wraparound dream of a house—it holds more now. More stories. More love. More late nights with country music floating through the windows, Lev asleep on the couch, Abby’s arm wrapped around you on the porch swing.

This life you built?

It ain’t perfect. But it’s real. And it’s yours. And in every corner of it… there's love stitched deep like the seams of your favorite dress.

A few weeks passed, and something in you couldn’t rest—not until you knew for sure. For Lev. For the little boy who’d carved out a home in your heart with more quiet resilience than most grown men could muster.

So you did the research. Dug into public records. Asked around. Made the calls no one wants to make.

You found them—his parents. If you could even call them that.

And you and Abby drove out to meet them, heart armored and expectations low. The moment they opened that door, you knew this wasn’t going to be the story with redemption at the end. Their eyes were cold, words sharper than knives, their hate so effortless it made your chest ache. They didn’t ask about Lev. Didn’t want to know how he was, what he liked, if he smiled more now. Just shoved the paperwork across the table like he was something to get rid of.

You signed it. They signed it. You left with your head held high and Abby’s fingers wrapped tight around yours.

You didn’t tell Lev. He didn’t need to hear what was said in that room. He didn’t need their words anywhere near his spirit. Instead, you poured your energy into something that mattered—his new start.

You enrolled him in the nearest school, made sure he had teachers who got it. Who respected him. You decorated a room just for him—walls painted deep navy with stars scattered across the ceiling, bookshelves stuffed with comics and space encyclopedias, posters of his favorite anime, and a beanbag chair so big he practically disappeared into it.

You and Abby surprised him when he came home. He dropped his backpack and just stood in the doorway, blinking like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“This… this is mine?” he asked.

“All yours, kid,” Abby said.

And just like that, your perfect family was whole.

Now, here you are.

The porch creaks beneath you as you sway in your swing seat, legs tucked up, your sketchbook balanced on your lap. The golden-hour light paints the ranch in watercolor—amber fields, soft shadows, the quiet sounds of life in every corner. Your phone rests on the little coffee table beside you, playing Luke Bryan low and lazy through the speaker.

The world is still.

Then—a kiss on your forehead, warm and soft like honey poured slow.

You glance up and smile. Abby.

She’s fresh from the barn, smells like hay and sunshine and the kind of peace you only find when you stop chasing the noise.

You scoot over, pat the swing, and she sits. You drape your legs across her lap, and she rests one hand on your calf, the other sliding up to rub slow circles on your knee.

“What are you doing out here so early, bunny?” she asks, voice rough and sweet like she hasn’t used it all morning.

“I had to drop Lev off,” you murmur, sketching another curve onto the page. “And I closed the shop today. Didn’t really feel like working.”

“Hm. That’s good,” she hums, leaning back, letting her body melt into yours. “You’ve been working yourself too hard.”

“So have you,” you whisper back.

She chuckles, soft and deep, and you tilt your head to look at her.

There’s something in the way her eyes hold yours, something so full, so steady, it presses tears to the backs of your eyes.

“You know,” she says, brushing a thumb across your ankle, “I never thought I’d have all this. You. A home. A kid. Love that don’t go nowhere.”

You close your sketchbook and set it aside, crawling up so you’re tucked against her chest, your heart beating in rhythm with hers.

“Me either,” you breathe, kissing the place just above her collarbone. “But I thank God every day I do.”

And under the golden sun, the slow spin of the earth, and the gentle strum of country music playing somewhere in the background—you sit, wrapped in each other, knowing you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

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sthilarions · 1 day ago

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(Love your headcanon, just spinning thoughts.)

I pretty much figured it was because the two of them have designated social interaction roles. What we see with Emma isn’t actually strictly Charles being blanketly better with people; it’s them being skilled with people in very different ways. Edwin’s job in client negotiation seems to be to “play hardball”.

He’s the bad cop. He’s the one assigned to demand payment, first of all, but also Emma was being fraudulent, and Charles would have had to mess with his friendly persona in order to achieve the same results that Edwin does. (He probably could; the show’s pretty clear that for the most part they can do each other’s jobs, aside from a couple things like ancient language translation and using the bag. But they have division of labor so each of them can stick to what they’re best at.)

With Emma, we see that Charles specializes in traditional social skills and making people like him; he disarms, charms, soothes, connects. Edwin specializes in playing hardball, using logic and standing his ground and cutting through people’s bullshit when necessary without care for social niceties. And I figured that what we’re seeing with the Cat King and Shelby is another aspect of Edwin’s specialization - they deploy him when you need precision or subtlety.

Even if they didn’t know yet that the Cat King was operating on something similar to Fae rules, it was pretty clear up-front that he wouldn’t respond well to either Charles’s blunt-force people-pleasing or, god forbid, Charles’s protective mode (probably the primary thing Edwin was trying to avoid, based on how the scene plays out). So they try Edwin’s precision negotiation instead. Which turns out to also not go great, but, y’know, at least no one got bopped on the head with a bat and they didn’t accidentally sign the Agency away because the Cat King asked nicely.

…but the idea of Edwin knowing Charles was dying to call the Cat King a “parasite in chief in your idiot hat” (he’s not even wearing a crown, Charles) and preempting is much more delightful 😆

I present to you a stupid thought. For all of episode 1 we have been both shown and told that Edwin is NOT the people person in the Agency. However right away in episode 2 when they're summoned by The Cat King, Edwin steps forward and insists he do the speaking in order to handle this diplomatically. It feels strange because while Charles might not be subtle as Edwin says about Shelby later, he is better at talking to people and working with them generally.

My stupid headcanon is that Edwin heard the word "King" and knew his anti-monarchy bestie would be his absolute WORST SELF so he stepped in before Charles could get himself in trouble.

#addition

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runninriot · 2 days ago

Text

Caramel

for @vecnuthy 💜

also written as fill for the @steddiebingo prompt: alternate first meeting

rated: T | wc: 1.903 | tags: best friends eddie & jeff, pre steddie, (chaotic) flirting, Eddie Munson has a crush, confident Steve Harrington, sexual innuendo, Scoops Ahoy, no upside down au | also on ao3

Eddie is going to kill Jeff.

He'll make it slow and painful and even that won't rectify the betrayal.

“Oh, come on! I've been listening to you whine about your stupid crush forever now, and I'm sick of it. So, do something about it while we're here.”

He does not whine, just to be clear. If anything, he's simply stating the tragic facts of hopeless love and never-to-be requited feelings.

Excuse him for thinking his best friend would actually support him and offer some consolation in these trying times. But no, Jeff's being a dick. Using Eddie's misery for his own amusement by dragging him in here.

They were about to grab lunch, but then Jeff pulled him through the doors of Scoops Ahoy without so much as a warning, under the pretence of a sudden craving for ice cream.

Eddie would've much rather stepped through the gates of hell than set foot in here but he couldn't fight it, not without catching other people's attention. And that's the least of what he wanted, having eyes on him. Especially those hazel ones, dark bright and warm, with green and gold speckles whenever the light hits them right.

“I'm so going to murder you,” Eddie grits through his teeth, trying his best not to alert the group of girls standing in front of them. He feels hot from- anger, but Jeff has the audacity to laugh.

“I mean it, man. You can't force me to-”

“Welcome to Scoops, what can I get ya?”

Fuck.

He hadn’t even noticed they were next in line but it’s definitely too late now to run and hide. Eddie's heart stops for a moment but contrary to the silent prayer he sends to no one in particular, he doesn't drop dead.

Instead, he's tripping all over his own tongue, swallowing nothing because his mouth's suddenly so fucking dry.

“I, uh, we, uh-”

Jesus H. Christ.

He's never been known for being very cool. Or a smooth talker for that matter. Especially when it comes to- well. Doesn't matter. He's obviously not going to try to flirt with the guy that's been haunting his every waking hour and his dreams ever since he started working in the record store across from Scoops. But making a fool of himself wasn't really the plan either.

“I'll have the triple choc. Oh, and add one scoop of strawberry cheesecake, please." Jeff's palm comes down on his shoulder, patting him appreciatively. "My friend Eddie here is being generous today."

If he turned to look at him, he could see the shit-eating grin on his friend’s face, but all Eddie can do is stare at the pretty-smiling guy in front of him.

Steve, the name tag says.

Steve, wearing his stupid hat and his stupid uniform with the stupid red neckerchief hanging from the far too revealing collar that offers a dangerously delicious glimpse at the brush of dark hair peaking out from the low-cut neckline.

And speaking of neck- fuck!

In all the times Eddie stole secret glances at the man in question, he’s never been this close to him, always just yearning from a distance. But now that they’re standing merely a few inches away from each other, there’s no chance of missing the beauty spots scattered across his neck and face. So close, Eddie can count them individually, wants to remember each of their placements so he can dream about mapping them out with his fingertips, and maybe name them like stars.

“So, Eddie,” someone says and it's then he realises he’s been caught staring. “Now that your friend's all set, what can I do to make you happy?”

Eddie’s heart does a weird little flip at his words, feels blood rushing into his face, hot-red bashfulness creeping into his cheeks and ears. He could swear he saw the other man wink at him. Could swear the way he said his name had a special kind of tone to it. But that doesn’t mean shit, right? He's probably just charming to all the customers, perfectly selling his happy little sailor act. And it's working, is the worst part. Makes Eddie blush even more than he already had, standing there absently twirling a strand of hair around his finger like an idiot, god.

Brain to Eddie! Asking permission to reboot.

“I, uh, I’m not sure.”

Heaven help him. This is embarrassing.

“Want me to help you decide?”

Eddie is sure Jeff will tease him later for swallowing his tongue, but making up words is hard with your brain on overdrive. So he nods dumbly, eyes wide like those of a deer staring into the headlights of a truck – surely looking as stupid as he feels.

“Hmm, let's see.”

Steve places both hands on top of the counter and leans forward, deliberately letting his eyes rake over Eddie in a way that makes him break out in cold sweat, giving him the horny-shivers. Making him feel like he's caught in a suffocating heatwave, all heavy-breathing and sweating just from having Steve's eyes on him.

"You don't seem like the vanilla kind of guy. Maybe something a little more... fruity?"

Eddie's pretty sure he's stopped breathing, feels dizzy and disoriented, can focus on nothing but Steve's lips forming words he must be imagining.

He nods again, doesn’t really know what he’s agreeing to because his brain is on complete shutdown now, incapable of processing any of the words he’s heard.

“What about this?”

Before he realises what’s happening, he feels the smooth surface of a plastic spoon pushing against his bottom lip. Gently, almost as if asking for permission – not going further than that, just waiting for him to take what he’s being offered.

Eddie’s eyes fall shut when he wraps his lips around the spoonful of ice cream, savouring the tangy-fresh flavour of lemon or lime, he’s not sure.

When he opens his eyes again, he catches Steve looking at his lips, licking his own like he is the one that’s been offered a taste. Like maybe he’d want a taste. Of ice cream. Of Eddie’s lips?

“Did you like that?”

Like?

Huh.

What a weird way to describe this earth-shattering experience.

Like doesn’t even come close to what Eddie feels right now. It’s overwhelming, heart stopping, mind-blowing.

It’s-

Oh, wait.

Steve’s not talking about-

Oh, God.

“Yeah, I- I like it. The, uh, the ice cream,” Eddie stutters, feels hot all over from the embarrassment of letting himself get lost in an illusion of Steve flirting with him. Of Steve asking if Eddie liked being spoon-fed by the man of his dreams.

Fuck!

How he is able to come back from whatever insane idea had possessed him, will forever remain a mystery to him, but he finds his voice despite everything, straightens himself to bring some much needed distance between him and the other man.

“A little too sour for my taste, though.”

Steve scrunches his nose, and it’s as dorky as it is adorable, which- doesn’t help at all to stop Eddie’s heart from drumming a happy-sappy beat at the sight, makes his stomach swoop the way it does on a roller coaster drop.

“Should’ve guessed a guy like you likes it sweet.”

Sweet like Steve’s smile.

Sweet like Eddie imagines Steve’s lips must taste like.

Sweet like the kisses he’d place onto every inch of Steve’s caramel skin, if ever given the chance.

“Caramel!” Steve exclaims like he’s just heard Eddie’s thoughts aloud, “That’s your flavour.”

Without asking if he’s right, Steve takes his scooper out from the pouch hanging from his hip, twirls it around in his hand – show-off! – and drags it through the tub of creamy goodness to his left.

Eddie doesn’t protest, can’t take his eyes off the large, veiny hand wrapped around the metal spoon. The hand he’d give everything to see wrapped around something else. It's not his fault; he’s not in control of his thoughts. Can’t stop his dirty mind from filing every single movement of Steve’s working hands for later use because if that is all he’ll ever get, he might as well enjoy it to the fullest.

“Try it. I know you’ll love it.”

Steve offers him the cone topped with a giant scoop of the toffee treat, looking at him expectantly with his brows raised high and a teasing glint in his eyes.

And you see, Eddie would never claim he’s the smartest person he knows. He’s definitely a dreamer and bad at reading social cues sometimes, but despite all that, there is just no way he’s imagining this.

Steve is flirting with him.

Has been flirting with him all this time.

Maybe it’s time to give something back.

Eddie brings the ice cream closer to his mouth and starts to lick. Draws it out by turning the cone in his hand, twirls his tongue around once, twice, in a way he hopes doesn’t make him look like a lapping dog, but comes off as seductive as it feels.

Rich caramel bursts on his taste buds and Eddie moans a little louder than necessary around the melting mouthful of flavour. It must sound obscene to the ears of any innocent bystander but he doesn’t care. Puts on a show for Steve who hasn’t taken his eyes off him the entire time.

“Mmm, fuck! That’s so good,” Eddie groans, watching Steve’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallows roughly at his words. “You really know how to satisfy your customers.”

Eddie isn't the best at flirting, he can admit that. But somehow Steve doesn't seem to mind, smiles even wider now that Eddie gave him something to work with.

“Yeah?” Steve asks as he leans closer, elbows propped up on the counter that separates them, chin resting on his hands. Looking up at him through his long lashes, his hazel eyes suddenly darker than Eddie remembers them. “Love to hear that. Wanna know what else I know?”

His question throws Eddie off, because it’s not quite how he expected the other man to continue their little game. But it’s too late to turn back from what he started, and he’s curious, so he nods and waits for Steve to continue.

“I know that you’ve been looking me up and down every day for the past three weeks from your little music store over there.” He points over Eddie’s shoulder to the glass front revealing an open view to the other side of the passage way between Scoops and the equally visible interior of the store.

Eddie gulps, feels caught, but Steve doesn’t give him a chance to come up with an excuse.

“I know that you take your lunch break every day at the same time and I know that it lasts for another-“ he turns to look at the clock on the wall before locking eyes with Eddie again, “25 minutes. Mine starts in 5.”

Eddie will kiss Jeff on the mouth. Or, you know, maybe not – depending on whether this goes the way he thinks, hopes, Steve’s very unsubtle invitation might imply.

But he’ll thank him one way or another, for dragging him in here.

For being the best friend a stupid man with a stupid crush can have.

And if the caramel ice cream goes to waste, melting away in a soggy cone, forgotten on top of the staff’s bathroom sink- it doesn’t really matter.

Because Steve’s lips taste even sweeter.

#pre steddie #steddie fic #alternate first meeting #steddiebingo2025

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swizzlemynizzle · 2 days ago

Text

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter three: Laugh Track

———————————————————————————

By the fifth pub, Y/N’s voice is starting to slur at the edges.

Not dramatically—just enough to notice it herself. Her cheeks are warm, her thoughts a little looser than they were two hours ago. She's riding that golden middle ground between anxiety and abandon, the space where self-consciousness starts to soften around the edges.

She doesn’t quite trust it, but she’s letting herself sit in it for now.

ArthurTV is waving a receipt like a victory flag. “Ten pubs is a scam,” he announces to no one. “It’s just capitalism in a different hat.”

“Mate,” Bach replies, gesturing at him with a chip, “you just spent thirty quid on nachos and a single pint.”

“It came with extra guac,” Arthur says, affronted.

Y/N snorts into her drink.

She doesn’t remember the last time she laughed this much with people she barely knows. Her default setting has always been cautious—a little held back, always scanning the room, looking for cues on when to speak and when to disappear. But today, dressed like a walking punchline and surrounded by people who don’t seem to care about how they’re perceived, it almost feels... safe.

“Okay,” Bach says, peering at the bingo list again. “We still need to: swap shoes, skull a pint on the street, and get a stranger to sing to us. Oh and swim? Even though we did but it was for a bonus point?”

“Who made this list?” Y/N asks, squinting at the chaotic scrawl. “Are they okay? Mentally?”

“Chris,” ArthurTV answers, deadpan. “So, no.”

“Explains a lot,” she mutters. “It’s giving energy drink and repressed trauma.”

Bach grins. “It’s giving ‘second breakfast is the only joy I have left.’”

“Yeah,” Arthur adds. “It’s very ‘Frodo, but with a YouTube channel.’”

Y/N laughs, sharp and surprised. “Are we just bullying Chris for being short now?”

“Not short,” Bach says solemnly. “Hobbit-sized.”

They dissolve into laughter again, loud enough that a guy at a nearby table gives them a look.

By the time they reach the sixth pub of the afternoon, they’re starting to feel the buzz settling deep into their bones. The city around them seems blurrier, friendlier. A drunker London, Y/N thinks, is a slightly more magical one.

They’re halfway through convincing a guy in a Tottenham jersey to sing Bohemian Rhapsody when her phone buzzes again.

Chris

> Tell Bach his big nose is getting in the way of our win

> Also we’re at pub 6. Suck it.

Y/N shows the message to Bach without saying a word.

“Tell Chris I said I hope Sauron wins,” Bach says immediately.

Arthur nods. “Tell him to enjoy his pints in the Shire.”

She grins as she types. Being the group’s designated roaster-by-proxy wasn’t on her bingo list for today, but she’s not mad about it.

Then she sees him again.

George.

Across the street this time, stepping out of a corner shop with Arthur Hill. They’ve got plastic bags in hand and smiles that look way too relaxed for a competition. George spots her first, raising a hand in casual greeting.

She returns it—awkwardly. Her stomach does a weird little somersault.

She hates how aware she is of him. Like her body’s antennae pick up on him before her brain does. It’s not helpful. He hasn’t even done anything new. Just exists nearby, and her pulse decides to act out.

“Earth to Y/N,” ArthurTV says, waving a hand. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she says quickly. “Zoned out for a sec.”

She doesn’t explain what she was zoning out about. No one needs to know she’s mentally editing the way George said Nice shirt earlier like it’s an embarrassing voice note she can’t delete.

Eventually, they do manage to get a stranger to sing for them—badly, loudly, and completely off-key. Bach gives him a standing ovation like he’s just watched Les Mis.

Challenge complete.

By the time they reach pub seven, Y/N’s voice is scratchier and her legs are sore, but the warmth hasn’t left her chest. She feels... light. Like she’s slowly unhooking from the weight she didn’t realize she walked in with.

They wedge themselves into a booth again, chips in the center, drinks in hand. ArthurTV offers her a sip of something that tastes like battery acid. She politely declines.

Then George shows up again.

Of course he does.

He wanders in like he’s not part of a competing team but just happened to find them. Pint in one hand, smirk in place, like the universe told him she was finally starting to relax and he took it personally.

“Thought you guys might be in here,” he says casually.

“Or you were stalking us,” Bach offers.

George ignores him and looks straight at Y/N. “You surviving?”

“Just about,” she says, shrugging. “Haven’t been hit by a car yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

He chuckles. “Low bar. I respect it.”

He leans against the edge of the booth, not sitting—just hovering in her space enough to make it feel deliberate.

“You’ve got something on your shirt,” he says, motioning vaguely toward her chest.

She instinctively glances down.

“Just kidding,” he says, already grinning. “Wanted to see if you’d fall for it.”

She groans. “You are the worst”

“Pretty sure you love it.”

She rolls her eyes but her mouth betrays her, lips tugging up into an involuntary smile.

ArthurTV watches the exchange like he’s clocking something but wisely doesn’t say a word.

George lingers for another minute, then disappears again. Back into the noise. The pub feels a little louder once he’s gone. Y/N exhales, not realizing she was holding her breath.

Bach eyes her. “You’ve got a little George crush, don’t you?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Uh-huh,” Bach says knowingly.

Arthur raises a hand. “As a neutral third party, I can confirm: you definitely do.”

She buries her face in her hands. “I hate all of you.”

But she’s smiling. And somewhere under the teasing, the embarrassment, and the buzz of too many half-pints and inside jokes, there’s something else.

Something settling.

Something starting.

———————

I’ve already written 14 parts for this story… it goes into normal life streaming together, etc after this. Let me know if you guys like it!!! It’s very slow burn soz 💛💛

Masterlist

#george clarke #george clarke fics #george clarkey #george clarke x you #george clarke fanfic #george clarkey imagine #george clarke x reader #george clarke fluff #arthurtv #arthur hill #chrismd #italian bach #ukyt #uk youtubers #useless hotline #slow burn

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chaoticrockmusic · 16 hours ago

Text

all I want is you...

"ᴮᵃᵇʸ, ʷⁱˡˡ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵐᵉ? ᴮᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᴵ'ᵐ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ʰᵉˡᵖ ʸᵒᵘ ᴬˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘ ⁿᵒʷ, ᵃˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ᵈᵒ ⁿᵒʷ ᴵˢ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵃˡˡ ᵐᵉ, ᵇᵃᵇʸ, ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ" ~ᴿᵉᵇᶻʸʸˣ

______________________________________________________________

⚓️ Monkey D. Luffy — "I just want you to be okay... okay, baby, alright."

You were the only one who didn't laugh when he shouted he was going to be King of the Pirates.

You looked at him with wide, glassy eyes, and nodded like it meant something more. Like he meant something more. You were the only one who ever looked at him like that.

The others never noticed how quiet you got after the battles. They did not see how you curled up on the deck, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the sea like it might give you answers. But he did. Luffy saw everything — even if he could not always understand it.

“Are you okay?” he had asked once, lips tugging down, unsure.

You blinked like you were surprised he noticed. “Yeah, Captain. I’m just... tired.”

You smiled after that.

But it never quite reached your eyes again.

He did not have words for how that made him feel — how your sadness curled around his ribs like a sea monster, heavy and tight. So, he tried harder. Pulled you into dancing when Brook played, dragged you into snowball fights on winter islands, left oranges by your bed when you forgot to eat.

He even gave you his last piece of meat once.

You laughed. Genuinely. Just for a second.

And he thought, Maybe I can fix this. Maybe if I stay close enough, long enough, loud enough... you’ll be okay again.

But one day, you were gone.

No note. No footprints. Just a jacket left on the rail, your scent already fading into salt.

Now Luffy stands at the edge of the Sunny most nights, straw hat clutched in his hand, whispering under his breath like a prayer he cannot quite name.

“I know what you want… Let me be the one to hold your hand forever...”

And the sea says nothing back...

______________________________________________________________

🗡️ Roronoa Zoro — "Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really you mean nothing."

Zoro has always been good at two things: fighting and silence.

Feelings? Not so much.

You came into his life like a flashfire — sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, loud and full of life in all the ways he never was. At first, you got on his nerves. Too many questions. Too many looks. Too many feelings.

But you stayed. Through storms, through bloodshed, through his worst moods and longest naps. You were there every time he opened his eyes, and eventually… he started looking for you.

He never told you that.

But he didn’t need to, right?

Except... you started asking. And that was the beginning of the end.

“Do you even care about me?” you asked once, after another close call — blood on your shoulder, adrenaline in your veins, and his voice still sharp from yelling your name in panic.

Zoro had stared at you too long, jaw locked, like the words were stuck somewhere deep in his throat.

“…Of course I do,” he muttered eventually, but his voice was distant. Like he was talking to a ghost instead of the person who had almost died in front of him.

You laughed. Bitter, quiet.

“That’s not enough anymore, Zo.”

You left that night.

You did not slam the door or pack a dramatic bag. You just… disappeared. No note. No goodbye. Just a silence that felt like a sword pressed to his throat.

Now he trains harder. Sleeps less. Bleeds more.

Because the ache in his chest? It is louder than any wound he has ever taken.

He swears he hears you sometimes, late at night — that little scoff you always gave when he got lost, the gentle click of your tongue when he drank too much. Maybe it is memory. Maybe it is madness.

But he talks to you anyway.

“You wanted a real answer?” he mutters into the cold air, voice rough. “Here it is — yeah, I care. More than I should. More than I know how to say.”

His fists curl. His swords stay sheathed.

“Tell me I messed it up. Tell me I pushed you too far. Just… tell me something.”

No reply.

Only the sound of wind and waves.

Zoro turns back to the dojo, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something he’ll never say again.

And in the dark, where no one can see him — not Luffy, not Sanji, not even himself — he finally let out a gentle sob.

______________________________________________________________

🍳 Vinsmoke Sanji — "You make me feel dirty. Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me that you love me. But really, you mean nothing."

Sanji had always known how to play the part.

The flirt. The charmer. The perfect gentleman with a rose between his teeth and a cigarette between his fingers. But with you... that mask never fit quite right.

You saw straight through it.

And he hated how much he liked that.

You never swooned. You never batted your lashes when he called you "mademoiselle" or offered your favorite dessert on a silver tray. You always looked at him with something sharper — like you were searching for the man behind the suit, behind the smoke, behind the smile that trembled more than it should have.

“You’re not as good as you pretend to be, Sanji,” you said once, not out of cruelty — but truth.

He never forgot it.

He told himself he could change. That he wanted to. That maybe if he loved you right, if he made you feel safe and seen and special, you would never have to see the broken parts of him — the blood on his hands, the rage in his chest, the cruel voice of his father echoing in his skull every night.

But you saw it anyway.

You saw all of it.

And worst of all — you stayed.

Even when he pushed you away with a sharp tongue and clenched fists and long nights drinking too much and saying too little. Even when he called himself a monster, and you cupped his face and whispered:

“Then be a monster who loves me.”

He kissed you like you were salvation. Touched you like you were fire. Needed you like he was drowning.

And still, somehow, he ruined it.

He said something wrong — something cruel in a moment of weakness. You flinched. You left. And this time, you did not come back.

Now, his cigarettes burn down faster. His fingers shake over the cutting board. He makes dishes for you every night and throws them out uneaten.

The others stopped asking questions.

But he still talks to the kitchen walls like you are hiding in the corners.

“You make me feel filthy, you know that?” he whispers into the steam of your favorite soup, eyes red from smoke or something worse. “You make me feel everything I try to bury.”

The spoon clatters. His hands fall to the counter, shoulders shaking.

"Tell me I’m disgusting. Tell me you hate me. Tell me anything... just—"

His voice breaks.

No one answers.

Just the soft simmer of something he will never serve.

“Just tell me you love me,” he breathes, softer this time, like it physically hurts to say.

And in the quiet of the galley, he stays alone — waiting for the door to open again, even though he knows it never will.

______________________________________________________________

🎯 Usopp — “I remember crying. I just want you to be alright.”

Usopp always told stories.

Wild, beautiful lies — the kind that made people laugh or roll their eyes or shake their heads in disbelief.

But you? You never laughed. You leaned in.

Every time he said something outrageous — “I fought a sea king with one hand tied behind my back,” or “My aim’s so good I could hit a fly on a cannonball” — you smiled with that soft, knowing look in your eyes.

“Tell me another,” you whispered once, voice small as you lay next to him on the deck, eyes on the stars. “Tell me the one where you save me, Uso...”

He did.

He told it a hundred times. A thousand.

Until one day, you needed saving — and he failed.

It was not some grand battle or dramatic fall. You had been slipping for a while — smiles growing quieter, footsteps growing softer, hands fidgeting with sleeves when you thought no one was watching.

But Usopp was. And he was terrified.

Because he knew all the stories in the world could not fix the shadows in your eyes. Could not fill the silences that stretched too long between your words. Could not reach the places inside you that even you seemed afraid to touch.

Still, he tried.

He made you gadgets. Left tiny presents in your hammock. Carved your name into a seashell and whispered into it, saying, “You’re not alone. You never were.”

He told himself you would be okay. Because the hero always wins in the end.

But then… you stopped coming to breakfast. You stopped meeting him on the deck. One day, he knocked on your door and found it open, the room empty.

Gone. No goodbye.

No final story.

Now, Usopp sits in the crow’s nest with his slingshot across his lap and swollen eyes that have not seen sleep in days.

He looks out over the sea, voice hoarse.

“I know I’m not the strongest. Or the bravest. Or the smartest,” he mumbles to no one, “but I would’ve tried. I was trying.”

He presses the seashell with your name to his chest like a talisman, fingers shaking.

“I remember crying,” he says. “I just want you to be alright. I don’t care if you ever come back. Just—just be okay. Please.”

But the sea doesn’t answer. It never does.

“All I need is you now,” he breathes, forehead against the window, as the tears come again. “All I want to do now… is wait for you to call for me.”

And he does...

Every night...

Even though he knows you never will...

______________________________________________________________

⚕️ Trafalgar D. Water Law — “Fix the holes in your heart, it’s what I wanted from the start.”

Law didn’t mean to fall for you.

You weren’t part of the plan. You weren’t like Cora — loud and chaotic and selfless — and you weren’t like Bepo or his crew, either. You were… soft. Not weak, but gentle in ways he didn’t know how to process. You didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t demand answers.

But you looked at him like you saw him — and that was so much worse.

You never flinched from the cold edge of his voice or the scalpel-sharp way he kept people at a distance. You stood beside him in silence, in storms, in sickbays soaked with blood that wasn’t always someone else’s.

And one night, after a mission that nearly killed you both, you found him on the floor of the infirmary — gloves off, coat stained, hands shaking.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You just knelt beside him and whispered, “Let me help.”

He told himself it was a one-time thing. That letting you touch the cracked, hollow places in his chest wouldn’t mean anything. That he wouldn’t get attached.

But then you smiled.

You made tea for him in the mornings.

You remembered his favorite food without him telling you.

You asked how he was when he was trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t anything at all.

He couldn’t stop it.

He didn’t want to.

So he gave you pieces of himself in silence. Little things. A book from Flevance. A quiet "goodnight." A rare smile when he thought you weren’t looking.

But love, for Law, was never soft.

It was surgical — precise, dangerous, bloody.

And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he began to treat you like a patient. Like something broken he could fix.

He didn’t realize it until the night you finally said it.

“I’m not something you can save, Law.”

You weren’t angry. You just looked… tired.

And he didn’t have the words. Not the ones that mattered. Not the ones that would make you stay.

So you left.

Not with malice. Not with drama. Just with silence. Just like everyone else.

Now, the sickbay is too quiet. The ship too clean. There’s no laughter echoing down the hall, no gentle knocks at midnight asking if he’d eaten.

Just Law, alone with his ghosts, staring at the hole you left in him — too deep to close, too old to ignore.

He’s operating in silence again. Gloves on. Scalpel steady.

But his hands tremble.

“To fix the holes in your heart, it’s all I wanted from the start... That’s all I wanted...” he mutters like a curse, eyes blurring.

He drops the scalpel. Covers his face with blood-streaked hands.

“Come back...” he whispers, so quiet it gets swallowed by the hum of the ship.

And no one hears it but the walls — and the sea.

______________________________________________________________

🔥 Portgas D. Ace — “I got mental issues, always fucking miss you.”

Ace doesn’t sleep well when you’re not around.

He tosses and turns on sheets soaked with sweat, waking up breathless and angry at himself for dreaming about you — again. It’s not even the good dreams anymore. Not the ones where you’re laughing, curled against his chest, warm like sunlight, kissing him.

Now it’s nightmares.

You leaving.

You crying.

You dying.

And he always wakes up too late.

The room smells like old smoke and iron. There’s a cracked glass on the floor by his bed. A shirt that still smells like you shoved under his pillow. And his fists ache — from punching walls, from holding back.

“I got mental issues,” he mutters to himself, leaning against the frame of the bed, shirtless and shaking. “I’m really fucked up, huh...?”

There’s blood on his knuckles. Again. He doesn’t remember how it got there.

There are tissues everywhere. Piled in corners, scattered across the floor. He doesn’t throw them away — like maybe if he keeps enough of them, your scent will linger just a little longer.

He misses you so bad it makes him angry.

Like it’s your fault for being so gentle. For loving him when he didn’t think he deserved it. For touching his skin like it wasn’t a curse, and telling him he was good like you believed it more than he ever could.

He told you once, in a rare moment of stillness:

“You’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel real...”

You kissed his temple and said, “Then be real with me.” smiling.

But he couldn’t. Not fully.

Because what if you saw it? The dark, cracked part of him that asks every night, Was I even supposed to be born? What if you walked into that storm and didn’t come back out?

So instead, he pushed you away.

Not all at once — no, Ace is too cowardly for that. He did it in pieces. A missed dinner here. A half-hearted kiss there. Another mission he took without telling you.

You stopped chasing him eventually.

And when you were gone… when the ship felt too empty and the fire in his chest flickered low — that’s when he realized.

"l'lI always fucking miss them..."

And now he’s sitting on the floor of some cheap inn, holding your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He wants to call you. Wants to say I’m sorry, I was scared, I didn’t know how to love you right, but please, please come back—

But the Den Den Mushi stays quiet.

And Ace stays ruined.

He’s not a storm anymore. Just smoke. Just echoes. Just... want....

______________________________________________________________

🕊️ Sabo — “Please don’t desert me, please don’t desert me.”

Sabo isn’t used to begging.

Not as a revolutionary. Not as a brother. Not as the man who smiled through bloodied battles and watched the world crumble under kings and fire.

But with you?

He begs in silence.

He does not know how to say, “Please stay.” So instead, he leaves cups of tea where you’ll find them. Wraps a blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep at your desk. Brushes your fingers when he passes by, like touch is the only language he still remembers how to speak.

You love him with an ease that makes him ache.

You never demand pieces of his past he cannot give. You don’t pry into the darkness that swims behind his eyes on bad nights — you just sit beside him, wordless, warm. Present.

And Sabo… Sabo falls.

Hard. Deep. Quiet.

He starts to write you letters he never sends. Pages stained with ink and doubt.

—"You make me feel like I deserve to live again.

I can’t lose you too.

Please don’t leave me like he did."

But you never left.

Until you did.

It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t betrayal. Just a slow, quiet unraveling — because Sabo kept part of himself hidden too long. Kept telling you, “I’m fine,” when he wasn’t. Kept pushing you out when all he wanted was to pull you in.

One day, you stopped knocking on his door.

The warmth faded.

Your coat was gone from the hook by his bed.

He found your necklace left behind — on purpose, probably. Something final.

And that night, he drank alone, firelight flickering against the scars on his hands. He could feel himself unraveling.

“Please don’t desert me…”

He whispered it into the dark, broken and too late.

He pressed his forehead to your necklace, eyes stinging with everything he couldn’t say in time.

“Please don’t desert me. Not like he did. Not like—”

But no one answered.

Only the crackle of flame and the silence of a room too big for one person.

He still wears that necklace.

Hidden under his scarf, against his chest.

He tells himself that if he ever sees you again, he’ll say it right this time. No riddles. No brave smiles.

Just—

“I’m scared of being left. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

______________________________________________________________

🎪 Buggy the Clown — “I’ll make you feel special, help you feel less stressful.”

Loud? Yes. Flashy? Obviously. A little bit unhinged? Well, that's Buggy's whole thing. He was the kind of guy who could stand on top of his ship with his arms thrown wide, demanding the world recognize his greatness. And for most people, that was all they saw — the captain, the performer, the clown. His bravado, his flair. The show.

But there was so much more beneath that.

He never let anyone see it, of course. Because if they did, if they saw what was lurking beneath his perfectly painted smile, then they’d know. They’d see that the self-inflated ego was just a shield. A shield to protect a heart that had never truly felt like it was worth anything.

Buggy had always believed that no one could really love him. Not for who he truly was.

He was a pirate, sure, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who got the kind of love he saw in movies or heard in songs. He wasn’t the romantic hero. He wasn’t the charming, smooth-talking swashbuckler. No, he was the laughing stock of every crew, the one everyone used for comic relief. A joke.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the attention — no, he craved it, needed it. But deep down, behind all the clamor and the glitz, Buggy was terrified that if anyone ever got too close, they'd leave. And that thought? It was crippling.

But then… you came along.

You, who didn’t laugh at his jokes just to make him feel good — you genuinely laughed with him. You, who never flinched at his disassembled limbs, never turned away when he got a little too dramatic, when he overreacted or shouted just to make sure everyone was paying attention.

You stood beside him, even when the rest of the world told you to run in the opposite direction.

And Buggy? Oh, Buggy fell hard.

He didn’t know when it happened, honestly. He didn’t know when he’d started thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was someone who could look at him and see more than just the crazy pirate captain with a flair for the theatrical. He didn’t know when he’d started feeling like he could actually be loved. Like he could be enough.

But you… you were there. You made him feel like he didn’t have to hide behind the act. You made him feel special in ways that no one ever had before.

The day he left — the day he walked away, pretending like he was doing you a favor — it wasn’t because he didn’t care. No, it was because he cared too much.

The sight of you laughing with him, your warm smile, the way you didn’t treat him like he was a walking joke, it scared him. It terrified him more than anything in his life.

You were the first person who made him feel like he was worthy. Like maybe there was more to him than just the chaos and the bluster. But he wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to let someone in that close. Because what if you saw the truth? What if you saw all his flaws, all his broken pieces, and realized that even though he had everything to offer, he wasn’t enough?

You were too good for him. He was just a clown.

Buggy stood at the helm, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly as he looked at the ocean ahead of him. The ship was drifting farther and farther from the shore, from you. From everything he’d let himself feel.

He hated this. He hated it more than anything he’d ever hated in his life.

But what else could he do?

He tried to convince himself that this was what was best for you. That he was just some mess of a man, a guy who would only bring more destruction into your life. That you deserved someone who could love you properly, without the chaos. Without the theatrics. Someone who wasn’t going to break your heart.

And yet, every time he looked at the ocean, he could still see your smile in his mind. The way you’d looked at him, like he wasn’t just some eccentric fool. Like he mattered to you.

His chest ached. Damn it.

“I’ll make you feel special, I'll help you feel less stressful…” he muttered to himself, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it true. But even as the words left his lips, he knew they weren’t enough. Not anymore.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered, almost like a plea to the wind. “Not ready for you. You deserve better.”

When the Den Den Mushi call came through, he knew it was you. It was always you who’d pick up the phone when the others just let it ring.

He hesitated for a long time before answering. When his face finally appeared on the screen, he smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes. His usual flair, the confidence, it was all gone. And for once, he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… maybe if I just walked away, you’d be better off.”

“You’re not the problem,” you said, your voice tight, like you were holding back tears. “You’re the one I want, Buggy.”

He wanted to reach through the screen, to take you in his arms and never let go. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“But I’m too much for you,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll just bring chaos into your life. You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve. Not a mess like me.”

You stared at him, your eyes filled with unshed tears. And for a moment, just a moment, Buggy saw something he hadn’t seen in years — something real. Something pure.

“I’ll make you feel special,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Well, I wanted to. But I can’t. Not like this.”

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, Buggy felt completely seen.

The call ended. The ship drifted away.

And Buggy stood there, staring at the horizon, wondering if he’d made the right choice. Maybe someday, he’d get the courage to come back. But until then, all he had were the memories — of you, of your laughter, of how you’d made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was worthy of love after all.

______________________________________________________________

🍷 Shanks — “I remember nights we were dancing in the moonlight.”

He never told you he loved you.

Not with those exact words, anyway.

He said it in other ways — in the way he laughed at your jokes even when they were terrible, in how his arm would always find your waist when you leaned too close to the sea rail, in how his eyes lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking.

And sometimes, he’d let the mask slip.

Like that night, on some quiet island no one would remember. The tavern was half-empty, his crew rowdy and drunk. And you, you were warm beside him, fingers stained with fruit juice and salt air, eyes glowing like you had swallowed the moon itself.

There was music playing. Something simple. Soft.

You nudged him and said, “Dance with me.”

He scoffed, sipped his drink, and said, “Nah, I’ve got two left feet.”

But your hand stayed outstretched.

And so he took it.

The floor was uneven. He stepped on your toes twice. His laugh was louder than the music, and your cheeks hurt from smiling. And when the others weren’t looking, he spun you into him, held you close, and whispered—

“If I could bottle this moment, I’d carry it everywhere.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your smile told him you felt the same.

That night, you danced under the moonlight until the candles burned out and the stars were your only audience.

But things change.

Shanks always leaves eventually. You knew that from the beginning.

He told you once, long ago, “The sea is a jealous thing. She always calls me back.”

And still, it hurt when he went.

You stayed behind on some island — a “safe place,” he called it — with a kiss to your forehead and a promise you never asked for.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

You knew better.

Weeks passed. Then months.

No letters. No sign.

And Shanks? He was far away, sitting by a fire on a different shore, holding your necklace in his palm like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to anything human.

His crew thought he was fine.

But sometimes at night, when everyone was asleep, he'd take out the old Den Den Mushi and stare at it. Thumb hovering over the dial.

And he’d whisper—

“I remember hiding, I remember crying... God, I just want you to be alright.”

He never dialed. Never called.

Because he thought maybe you were better off without him.

But if you walked back into his life — wind in your hair, sea in your eyes — he’d say it.

Not with flowers. Not with grand speeches.

Just a quiet, choked—

“I never stopped dancing with you. Even when you weren’t there.”

______________________________________________________________

⚡ Kid — “You control my life. I feel like a fucking puppet.”

Kid had never been the type to lean on anyone. To trust anyone. The idea of someone else controlling his life, controlling his choices — that was something he never allowed. He was a man of steel, a pirate who carved his own path, never bowing to anyone.

But then you came along.

And from the moment you stepped into his life, everything started shifting in ways he couldn’t control. He hated it. Hated the way you made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Hated how his heart raced when you laughed. Hated how his thoughts would drift to you when he was supposed to be focused on his next big heist.

He hated how you made him feel like he wasn’t in control.

At first, it was a joke. A distraction. He’d tell himself that he didn’t care about you, that he could walk away anytime. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed anyone. Certainly not someone like you, someone who had the power to make him question everything he knew about himself.

But then... then the feelings crept in. Slowly at first, like a seed being planted deep in his chest. And then, before he knew it, it had taken root. He couldn’t get rid of it. He couldn’t escape the way you made him feel.

You made him feel alive in a way he didn’t know was possible. And that scared him more than anything.

One night, after yet another pointless argument, Kid found himself alone on the deck of his ship. The moonlight reflected off the ocean, and the cold breeze brushed against his face, but none of it could clear the heat building inside him.

He had tried to push you away. Tried to act like he didn’t care. But all it did was make him feel more desperate, more broken.

And now, here he was again. Standing in the same spot, staring at the empty horizon, trying to ignore the voice inside his head that kept calling your name.

The ship creaked behind him, and then he heard it. The soft sound of footsteps.

You. Of course, it was you.

He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t face the person who had so completely taken over his life. Who had him tangled up in knots, unable to let go.

“You’re still pissed?” he asked, his voice rough, trying to mask the vulnerability bubbling under the surface.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you walked up beside him, standing in silence. He could feel your presence, feel the weight of it pressing against him. You were close enough to make his breath hitch, but he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. Not yet.

“Kid,” you said softly, and the way you said his name made his insides twist. “You know I don’t want to fight with you.”

He scoffed, turning away to hide his face, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders. He clenched his fists at his sides, as if the action might stop the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

“Don’t even try to act like you understand. This isn’t some game. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, alright?” he spat, his anger rising in a desperate attempt to cover up how raw he felt inside.

But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“I don’t need you to explain it to me,” you said, your voice calm, like you weren’t afraid of his anger. “But you don’t have to push me away, either.”

Kid felt his heart skip a beat, but he refused to look at you. He couldn’t.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, the edge of his anger beginning to fade. “You don’t get it. I don’t want to feel like this. You can’t just come in and change everything. You can’t just control me like I’m some damn puppet.”

His words hit harder than he intended. There. He’d said it.

You stood there for a moment, not saying anything. He could feel you staring at him, waiting for him to break the silence.

“Kid,” you finally said, taking a step closer, “I never wanted to control you.”

He shook his head, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

“Then what the hell is this?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Every time I try to pull away, you’re still there. Every time I think I’ve got my shit together, I— I start thinking about you. About how you make me feel—”

He stopped, his throat tightening, but he couldn’t stop himself. His frustration, his confusion, his desperation all came out in one breathless sentence.

“I’m losing control. And I hate it.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t need to explain yourself, because you understood. You’d always understood.

You reached out, gently resting your hand on his arm, and for the first time that night, Kid looked at you. His eyes were stormy, conflicted, but beneath it all, there was something more — something softer. Something that made his heart feel like it was going to burst.

“I’m not trying to control you, Kid,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I just... I just want you to be you. No masks, no act. Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He swallowed hard, his chest tight. You weren’t asking for anything more than that. And somehow, that terrified him even more.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, barely audible. “You make me feel like I’m not enough. Like I can’t even control my own damn life anymore.”

You smiled softly, and for once, Kid didn’t see pity in your eyes. You weren’t looking at him like he was a broken thing.

“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all together,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m not here to control you, Kid. I’m here because I care about you. And that’s all.”

He stood frozen for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. And just like that, all his walls came crashing down.

“God, I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. Instead, there was just that undercurrent of raw emotion he had never wanted to show. “You make this so damn hard.”

And maybe that was okay. Maybe being vulnerable for once, letting someone else in, didn’t make him weak. Maybe it made him stronger.

“All I want is you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, but you heard it anyway.

You smiled again, this time with a tenderness that took Kid by surprise. You didn’t say anything, just stood beside him, silently offering the support he never knew he needed.

For once, Kid didn’t feel like he had to fight it.

______________________________________________________________

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demonpiratehuntress · 21 hours ago

Text

brother's keeper pt. 2

Portgas D Ace x F!Reader

summary - As you get closer in Alabasta, your feelings for each other quickly become clear. first part of this in my FIRST masterlist, which wouldn't allow me to add this second part.

warnings - i didn't remember exact details of the Alabasta arc, so if there are any inconsistencies please forgive me. also it's a little shorter than the first part, so i'm sorry, but i guess i'm making more parts <3

a/n - you guys have no idea how much i absolutely MISSED writing for Ace, it's my favourite thing to do <3 he's so fun to write for

The ground was shaking.

Luffy was rapidly approaching on a camel.

Followed by a giant lizard.

There was so much happening that you didn't have time to react appropriately. And just when you thought it couldn't get worse, another lizard popped up right out of the ground behind you.

You, being the great warrior you were, stumbled and fell over from the force of the creature's emergence.

But instead of hitting the ground face-first, you stopped mid-fall. A strong arm was holding you in place, wrapped securely around your waist to stop your fall. You glanced up, your eyes meeting a pair of warm, concerned ones.

"Thanks," you breathed out, any other words you might have planned to say catching in your throat at his proximity.

"Don't mention it," he grinned, steadying you before turning his attention to the giant lizard. However, before he could really do anything, the creature lurched forward and closed its enormous mouth around the raven-haired commander.

Though its "victory" was short-lived - it burst into flames brighter than the sun itself seconds later, becoming a charred mess on the sandy floor as Ace just walked away, unfazed.

Your eyes widened, the sight of Fire Fist Ace's might freezing you to the spot in awe. You'd seen it before with the Marine ships, which had been on a whole different level, but you were still amazed.

"Hungry?" He asked you, with such a silly grin that you couldn't help but laugh.

The group settled down to eat, easily cooking the meat on the scorching rocks. Ace took a seat beside you, and you quickly learned that he was just as ravenous as his brother when it came to food.

"Now I see the resemblance," you remarked, teasingly.

Ace, with his mouth full, looked up at you and his cheeks turned slightly pink. You laughed and finished your own portion, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach as his leg brushed against your own.

You were so lost in your own thoughts, subconsciously following an orange cowboy hat, that you didn't even realise you two had been separated from the rest of the group. Until you smacked right into Ace, who had stopped to look around for everyone else.

"Where...is everyone else?" You asked, blinking once, twice, but only desert stretched beyond you. You would have thought your friends had been a mirage, if not for the solidity of Ace's body against your own.

"No idea," he murmured, a hand subconsciously reaching around to feel if you were real. It ended up touching your own, and instinctively you grabbed it.

Then quickly let go once you realised what you did, your face burning. Ace smirked just a little, before looking around again.

"Come on, let's try to find them."

You started walking again, only to be disrupted by yet another lizard. This one, to your relief, was much smaller, though it did seem like it was mocking Ace's movements as the commander tried to move around it. When he threatened it with fire, you swore you saw sweat droplets on its forehead.

"Interesting ride," you remarked as he insisted you get on the lizard. He had left no room for argument, now grinning up at you like he hadn't just argued with you over who would ride the creepy reptile.

"Had to keep it interesting," he chuckled, "Wouldn't want you getting bored, now."

"Somehow, I don't think I could with you," you laughed.

That statement hung in the air for a second, before your face heated up and you urged the lizard to start moving. With burning cheeks, you avoided Ace's gaze, hearing him chuckle softly at your flustered reaction to your own words.

Comfortable silence settled over the two of you for a while, as you approached a small town. You wanted to say something, anything, just so he could respond and make you laugh again, but you didn't know what to say. Your brain felt empty, but your heart felt full. You knew very well what that meant, though you were too afraid to face it right now.

The next time you spoke was when Ace had led you into a building in the small town, and sat down to eat the food that had been laid there.

"Ace-"

"Frauds," he mumbled, or at least that's what you think he said.

You didn't know what that meant until three guys walked into the room, and started protesting. Ace quickly shut them up, stuffing something in your mouth to affectionately keep you from talking as well. Not to mention he wasn't very sly with the way his arm wrapped around your waist, when he noticed those guys looking at you a bit longer than he'd liked.

And that's when you knew.

Your heart fluttered at the realisation, a mix of excitement and nausea suddenly overwhelming you. You carefully extracted yourself from his grip, standing up and walking back out to take a deep breath.

Ace followed not long after, worry clear as daylight in his tone.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm...I think so," you replied, confused about your own feelings. Or maybe confused about what this could mean. And the logistics behind such a relationship - though you couldn't allow yourself to hope for that much.

Ace noticed the conflict in your eyes, his mind quickly connecting the dots. He had gone too far, with his touch earlier.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"No!" You quickly denied his claim, "You didn't. I promise. It's just..."

Ace's familiar smoky scent filled your nostrils - a comforting campfire-like smell that put you at ease and reminded you of better times - as he cautiously moved closer to you, stopping an inch away.

Your reaction confirmed his suspicions.

Your breath hitched, your body tensing slightly. Your eyes became unfocused, hazy with something far deeper than lust. Something he had never allowed himself to feel with anyone, and never allowed anyone to feel with him.

And then his lips were on yours.

BONUS:

"Hey...where's (Name) and Ace?"

The entire crew turned in a full circle, the movement comical as they all looked around. But neither you nor Luffy's incredibly strong and intimidating brother were anywhere to be seen.

"He kidnapped her!" Was Sanji's panicked response, earning sceptical looks from Nami and Zoro, and a glare from Luffy.

"He wouldn't do that!" The Straw Hat captain argued.

Nami and Vivi exchanged looks, something passing between them that the boys didn't quite understand. Or, at least, most of them didn't. Sanji's wail and Usopp's expression indicated that they very well understood what the two girls were implying.

"She's fine," Nami clarified for the other boys, who were staring at them with bewildered expressions.

As Sanji and Luffy bickered over whether or not Ace was a kidnapper, Vivi sighed and Nami face-palmed. But before either of them could suggest just looking for you and Ace, a ship appeared on the horizon.

On...sand?

#one piece #op #one piece x reader #one piece x you #portgas d ace #ace x reader #ace x you #portgas d ace x reader #portgas d ace x you

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gatitties · 2 days ago

Note

Could i request a straw hats and kidd pirates with a s/o from their crew thats a demon host? (Kinf of like in black clover) She can host various demons, some stronger than others, wich she can possess. The thing is with each demon she hosts she need to give up a part of her body. (If she gives up all of her body she becoms a full demon, not just a demon host). When she "fuses" with one of her demons, she becomes almost unrecognizable. (White hair, bat like wings, pointy horns, sharp teeth and claws, dry skin)

—Strawhats & Kid Pirates x demon host!reader

—Summary: Your power allows you to control some demons or even become one for a simple deal.

—Warnings: none

— The first time they see a part of your body disappear so a demon can control it, Chopper cries.

— The poor guy simply thought the enemies had destroyed your leg in the blink of an eye, although everyone was stunned, they calmed down when they saw how normal it seemed to be for you.

— They asked you a lot, for a long time, so you wouldn't scare them to death again if another of your limbs was going to disappear so suddenly.

—Please spare Usopp, Nami, and Chopper the mini-heart attacks.

— The most interested are Brook and Franky, aside from Robin's curiosity, of course, there's barely any information about demons, much less about people who can contain them within their bodies, in any book she'd read.

— Luffy will ask you to change completely so he can meet the demons you're most compatible with, the ones you use the most.

— While your powers are an advantage in battles, you can't let a demon remain in your body for too long if it's a full transformation, Zoro, Sanji, or Jinbe will knock you out if you push your time limits too far.

— Totally captivated by the full demon transformation, as if it's mesmerizing to see how much your appearance changes; the surprise makes attacking enemies easier.

— They thought you were making fun of Kid when they casually saw you without an arm, replaced by one ridiculously similar to his mass of steel, bolts, and scrap.

— Kid didn't seem amused, but everyone was laughing, feeling your captain's piercing gaze, you had to quickly explain that you weren't making fun of him.

— The atmosphere calms down considerably after that; now Kid is more than interested in what you have to say about your powers.

— Heat is completely amazed by all the information you share, from how you can transform just small parts or your entire body, to the types of demons you usually deal with.

— Killer and Wire seem a little reluctant about the idea; they're not entirely convinced that you have to make a deal with a demon to use its powers in exchange for a body part.

— They'll surely make sure that if anything gets out of your control, you come back to your senses quickly.

— Kid, on the other hand, is completely fascinated by this new discovery.

— He'll encourage you to use it whenever you can, it's always a good opportunity to turn into a demon, with horns, wings, and everything! You just look too cool.

#op #one piece #request #one piece x reader #op x reader #sfw #reader insert #demon host reader #demon reader #strawhats #kid pirates #strawhats x reader #kid pirates x reader

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crueliste · 9 hours ago

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analysis of the rocket execs poses because i got manic and wrote it in the state of such

know that this is mostly based on my personal lore and my personal extreme autism about this content and only that. ✌️

ARCHER A perfect one really. This cannot be topped. Absolutely nothing I would change. Maybe I'm biased because he's my favorite, but from a first glance I can see what he's up to. Perfectly straight and almost frigid posture, the hand on his chin conveys both curiosity and confidence. It shows his analytical personality, like he's studying or inspecting you or scanning for weaknesses, should you be stupid enough to show any.

The hand behind his back is the same posture servants and butlers showcase. It shows subservience and discipline, as while he's the top executive of the four and currently in charge during their boss's absence, he is still inherently and fiercely loyal to Giovanni. Simultaneously, it's a sign of restraint and control. He isn't particularly interested in hurting you because he values his time and has way more important things to take care of, but wouldn't feel bad doing it if you get in his way.

ARIANA With her, I want to especially highlight the SPRITE art, because she's the only one where the sprite art is a lot different compared to the drawn art. The drawn one is good, I love the hand being held down in that position like she's telling a dog to heel. She has a ton of confidence, as shown by the hand on her hip and her head ever so slightly tilted. For me, it's less curiosity and more 'wow you really think you can get through here'. In both arts, her stance is also much more wide compared to Archer's. She is confident enough to take more risks than him, and is more commanding than inspecting, making them the perfect leading duo.

And in the sprite art specifically, she strikes a whole POSE. This woman doesn't see you as a threat, she thinks you're a pathetic bug and will find so much enjoyment in crushing you like one.

PETREL He's just a little chill guy! Would you ever feel threatened by a guy looking at you like this? There is absolutely nothing threatening in this pose, a big contrast to the previous one. Hands super loosely on his hips and his posture hunched over shows exactly what he means it to; this will lull them into a sense of false security. You could even let your guard down for a second. You can see the difference of looseness of the right hand on his hip compared to Ariana's. Would you guess this guy has 6 BOMBS in his team (his team of 6 koffings that I fully believe were meant to blow the radio tower up). Of course you wouldn't, this is just a guy!

PROTON Enter mega bastard. The WIDEST stance of them all. He thinks of you as such a small threat that he feels confident enough to turn his whole BACK on you, while still giving you the worst asshole smirk around. Super wide stance to just emphasize the confidence. He will bring you hell just for the sake of it, you absolutely don't have to give him a reason. More confidence derived from the blind adoration given by his underlings. 'Oh executive Proton, you are so cool!' Assuming the hidden hand is on his belt, he's ready to sicc his pokémon onto you, just look at him wrong once. It's like he wants you to do exactly that. And in contrast, the hand on the hat is a more playful gesture. He will attack you, and will have fun doing it.

#《 headcanons. 》#falls off the stage #sorry for party rocking (rocket autism)#long post /#'are you insane' yes next question

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b33zlebubz · 3 days ago

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3

PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks, implied past SA

“Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

SUNDAY APRIL 29TH 2024

MEXICO, 0700 HOURS

Soap thinks that he might explode.

The radio has been static. Silence. Dead. It hasn’t left Price’s hand and Soap severely doubts his finger has left the button, either. Not since promising that they were on their way, two whole days ago. Too long ago. Anxiety coils tight in his chest with each second of tense silence, a ticking time bomb.

Seven days. Over one-hundred hours Ghost and you have been stranded in this fucking country, a number that only grows by the moment. The more time passes the bigger of a chance he’ll find you both dead in a ditch somewhere; and the thought bothers him more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Ghost: dead—for some reason his mind just won’t compute it. Can’t happen. Impossible, even.

And all Soap can do is sit and fucking wait while the man who’s saved his life time and time again is out there somewhere. It makes his throat feel tighter than he’ll ever admit, more than even he predicted.

Not that he ever predicted this—Ghost being stranded and half-dead, of all people. Soap thinks he’s only ever seen the Lieutenant injured a handful of times; less so than his own Captain. A ripped sleeve from a stray bullet, a busted glove from a wrong punch. But nothing serious. Nothing as damning as blunt force to the head, nothing to get him discarded into a ditch like he was just any old soldier.

It was unsettling. Disturbing. Right fucking terrifying, seeing Ghost get distracted and injured. Seeing him hesitate at the sight of air support they hadn’t accounted for, open firing at the armor supporting them. The armor you supplied them with. The armor you were in.

Soap watched Ghost’s eyes flicker with panic when he realized, watched him completely change course and abandon everything to bolt in the opposite direction. Watched him abandon mission and run full-speed towards the tanks. Soap had called for him, but hell reigned down on them before anything could be done. In the moment he’d been pissed, but now?

Now just thinking about that moment he saw Ghost’s eyes change makes Soap’s jaw clench. Makes his throat tight and stomach uneasy.

Bleeding Jesus, Simon, what the fuck did you get yourself tangled into?

A torrential downpour assaults the helo, a constant muffled rumble outside the gear that covers Soap’s ears. To his right is Gaz, clutching a rifle close as his foot taps erratically against the floor. Expression tense, he stares out from under his hat at the fog and the rain.

In front of Gaz is Laswell, hunched over a laptop. Wisps of blond hair beginning to fall out of her bun, a nasty cut still remains on her cheek from the battle a week prior. Everyone is beat up, running on fumes, painkillers, and anxiety from the fiasco—but no complaints leave anyone’s mouths. No words at all. Soap shifts, the arm he keeps in a sling aching dully with the movement, fingers twitching.

Tension weighs like a heavy, hot, suffocating blanket.

“‘Better not be fuckin’ dead,” Soap mutters to the other sergeant to his right, just loud enough to speak through the rain. The first thing anyone has said in twenty minutes. “Or I swear I’ll lose it.”

Gaz takes a breath, sitting back in his seat.

“Gotta stay optimistic,” he says. “He’ll be fine. He always is.”

“And the Colonel?”

Gaz sends a loud glance Soap’s way. From all the information Price got from Ghost—it was unlikely you’d make it. With that, plus the radio silence, and the very real idea that Ghost may be underplaying his injuries—whatever lay ahead of them won’t be good. Nobody said so, but everyone was thinking it. Gaz doesn’t say anything.

Soap only met you a few weeks prior to the fight—right there on the tarmac as he stepped off the plane into Mexico. A wave of deja vu overcame him, inhaling his first breath of humid, warm air since that disastrous mission in Las Almas. The one that brought him and Ghost together—taught the stubborn, aloof lieutenant to trust someone. Soap swears he’ll bully the lieutenant into spilling his guts. Filling the gaps of the story he’s only heard bits and pieces of from Price.

From the second he left that plane, Ghost wouldn’t stop staring at something off at the end of the room. Following his gaze, Soap’s eyes landed on you. The laptop under your arm and the men you surrounded yourself with. Beside you was Laswell, here to introduce you as the new member of the team for the mission at hand.

Anyone who Price trusted immediately held his respect, but he finds you’re a special kind of scary. A pretty thing, one of the few women on the base other than Laswell, but strong and reserved. Tired eyes jaded, permanently focused. Uniform, hair, posture all scarily perfect, disciplined. You were straight to the point and didn’t fuck around—traits he also admired in his Lieutenant, who was conveniently missing for your introduction.

A woman who’s seen shit.

“You must be MacTavish,” you said, giving Soap’s hand a firm shake—a small smile gracing your lips. It suited you, something unexpected out of someone so intense. “Price speaks highly of you, yeah?”

He nodded. “Aye. Likewise, Colonel.”

“Angel,” you corrected politely. “No need for formalities, seriously.”

“Angel?” He says, feeling bold. “For your looks or your attitude?”

You only huffed, shaking your head in an amused manner. “Depends on how well this goes over.”

“Aye. Call me Soap.”

“How’d you get tacked with that?”

“Long story,” he replied, though it really isn’t. “Wouldn’t mind telling ye over a coupla drinks, though.”

At that, you laughed, deciding to humor the younger sargeant. “I might have to take you guys up on that offer, Sarg.”

Soap decided he liked you.

When Ghost reappeared a few minutes after you busied yourself rounding up other soldiers; he was pretty sure that opinion isn’t unanimous. The lieutenant paid close attention to Price for only a few minutes before his eyes were back on you again, off at the very other end of the room. His grip on his pack was white-knuckle tight.

Soap could probably count the number of times he’s seen Simon this uneasy on one hand. But this? This was different. There was something else there; something that made his eyes dilate. Something nervous. He remembers scoffing at Ghost the first time he noticed his lieutenant’s lingering eyes, jabbing his side with an elbow. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he kept his skeptically lighthearted.

“Pretty one, ain’t she?” He teased. “Name’s Angel. ‘Invited us all out for drinks after the debrief; seems like another close friend o’ Gaz and the Captain.”

Still, Ghost’s gaze didn’t leave your face. Dark eyes unreadable through the skull mask and day-old eye black. He grumbled indifferently, dropping his pack with the others.

“Won’t be there,” he muttered.

Soap gave him a look, confused. “Why not?”

He didn’t reply. Confused, Soap lowered his voice, leaning in to speak over Ghost’s shoulder.

“L.t.,” he said, low and serious. “You know ‘er?”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, still locked on where you stood across the large room—escorting a handful of your batalian out somewhere. Ghost isn’t tense in the way he gets around enemies, and if he had a problem with working with you the team would’ve heard about it before the flight. Yet, still, he stares. Uneasy for a reason Soap can’t read.

Soap realizes his Lieutenant might actually be shocked to see you: a stranger—as far as he knows.

Then, Ghost turns and walks off to follow Price. That strange, foreign look in his eyes disappears as he grunts; “mind your own, Johnny.”

Knowing better than to pry, he does just that. He figures, if anything, he might get some answers out of Ghost after everything is said and done—if he’s still alive.

Soap is pried from his memories as the helo lands and everyone scrambles for their gear. Gaz taps his shoulder and he jumps to his feet, hooking his pack over a finger and hauling it over his shoulder as Price barks orders.

“Search the area, keep your guard up. We don’t know what's out there—what’s got ‘em staying quiet.” Price is tired; voice raspy and hoarse from one two many nights awake, a few too many cigars—the way it always is when missions go tits-up. “You see anything out of the ordinary, report it immediately.”

“Copy!”

Just as Soap goes to step out behind Gaz, Price’s hand taps his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“You stay,” he says, patting his vest. “Watch Laswell’s six.”

Soap blinks, heart dropping to his feet. “what?”

“You can’t shoot with that arm, Sergeant. Stay and keep watch.”

Soap’s heart beats hard in his chest. Just the thought of leaving Ghost out there, leaving him abandoned again in this godforsaken country leaves a sour feeling in his mouth.

“Simon could be dead out there and you want me to stay?” He growls lowly to his Captain before he can stop himself.

Price sighs in that way he does when Gaz questions his orders. Understanding the frustration, but also needing the cooperation with so much to worry about, He squeezes Soap’s shoulder. Jaded eyes are sincere and tired under his hat.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Soap,” he says. “Stay. Here.”

Soap bites his tongue, only watching as the others step out and disappear into the billowing underbrush and pouring rain. First Price, then Gaz—who sends an apologetic look Soap’s way as he jumps down into the grass. The fire of anxiety in Soap’s chest only coils tighter now that he can’t find you or the Lieutenant himself, stuck inside the helo as backup because of his arm.

“Fuckin’ bullshite,” he growls to no one in particular as he ducks back inside.

#simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #cod ghost #simon riley

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