#maybe he can hear too much when it's too quiet

[luveline]

hey babe can I request Hotch with a reader girlfriend who’s desperately shy? early seasons hotch please when he’s still smiley (maybe still has Jack tho), i would love to see how he treats a long term girlfriend in your eyes one who he’s just completely gone for 

fem, 0.9k

You should know better than to come to work without venturing up to Aaron’s private office, but you’re late coming in and there’s a ton of stuff to do and he’s supposed to pretend that he cares when you turn in your work late. You log in and start going through things slowly. There are a few emails to respond to, some queries, a consult request Aaron himself has forwarded with a note —your expertise is required. 

You wiggle your mouse to wake the screen. You hadn’t realised you’d gotten stuck until it was dark. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” someone murmurs, tipping your head back to kiss your cheek, “where have you been?” 

He speaks quietly, no one else can hear him, but he enthuses his tone with so much love that you can’t decide between laughter or tears. You turn breathless instead, a thumb against your throat as Aaron’s loving questioning continues, “I thought we talked about this, hmm? You coming up to see me? How else am I supposed to know that you’re here?” 

There’s no Emily sitting at the desk opposite yours. No Spencer adjacent, no Derek to the right. It explains why he’s butter soft, but not his worry. 

“I was nearly late. I’m sorry.” 

He starts to kiss you gently, quietly, his lips tracking over the side of your cheek and pressing in as he goes until his nose is against your temple. “Don’t be sorry, I just wanted to see you.” He holds you to him. “I missed you.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, wishing you were brave enough to tack handsome, or love on the end. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I thought maybe you were still stressed about Emily.” 

Aaron pulls away, giving you your first proper look at him that morning. He’s as handsome as ever. It makes your chest spike with anxiety. You worry all the time that you’ll lose him; the thought that he might realise all the things you’re missing and break things off is a constant at the back of your mind. It only ever goes quiet when he’s kissing you. “Prentiss has done well so far,” he says. “I’m not happy to have things rearranged above my head, but I have no problem with Emily. Now, how was your morning?” 

“It was fine.” 

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You close your eyes and lift your chin. Ever your prince, Aaron squeezes your cheek gently and leans in to kiss you, far warmer than you’re expecting, his thumb rubbing over your cheek with a reverence he couldn't fake if he wanted to. 

[cameronsbabydoll]

hiiii, for sugar coated chains could u write something about how their oldest son once he’s older, like high school or college age, gets in a fight with rafe because he’s tired of seeing how he treats his mom and says something along the lines of “you don’t deserve her, she deserves so much better than you”

it’s late.

later than it should be for voices to still be raised in this house — his house — and especially not those voices.

your heart sinks the second you step into the hallway and hear them — rafe’s voice low, sharp like a blade being honed, and your son’s, rough with anger in a way he never used to sound. not your sweet boy. not the same little boy who used to trail after rafe on chubby toddler legs, desperate for his attention.

but he’s not a boy anymore.

you think you can talk to me like that, huh? under my roof?” rafe’s growl cuts through the tense quiet like it always does — but for once, it doesn’t land the way it used to.

for once, your son doesn’t back down.

“yeah, i do.”

silence.

and then—he laughs. bitter, disbelieving. his laugh, rafe’s laugh, inherited like every sharp-featured thing about him — only this time, it doesn’t sound a thing like his father.

“you don’t deserve her.” he spits it like venom, like it’s been sitting on his tongue for years. “mom deserves so much better than you.”

it punches the air from your lungs.

not because it’s untrue.

but because it’s the first time someone’s said it out loud in this house.

“she’s—god, she’s been nothing but good to you. sweet to you. stupidly loyal.” his voice cracks, breaks in that way that only happens when anger curls into hurt. “and all you do is treat her like a possession. like something you can control. she deserves—”

“enough.” rafe’s voice is a warning, low and dark.

but your son doesn’t flinch.

“you’re just pissed ‘cause you know i’m right.”

and it’s quiet after that.

so quiet you almost forget how to breathe.

until rafe’s footsteps stalk away — leaving your son standing there, fists clenched, chest heaving — and for the first time in a long time, he looks over and sees you.

soft-eyed. heartbreaking.

“mom…”

he sounds younger all of a sudden. like your little boy again. like he didn’t just stand there, taller than you now, shoulders tense with fury and hurt, defending you like no one’s ever dared to do before.

you don’t even think about it. your arms are around him before either of you can say anything else — pulling him in, holding him so tight it nearly knocks the breath from him.

and maybe that’s what does it.

maybe it’s the way your hands shake against his back, or how your voice wobbles when you whisper, “oh, baby…” — that cracks whatever wall he was holding himself up with.

because suddenly his arms are winding around you too, strong like his father’s but gentler — so gentle — like he’s scared to break you.

“shouldn’t have to be like that,” he mumbles into your shoulder, raw and low. “you shouldn’t have to… put up with him like that.”

and god — if your heart doesn’t just break right there in the hallway.

because he means it. so fiercely. so protectively.

your sweet, angry, stubborn son — standing there like your greatest defender.

you pull back just enough to cup his face in both hands, tearful but smiling anyway — motherly to your core, the only way you know how to love.

“hey,” you whisper, brushing his hair back like you used to when he was small. “you let me worry about me, alright? all you have to do is be good. be kind. be better.”

his jaw tightens, the fight still lingering in his eyes.

“i learned that from you.”

and oh — if that doesn’t just undo you completely.

because for everything rafe ever tried to control, ever tried to mold and own and shape in this house — he couldn’t take that from you.

your heart. your softness.

passed down exactly how it was meant to be.

unbreakable.

[slutla]

warnings: 18+, nsfw kinda (?), mostly suggestive tho, dry humping/grinding in public(?) afab! reader. indecency on public transportation. mark grayson. uhh he gets needy n desperate n wants 2 fuck idk

an: i had too much fun writing this icl, was heavily inspired by that one scene where omni man basically holds his head and crashes him in2 a train. don’t ask why idk either :3

This has to be some form of torture, Mark thinks. Not dramatic, just honest. You’d said you wanted the “real” Chicago experience. No flying, no speeding across rooftops, no superhero shortcuts. Just buses. Trains. Walking. Crowds. He hadn’t really thought it through when he agreed—just saw that excited look on your face and folded like a paper crane.

Now he’s regretting every decision that led to this moment. The train is packed. Sweaty despite the cold. Loud. You’re squished into the corner, and he’s right behind you, too close. Close enough to hear the way you exhale through your nose when the train lurches, close enough that his hand keeps brushing your side every time the car shifts.

You’re wearing that jacket he likes. He’s not supposed to notice that. But it smells like your perfume, and it’s driving him insane. You shift slightly, trying to make room, and it just presses your back more into his chest. He swears under his breath and stares hard at the wall.

This was supposed to be cute. An adventure. Maybe even romantic. But it’s turning into a slow, claustrophobic descent into madness—where he’s hyper-aware of every inch of you and desperately trying not to show it. You turn your head, looking back at him and say, casually as ever, “You doing okay back there?”

“Peachy,” he mutters. You laugh. He feels it more than hears it—vibrating through your spine, right against him. Mark’s been weirdly quiet since you boarded. He’s tall, broad, and currently using every bit of that to shield you from the crowd like some kind of human barrier. In a way, it looks like he’s doing you a favor—keeping the strangers at bay, making sure no one elbows you in the ribs or steps on your shoes.

But really, it’s a favor to himself. Because the moment the two of you got forced into this position—your back to his chest, nowhere to move, barely enough air between you—his body started betraying him.

You can feel it. Every jolt of the train, every hiccup in the tracks, creates a flicker of friction that goes straight to the space between you. And while you decide to stay still for now, pretending to scroll through your phone like nothing’s happening, you don’t miss the way he shifts just a little—like maybe if he angles his hips differently, it’ll stop. Like he doesn’t want you to notice.

Poor thing’s trying so hard to be respectful. But the way your ass fits perfectly nestled against him, the way every tiny sway of the train drags his semi-hard cock right along that curve—it’s making it nearly impossible. Makes his dick throb in excitement.

His fingers are white-knuckled around the rail, jaw locked so tight it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack. He’s doing everything he can to keep still, keep quiet, keep from bucking forward and rutting into you like he’s lost every shred of self-control. You’re not helping anymore.

You roll your hips, agonizingly slow, grinding your ass right into him, and he chokes on his breath. A whiny, desperate groan rips from his throat before he can clamp it down—so raw and filthy it sends a shiver through you. You feel it through his pants—his cock twitching against you, straining, begging.

He wants to move. Wants to rut and push you up against the wall of this train and grind his leaky, needy cock into you until he’s dizzy. The heat is unbearable. The pressure in his jeans is starting to ache. If he had any less discipline, it’d be over already. Right here, in public. With you.

You tilt your head just slightly, voice sugar-sweet and cruel. “You sure you’re okay, Mark?”

He breathes in sharp through his nose, exhales even slower, and clenches his jaw hard enough to ache.

And right then and there, he decides this is the last time he listens or agrees to partake in these dumb ideas.

[quickestgold]

For angsty requests: marriage on the rocks with jack abbot, contemplating divorce?

Say Something: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: A decade of falling in and out of love has turned you and Jack from lovers to strangers. But when a difficult case hits too close to home, you might finally be calling time of death on your marriage.

Warnings: Reader and Jack are both vets/doctors; Canon-typical graphic depictions of trauma/injuries; mentions of missing limbs, blood, war, ptsd, GSWs, patient death, divorce, rooftops;

Word count: 4k+

A/n: Slowly working through my requests, sorry for the long wait! But thanks so much for sending this in! Can't wait to hear your thoughts! Ngl kind of broke my heart with this one ♡

I will hold your hand. I will grow with you. I will change with you. Every day, in love and in life.

Ten years.

In and out of love. Always by each other's side. Two sides of the same coin. Combat medics. Doctors. Lovers. Friends. In that order.

But lately, a new reality has settled between you.

Strangers.

You share a bed and a space. A home. You've grown through laughter and pain. Know the other's darkness and heartache intrinsically.

Jack is the person you would survive any war with. He's your person. And you're his. Your passion runs deep, intellectually and emotionally.

You've been through hell together, but you always made it back. You used to laugh a lot, coping through humor. Most alive in high-stakes, emotionally demanding work.

You spent most of your careers overseas. Never shying away from the hard places. Always trying to help.

You can be unpredictable, the ends forever justifying the means. Walking the thin line between control and recklessness. Even for Jack's standards and he isn't exactly a man of protocol.

But sometimes you scare him. Your complete disregard for your own safety, always putting him first. The irony of course being, that he does the same for you. But before you, he never experienced a partnership like it. No one ever made him feel that whole. Completed him in a way, he can't ever find the words for.

So he made you a promise. To hold you. To grow with you. And to change with you.

Every day.

And you said yes...

But over the years, the line between your personal and your professional life has almost completely blurred.

You barely see each other outside of work. Everything feels mechanical. There's only faint traces of intimacy. Of tenderness. Just two people who've known each other for a long time. Who are slowly growing apart. Changing without the other. Not realizing they're going in separate directions.

In your heart you know it's no ones fault. No infidelity. No drama.

Just... silence.

Your shift wasn't exactly quiet before this case. But this injury, this patient, throws you off your game.

You never crack. The new interns thought Dr. Abbot was the stoic, quietly observant, fuck-standard-of-care, ED-cowboy.

Before they met you.

Unafraid to contest decisions from the higher-ups, demonstrating fearlessness in times of crisis, fudging paperwork for the sake of the patient. Always treating the person, not the protocol.

Dr. Walsh, Emery, your best friend and twisted sister in arms, always challenges you.

Your "other" person. The Cristina to your Meredith.

On occasion, she kicks Jack out of his own bed, when you need to reflect on a particularly bad case, or sometimes just to wind down with shitty reality TV. Jack would curse under his breath, but ultimately make room for the two of you. Always respecting your strong bond.

You went through residency together. Watched others drop out under the pressure. But you were never in competition, except maybe the odd healthy one.

Where she practices medicine by the book, you often improvise. But your dynamic works.

She knows you. Truly.

So when she steps into the trauma room, her words slice through the air like a sharp scalpel. The tension has built up slowly over the last two hours you've spent working on a man, who got his leg blown off handling faulty fireworks.

You're pressing into his chest, trying to force life back into his body, one beat at a time.

"Fuck no." Emery approaches the table, ready to shove you aside. "You should not be running this."

"This is not the time for you to tell me what to do, Dr. Walsh." You counter, your movements focused.

Jack is beside you, watching every step closely. His eyes flicker to Walsh's, you pretend you don't see them exchanging a look.

Your priority is the patient on your table.

Assess. Stabilize. Move upstairs.

"Third unit's in." Jesse states.

"Okay, pulse check." You order, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

Emery presses her fingers against the patient's pulse points. "No femoral. No carotid." The words make your heart drop and for a second it feels like it's you hooked up to the monitor, the flatline mirroring your failure.

You resume compressions. "We had a pulse after three packed cells", exhaling deeply with each push. "We need to get him up asap, Em." Em. Not Emery. Not Dr. Walsh. Your professional exterior clearly cracked wide open, ribs spread apart.

"We need a pulse to go to the OR. You know this." Emery hovers next to you now. You can feel her breath against your damp skin.

Jack doesn't say anything, but you get the feeling he's with Emery. His arms are crossed, his weight shifting from one leg to the other, worry written across his features. His own trauma pulling at the seams. But he doesn't let it in. He's focused on you, watching you touch your belly in a nervous tic.

The realization that this is a battle you're going to lose, dizzies you. You take a step back, hands slightly trembling, as Javadi takes over compressions. A million techniques and procedures flash through your mind.

A lifetime worth of training. Of knowledge. But nothing makes sense. Your brain starts to short-circuit.

Focus on the medicine.

"I could try a REBOA?" Santos suggests, stressing the word with dangerous confidence.

"Would that work?" Javadi cuts in, panting.

You don't look, but you feel Jack shaking his head softly, with a resigned sadness.

"Dr. Abbot, step back." Emery grabs your elbow, forceful.

You shove her with the same attitude, turning your attention back to the patient. "He's right on the edge..."

"Dr. Abbot." Emery moves to the other Abbot, willing him to say something.

Jack nods, silently reaching for your hand. The cold sensation on your clammy skin startles you. You pull your hand away, sharply. Nearly throwing him off balance.

You stare at them incredulous, their betrayal like a sharp stabbing pain in your back.

When did they team up? Against you, nonetheless.

"It's not Jack!" Emery yells without thinking, but she fears it's the only thing that can pull you back to the surface.

The flatline echoes in the distance, but you don't wait for them to call time of death.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Gloves are ripped off with a snap, before you flee the scene. Not ready to face the consequences of your defeat.

After finishing the rest of his shift, Jack enters the home you've built together. The curtains are drawn. The lights dim. No familiar smell coming from the kitchen.

He paces through the empty hallway before he finds you in the ensuite bathroom, still washing today's trauma off. Scrubbing. Until your hands are sore. Then scrubbing some more.

"I’m not trying to fight with you." His voice is low and soft.

"Then don’t." You scoff. "Don’t take her side. She wasn’t there."

"No." Jack shakes his head in acknowledgement. "But she means well." He surprises himself by siding with his supposed mortal enemy.

"She always does this. Acting like she needs to fix me."

"Surgeons." Jack offers playfully, but you don't bite.

"I'm not her fucking patient."

Jack reaches for your hand, attempting to pull you out of your spiral.

"Fuck off." You snap. Too harshly.

"Hey." His eyes sharpen. "I can't talk to you like this."

"Yeah? That's kind of the point."

"Last I checked, this means something." He grabs your hand, bringing the delicate ring on your finger into vision. You snatch your hand away.

"The piece of metal that binds you to me? Without it you'd have run for the hills ages ago." This conversation is starting to feel more and more like a losing battle in itself. It's like you're right back in that trauma room. Fighting for someone’s future. Though this isn't quite as tangible.

Why didn't med school prepare you for this?

Jack huffs a humorless laugh. "Every day. In love and in life." He breaks eye contact. "Even when you resent me."

"No. Don't do this. You don't get to tell me, I resent you for choosing you. For years, I let you act like I'm doing this selflessly. A noble sacrifice in the name of love. Like it was your fault-"

"We both know it was." Jack's words rip through the air like a bullet. Tearing straight through your heart. Leaving you breathless, unable to speak. The air constricting, like there's a tube down your throat.

"Don't pretend it wasn't. I was sent home. You could've stayed. But you didn't and you've hated me since." There's a brutally honest edge to his confession that feels like someone's sliced you open, vultures waiting to feast on your organs.

You process for a few beats, before rediscovering your voice. Shock slowly replaced by anger.

"Don't ever say that to me again." You cross your arms, hiding your trembling hands in the safety of your embrace, the hurt palpable. "I did that for you." You say quietly, painfully aware of the throbbing ache in your chest.

"Yeah? I never fucking asked you to."

This isn't Jack. But something within him's snapped. He fears if he doesn't lay it all out on the table now, there's no chance of recovery.

Soon you'll be the one calling time of death on your marriage.

You stare at him, suddenly realizing you've exhausted all options. There's nothing more you can do. You gave it your best.

You really fucking tried.

"I wanted this. I wanted you. But I'm... tired." You hesitate. "Maybe it's time we stop trying."

Jack is silent, already anticipating where you're going, knowing you saying the words out loud will break him.

You search his eyes, only to find your own grief reflected back at you.

"People get divorced, Jack. All the time."

The weight of your words crushes him, compressing his lungs. The force on his body leaving him momentarily paralyzed.

He just blinks at you, his expression illegible.

Your eyes are locked on his, willing him to say something.

Back in control of his muscles, Jack moves to his side of the bed, silently grabbing his pillow and heading towards the door.

You furrow your brows. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Jack answers, an unexpected resignation in his voice.

You groan. "I'll sleep on the couch. You stay."

Jack says your name like he's breaking the news of someone's passing to their loved ones. Crushed by a new reality, even if they're in denial.

"Are you serious?" You ask, blocking the doorway with an unwavering confidence that is usually reserved for emergencies.

Maybe this is one.

"Yeah, I'm serious. Move." His words are composed and determined, like he's not speaking as your husband, but your attending.

"You know you'll get no sleep on that thing. You'll be fucked tomorrow-" You try to reason.

"I don't need you to protect me!" He yells, too loud. The shrill tone taking you aback, making your heart race like someone's calling a code. "Stop treating me like I'm broken."

You grimace, your hand instinctively finds your belly again, your nails digging tightly into your battleworn skin.

Jack immediately retreats. "I- I'm sorry-"

Shouting is the one thing you don't do. You fight. You argue. You walk away. But you don't let anger boil over to the point of raising your voices at the other. Your therapist finds it healthy. But you both know it's from a combination of your PTSD triggers and shared trauma.

"Do me a fucking favor and sleep in our bed." You hiss, ripping the pillow from his hands and throwing it back onto the bed.

Before the next wave of pain hits you, you disappear into the bathroom to splash water on your flushed face.

Jack stands still for a moment, instant regret shooting through him. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his palms.

He calls out for you again, softer.

"I'm leaving! Fuck." You stumble back into the room, face wet, eyes burning. You find him looking up at you with a sadness you've only seen once before. Your heart palpitates with sorrow. Each skipped beat a reminder of all the loss and heartbreak.

"Please." He gestures at the duvet, gently touching the empty space next to him. "Stay."

In a moment of vulnerability, you truly see your husband in front of you. Your person.

With familiar effortlessness you kneel down in front of him, your hands resting gently on his tensed thighs.

A glimpse of what was. Intimate and tender.

Your hands find his prosthetic, sliding it off with practiced ease, slowly working it out of the socket.

"You're not broken."

Your words wrap around his heart, loving and earnest, like your hands massaging his leg.

You linger in his space, staring directly into his soul. Your eyes expressing more than every language in the world.

"You're whole."

Jack’s thumb instinctively caresses your cheek. The kind of closeness you both crave deeply, but haven't found in each other in far too long.

You both slide onto the bed, silently staring up at the ceiling.

Jack turns to look at you, before softly placing his palm on your abdomen.

"Is that really what you want?" He whispers into the darkness, afraid to hear your answer.

The silence hangs heavy with the words unsaid.

You notice the awful ringing in your ears first.

It's so fucking loud.

At the same time, you can't hear anything at all. Your brain is too slow to catch up.

Jack, the other medic in your unit, - and secret fling - just handed you a cheap beer. You were eating burnt food. As usual, when you were in charge of dinner.

Why are you on the ground?

Sharp objects pierce your sunburnt skin. A cocktail of sand and ash forces its way inside your mouth and nostrils, making you gag. You gasp for air, willing the dust around you to disperse.

But a cloud of darkness blinds you. Fiery sparks and flashes shooting through the air without direction.

Then it hits you, like a second wave of explosives.

Your unit was ambushed.

Where's Jack?

You stumble to your feet, desperately looking for something to hold onto. To steady you. Rough hands suddenly grab at you, pulling you behind metal walls for cover.

Your sergeant. Shouting at you like there's no tomorrow, but you can't make out what.

He's violently shaking your shoulders, then just as quickly, he's somewhere else. You drop back against the wall with a harsh thud.

It takes all of your energy to let your head fall to one side. When you spot him. Just out of the corner of your eye.

Jack.

On the ground.

Gasping, breathing erratically, staring up at the sky, like he's waiting to become a part of it.

For a second you let your eyes dart to where he's looking.

A beautiful, peaceful sight. The world above you, blissfully unaware of the atrocities going on below.

Something brings you back. A distorted sound.

A low, agonizing cry. You don't know where it's coming from, until your eyes shoot back to Jack.

Still on the ground.

Fuck. You're trained for this.

Why is he not moving? Why aren't you?

Your eyes scan his body, your medical instincts taking over like muscle memory. Assessing.

Your gaze lands on his torso. There's no obvious trauma, your eyes move lower, towards his hips, his pelvis, down to his legs.

Then you see it. The massive gash below his right knee.

You don't think. You just react.

Don't even register your seargent shouting at you again. Your legs carrying you to Jack's side, dropping to your knees beside him.

Not as his partner, not his girlfriend.

There's barely a trace of the woman he's grown to love, only the professional, hardened combat medic.

With one goal.

Assess, stabilize, evacuate.

Your hands move on autopilot, tightening a tourniquet just below his knee. Desperate to stop the-

To stop the love of your life from bleeding out!!

Your professional demeanor cracks, your eyes suddenly dart to Jack's. His are already on you. Holding onto you like you're the anchor tying him to this life.

The tourniquet holds. Your hands find his face. Desperate to comfort him in any way you can.

You can't speak. Neither does Jack.

And you still cannot hear a thing.

Not even when muffled thuds go off. You don't acknowledge your team readying their guns. Your only focus is Jack.

Then you feel it. Not the impact, but the warm liquid instantly soaking your uniform.

Your eyes flicker to your abdomen. It doesn't register immediately.

Though when it does, the world suddenly regains volume. The sound almost deafening.

Fuck.

No Man's Land.

But it doesn't matter. Only one thing does.

Protect Jack.

You throw your body over his, shielding him from whatever's coming.

You can feel his ragged breaths against your neck, your blood leaking into his uniform. Flooding him with your warmth, while your skin grows cold.

If this is goodbye, there’s no one you’d rather be with.

Minutes pass.

The dust settles. The sounds slow. But unfortunately, so does your breathing.

It takes all of your energy to lift your head just enough to find Jack's eyes underneath you. Looking up at you with a sadness you hope to God you'll never see again.

He's scared to death. Though not for himself.

You give him a brave smile to reassure him, before dropping onto your back.

There's too much blood.

Jack's. Yours. It's all one.

If you go, he’ll follow. And vice versa.

Without wasting a second, one of Jack's arms pulls you closer, throwing his hand over your wound. Gathering all of his remaining strength to apply pressure.

To protect you.

The world around you starts to fade. Your team moves around you frantically.

But you and Jack, just lie there, still, holding each other.

Until darkness takes you.

You wake to an empty bed, made perfectly, like it wasn't slept in. You stumble into the kitchen to find your coffee and go-bag ready on the counter, the habitual gesture making you smile, before the sadness rushes back in.

Is that really what you want?

Then you notice the stick-it note attached to the fridge.

We should talk to someone.

Vague as ever.

A therapist? A lawyer? God?

A jarring ding pulls you out of your head.

You open the door swiftly, being greeted with an iced oat latte and your favorite pastries from the coffee shop across the street. A cheap attempt at a peace offering.

"Have we calmed down or are we still pouting?" Walsh's sarcastic tone echoes through the hallway.

You attempt to slam the door shut, but she beats you to it, quickly wedging her foot into the frame. You roll your eyes, hard, before making your way back into your living room. Satisfied, she accepts the invitation and follows you in.

"It wasn't your place to get involved." You state, serious, crossing your arms and sinking into your corner of the couch.

Walsh sets the coffee down next to you before placing the pastries on the bottom shelf of your fridge. Her movements are familiar, like she's done this a thousand times.

With a groan she sits down on the other end of the couch, your eyes tracking her.

"Someone had to say it." She states nonchalantly, sipping her own latte.

Sure no one else would've dared. But…

"It was still fucked up."

She sighs deeply, leaning forward to shove the cup closer to you, like the ice can melt away the betrayal. "I'm sorry."

You nod, reluctantly taking a sip of your coffee.

"I suggested a divorce." You blurt out.

Emery almost chokes on her drink, eyes wide. "You what?"

God. Her reaction somehow makes it worse.

"I just don't see a way of moving forward, Em. Something needs to change."

Emery nods.

"We were happier once, weren't we?" You ask, like a child seeking reassurance from a parent.

"I don't know." Walsh answers truthfully. "But you were sadder before him."

"Do you think I smother him?"

Emery leans in, taking your hand. "You saved each other. In more ways than one." She gives you a squeeze. "Maybe you forgot that being married is more than sharing a home."

Though you usually work night shifts now, you've agreed to take a day one, your and Jack's shifts only slightly overlapping.

Preparing for the madness to come, you find yourself on the roof of PTMC to watch the world come alive before your eyes. The first rays of sunshine spreading warmth across your skin against the cold of the night.

This is where Jack comes to process particularly bad cases. It means something to him. So it does to you too.

It didn't surprise you that Jack proposed on a roof. Not this one. He's not that morbid. It was your first apartment. But without any grand gesture. No fairy lights, cozy blankets or candlelight dinner.

It was simple.

Just two people, in love.

To be fair there was a blanket. One. And he wrapped you both in it, while you were watching the stars above. Or at least you were. Jack was gazing at something far more mesmerizing. His future flashing before his eyes, like a shooting star.

Everything that's truly ever mattered, leaning into him. Seeking comfort in the darkness, finding it in his warmth. And he in yours.

“Marry me.” He whispered it with a confidence like he already knew what you were going to say.

You only just notice you stepped under the railing, a little too close to the edge. But somehow, you get the appeal. Of how being this close to certain death makes you feel weirdly alive.

The door creaks open, you don't have to turn around to know who it is. You can hear it in his footsteps.

"I'm in your spot." You state, beating Jack to it.

"I hate it when you do this." He mutters under his breath, approaching slowly.

"Ditto." You counter with a smirk, turning your head slightly to shoot him a glance.

"If you lose balance, you go over... that’s it."

"Don’t be so dramatic." You sigh theatrically.

He shifts his weight and groans, arms clinging onto the railing. Your eyes flicker to him, as he rests his head.

Your brows furrow. "You okay?"

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. "Are you?"

You can't help but smile. He returns it with a grin, announcing his dry humor is about to make a guest appearance. "Aim for the bay, otherwise you’ll hit the roof and end up on my table."

You laugh, like you haven't in years. A reminder of before.

He huffs. "But I hope you know, if you jump, I’ll hate you forever."

"I thought you already did." You say it as a joke, but it hits a nerve. Jack's face grows serious.

You turn to fully face him. "I know it wasn't you. Yesterday. With Em."

"Yeah." He mouths, understanding. "But it took you back." A statement, not a question.

"I felt it." Your eyes begin to sting with a familiar burn. "The pain, the fear... the thought of losing you-"

"I swear we were friends." Jack interrupts, unable to shake his thoughts. You tilt your head in confusion. "Before all this. Before the pitt, the tours, coming back."

You listen, even though it really fucking hurts. Because it's true.

"Before we were lovers. Before we became strangers." He sighs deeply. “I don’t recognize us. We never run away from the hard stuff.”

A realization suddenly hits you. "I think I changed. And so did you. But we didn't.”

Your inhales deepen, both of you now breathing in perfect harmony.

Jack leans closer, tilting his head to make sure his words reach your soul. "I want this. This life. With you. I'll never stop wanting it. Even if you choose to walk away."

"I don't..." Jack's face drops, you quickly elaborate. "I don't want to leave you, Jack. My worst fear is a life without you."

Jack exhales like he wasn't breathing until now, sadness, grief and heartbreak visibly leaving his body.

You lean in too. "What if we find new ways to share it?"

Years of unresolved sadness finally come to light. Beautifully mirrored by the rising sun. Another chapter.

A new beginning.

Jack reaches for your hand. Only this time you don't pull away. You stay. And let Jack hold you. Like he promised. Like you both did.

Every day.

© quickestgold, 2025.

Taglist: @mayabbot @sus-styles @clarasmoon @ezraphalitis @ncsls0515 @melancholyy-hill lmk if you want to be added! ☼

[riverbends]

Hear me out pope takes readers virginity 😅he'd be so sweet about it (in a pope way)

he’s known you for quite some time now and you’ve managed to help him ease his guard down. he probably met you at the beach or deran’s bar or just anywhere that didn’t hold the accursed imprint of smurf. while it’s a complete mystery to pope, you were suddenly fond of him in the way you’re fond of strays.

he’s not sure what you are to him, but, no matter how much he tries to filter it out of his conscience, you’ve got this way of leaning into his space without really physically making contact. when you’re together, he feels phantom touches of your elbow whispering against his forearm or your knee barely brushing his. you are not privy to the goings-on of the cody family, so he tries his best not to rope you into the mess of it.

maybe one night he’s dropping you home and you stall in his car before he bluntly tells you to say whatever you’re trying to avoid.

“do you wanna come in?”

the question paralyses him. you know pope, he has to fully digest something sometimes before he can find his voice. except he just looks at you blankly and now you’re worried you’ve crossed boundaries.

“i’m sorry—”

you’re cut off by the sound of his belt buckle releasing. and then he’s out of the car.

he’s absolutely soundless as you lead him to your bedroom. i won’t go into too much detail here (i’m usually very descriptive about it though, trust me).

but it starts with soft, hesitant kisses, initiated by you, of course. other wise he’d stand there all night, waiting. you help him with his clothes and, at some point, he gently seizes your wrists. he can see the tremor in your hands under the low light. you tell him you’ve never been with anyone like this before, and he’s still holding your wrists between your bodies. eyes searching in the dark.

barely a whisper, he says, “we can stop.”

your heart shrinks in shame, “do you want to stop?” you ask. another pause.

“only if you do.”

and then you’re tangled with him in your sheets, your ankles crossing at his tailbone as his weight presses your body into the mattress. he’s not even inside you yet because he is being so agonisingly slow about it. almost too careful for your appetite.

he’s not holding out on you to be a tease or assert some kind of power of you. he’s really just trying to do this the right way. trying to make it as comfortable as possible. another part of him is also trying to process how and why you’re so desperate for him, practically squirming beneath him with want. he’s never really been desired.

and the moment he gives you what you’re asking him for, you’re both rendered speechless. while you savour the burn of your first breach, he’s relishing in the way you fit him so perfectly. at first, he’s consistently preparing himself to wrench his body away from yours every time you gasp a little too loud or dig your heels into his lower back. he learns, though, that he is not hurting you. you aren’t signalling discomfort through your intensity… you simply want him too much to contain yourself.

afterwards, he is as gentle as he was when he sank himself inside you. when you’ve excused yourself to go to your bathroom, he collects your discarded clothes and remakes your bed, despite knowing you’ll pull it apart once more in the depths of your sleep.

he’s fully dressed again because he’s expecting you to ask him to leave, but he finds himself sitting on the edge of your bed. spine rigid with quiet apprehension. when you reappear, he braces himself for ruin. for rejection.

“can i stay?”

you don’t answer him.

instead, you drag him back into your bed and divest him of his clothes under the covers. not to go for another round, but to feel his skin against yours again.

this warmth he has found here with you, he thinks, is as good as it’ll ever get.

[moondustbaby]

Only You Could

Bsf!Rafe x Bsf!Reader

a/n: this was requested by the lovely @mariechristine00 💖

Summary: When Rafe loses control during an argument at a party, no one—not even his closest friends—can get through to him. But the moment you step in, everything shifts. You’re the only one who can calm him down… and maybe the only one who’s ever really known him.

⸻

Rafe was already yelling by the time Kelce found you in the kitchen, his face pale, his hand gripping the counter like it could anchor him.

“Where is she?” he asked, breathless.

You blinked at him, half-laughing. “What? Who?”

“You. You—Jesus, Rafe’s losing it. He’s two seconds from swinging at this guy and I don’t know what the fuck started it, but we can’t get through to him. He keeps looking around like he’s—he’s looking for you.”

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t ask anything else. Just dropped your Solo cup on the counter and shouldered past him, weaving through the crowd until the shouting got louder, sharper, more Rafe.

And there he was.

On the front lawn, shoulders tense, eyes wild. Some guy you didn’t know was running his mouth, but it barely mattered. Rafe looked seconds from snapping, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike. Topper and Kelce were there, trying to hold him back, but he wasn’t really hearing them.

“Rafe,” you called, threading through the crowd.

He didn’t move.

“Rafe,” you said again, louder, pushing in until you were practically in front of him.

Still nothing—just the ticking jaw and the way his fists clenched at his sides like he was barely holding it together.

So you did what you always did: you stepped closer. One hand flat against his chest, the other reaching for his wrist. “Hey. Look at me.”

That got his attention.

His eyes snapped to yours like a lifeline, his breathing sharp and uneven.

“You need to come with me,” you said quietly. “Right now.”

“I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can. He’s not worth it, Rafe.”

You felt the way his chest rose under your hand, how tense he still was, the storm still churning behind his eyes.

“Please,” you added softly, barely above a whisper. “Just come with me.”

He still didn’t move, but he blinked hard, like your voice was finally starting to break through the noise in his head.

You took his hand.

It was only when you started pulling—slow but firm—that he let you.

You led him away from the crowd, around the side of the house, somewhere quieter. The music dulled, the voices disappeared. You didn’t say anything until the only sound was the rustling of trees and the way Rafe was still breathing hard beside you.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

You turned to him, watching him carefully. “You good?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I hate when people talk like they know me,” he said finally, voice low. “Like they know what matters to me.”

Your fingers flexed in his. “What did he say?”

Rafe looked down. “That I’m not even a real person unless you’re around. That you’re the only one who can calm me down. Like I’m some broken project you’re stuck with.”

You were quiet for a second. “And that pissed you off?”

“No,” he said, almost too fast. “The way he said it did. Like it was pathetic. Like caring about you that much makes me weak.”

Your throat felt tight.

“And maybe it does,” he added, softer now. “Because I couldn’t think straight without you. I didn’t even care about the fight—I just needed to find you.”

You swallowed. “You found me.”

His hand was still in yours, thumb tracing your knuckles now like it was second nature.

You looked at him—shirt rumpled, jaw tight but softening, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing grounding him—and you felt it again. That unspoken thing. The one neither of you ever dared to name.

“I always find you,” you said.

Rafe didn’t speak right away. He just kept holding your hand, like letting go wasn’t even an option.

And maybe that was the answer. The quiet, careful way he looked at you. The way his grip never wavered.

Neither of you said what you were thinking.

But for now, the silence was enough.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: requests are open send ‘em my way 💌

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests 💌

Masterlist

[strawbrryvyy]

“Say that again , baby”

pairing- anton x fem!reader

genre- smut

a/n: been in my drafts for MONTHS

You were curled up in Anton’s lap, legs draped over his thighs, head thrown back against his shoulder. The drama was playing in the background, something about a chaebol heir falling in love with a barista, and you were halfway through an excited rant about episode four.

“So like—she doesn’t know he’s the heir, right? But then he—ah—he showed up at her apartment and—”

Your words stuttered as his fingers slipped beneath your shorts, dragging slowly through your folds. He didn’t say anything, just hummed in your ear like he was listening, even though his other hand was spreading your legs wider.

“Anton—wait, I was—talking—”

“You were,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “But you’re getting all messy. You sure you can still talk, baby?”

You tried to keep going, tried to explain the plot twist that had you so excited five minutes ago, but it all started blurring—his fingers curling just right inside you, pressing deep, slow, unrelenting. Your thoughts melted, each sentence more broken than the last, stammering out half-formed words while your hips rocked helplessly against his hand.

“Just keep talking, sweetheart,” he whispered, smug and so gentle it drove you crazy. “Wanna hear how dumb you sound when I’m making you feel this good.”

You tried so hard to keep going, tried to hold on to the thread of your thoughts—something about the second lead being her childhood friend? Or maybe it was the café scene? You couldn’t remember. You couldn’t even think.

Anton had two fingers inside you now, deep and slow, and his thumb was circling your clit like he was drawing lazy hearts on it. You twitched in his lap, back arching, thighs shaking already—and he laughed. Quiet and low in your ear.

“Drama’s really good, huh?” he said, curling his fingers just right. “Or were you gonna tell me about the scene where he bends her over the counter?”

You whimpered, hips grinding down hard against his hand. “N-No—he didn’t—he didn’t do that—yet—hah—oh my god—”

“Didn’t think so,” he smirked, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so wet, you’re making a mess all over me. Keep talking, baby. Pretend like I’m not even here.”

You tried. You tried so hard to talk about the next episode, but it came out in gasps and whines, every sentence broken by a cry or a moan.

“He—ah—he confesses but then—then she—Ant—Anton—please—”

Your thighs snapped shut around his wrist, but he just forced them open again, arm strong around your waist, keeping you wide and helpless in his lap. The pressure built fast—too fast—and your brain was barely working. You weren’t even thinking in words anymore, just fuzzy white heat and the squelch of his fingers thrusting into you.

“Aw, look at you,” he breathed against your ear. “So dumb already. What happened to all that talking, hmm? Baby can’t even finish a sentence now.”

That broke something in you. Your mouth dropped open, breath catching as your stomach tensed—and then you were gone. Your body shook as you squirted all over his hand, thighs trembling uncontrollably, vision blurring with tears and bliss. You cried out his name, babbling nonsense, twitching with every aftershock while he just kept whispering sweet, smug things.

“Good girl. Look at that. Couldn’t even make it five minutes. You really are dumb when I touch you like this, huh?”

You were limp in his lap, chest heaving, eyes glassy, legs twitching every time he so much as moved a finger. But Anton wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Look at you,” he muttered, pulling his soaked hand away and flexing his fingers. “Dripping like a broken faucet.”

You whined, turning your face into his neck, but he caught your chin, lifting your head up to look at the screen still playing the kdrama you were definitely not watching anymore.

“Nuh-uh,” he said softly. “You said we were watching this. Come on, baby. Stay with me.”

He grabbed his phone with one hand, tapped the screen, and suddenly—your flushed, ruined face was staring back at you. Front camera on. Recording.

“Anto—no,” you gasped, squirming.

“Yes,” he said, tone almost loving. “You look so pretty like this. Dumb, messy, needy. Say hi to the camera, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t. Your lips parted, but all that came out was a broken moan as he slipped his fingers back inside you—three this time—and your whole body jolted.

“Can’t even speak, huh?” he whispered, pressing slow and deep again, curling them just right. “Thought you were smart. Thought you were gonna explain the whole plot to me.”

Your legs kicked weakly, toes curling, your head falling back with a thud against his shoulder. Wet, obscene sounds echoed in the room—your body giving everything to him again, too sensitive, too full, and yet begging for more.

“You feel that?” he asked, phone angled just right to capture your twitching thighs, your slick leaking down onto his sweatpants. “You’re gushing all over again. You gonna squirt for me, dumb girl?”

Your mouth hung open. You nodded, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

“There she is,” he cooed, voice low and tender as he pushed you right to the edge again. “So pretty when she��s stupid for me.”

And then—you snapped.

Your whole body convulsed, crying out so loud your throat burned, squirting again and again while he watched, fascinated, his phone catching every stuttering sob, every flutter of your lashes as you went completely dumb in his arms.

By the time he finally stopped, pulled his hand out, your thighs were shaking, your mind blank, your body a wreck. He kissed your temple and whispered, “We’ll watch the rest later. I think you need a nap.”

[airybcby]

I don't know if requests for non event things are open or not but take this as more of an idea😭😭 don't feel complied to write it if you don't want to or can't atm. I reaaaally love ur fics so far and I discovered you through the spotify wrapped event thing. Hope ur asks aren't too flooded from the event tho, it seems like a lot😅 it's rlly impressive you can write so much in like a day. I would get burnt out 😭

Anywho, I just saw a tiktok video (https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS6r5pYuM/) and thought it would be a really cute (and really embarrassing) fanfic idea. I was hoping u could maybe write headcanons or a full on fanfic about the scenario with blue lock characters. Specifically rin, but anyone will be fine if you wanna do multiple characters😋 you can change the "guy friend" bit in the video to bf if u want idrm

Sorry if it was too long😭😭

hi hi!! my asks are open for anything and everything rn (including my event that i’m running rn) tysm!! i just have some days where writing is easier than others, and i can’t stop the word vomit and ideas tbh🙏

AND HELLO THIS IS SO SILLY AND CUTIE IM OBSESSED

so sorry this has taken so long to get to, my inbox was FLOODED and i'm slowly trying to get through them all!

જ⁀♡⊹｡° if your first kiss goes well...

( rin itoshi x gn! reader )

♡ a/n — airy get through your inbox challenge START! I made it to where rin is your bf and it's kind of new instead of just being a friend :)

♡ word count — 430

♡ content — rin itoshi x gn! reader, established relationship (it's new), written at like midnight so it's prob bad, reader and rin are inexperienced, puppy dog love, maybe ooc rin?, not proofread

♡ synopsis — Rin Itoshi wasn't someone who crumbled. ever. So when you go to his house and hear him watching a video on how to have your first kiss? It's just a little entertaining.

── .�� act natural, don't press too hard

It was still new, this thing with Rin.

New enough that your heart fluttered every time his hand brushed yours. New enough that when he offered you his bed with a quiet “You can sit,” it felt like more than just politeness.

His room was neat. Lived-in, but still precise—like him. He disappeared into the bathroom after a murmured “Be right back,” taking his phone with him, and you were left to take it all in.

You were just settling in, fingers playing with the hem of his hoodie you’d stolen earlier, when his speaker—still connected to his phone—came to life.

"Hi! Nervous about your first kiss? Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered—"

Your eyebrows shot up.

"First, make sure you’re both comfortable. Confidence is key, but don’t worry if you’re nervous—"

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. No way.

The audio cut off a second later. Maybe he paused the video. Maybe he’d noticed the speaker was connected. Either way, you were still smiling when he came back out.

He looked calm. Composed. Like he always did.

But you could feel something different under the surface—something uncertain, maybe even shy—as he stood in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets.

You stood, meeting him halfway. “Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey,” he murmured, eyes flicking to yours.

There was a beat of silence, and then: “Do you… wanna kiss me?”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked. Then gave the smallest nod.

Your heart jumped.

You stepped closer, slowly, carefully. His hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned in, tilting your head just a little.

When your lips met, it was soft. Hesitant. A little uncoordinated, but so full of intent you thought your chest might burst. He kissed you back like he meant it—like he’d been waiting for it.

When you pulled away, his eyes were still half-lidded, dazed.

You smiled, heart racing. “Better than the video?”

“…What?”

You giggled, lifting your hand to point toward the speaker sitting innocently on his nightstand. “That. It was playing your video.”

Rin froze.

Then slowly—painfully—turned to look at the speaker like it had personally betrayed him. His ears flushed pink. “I’m sorry…” he muttered, voice tight, almost ashamed.

You couldn’t help it—you cupped his cheeks in your hands, thumbs brushing over warm skin. “I think it was cute.”

He blinked down at you, and you watched his gaze flicker—first to your eyes, then down to your lips.

You smiled.

“...Another one?”

He didn’t say anything.

Just nodded.

And kissed you again.

this is so cutie i cannot

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

❀ tags: ❀ @kenyuukissme ❀ @irethepotato ❀ @kiyy0mei ❀ @x3nafix ❀ @sugacor3 ❀ @ohagiyo ❀ @reigensuperstar ❀ @nevvynevnev ❀ join the taglist here !

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[nameless-ken]

Could I pls request Daryl x chubby! Reader? Maybe they get to Alexandria or smthn where food is more available but she feels icky eating and eats less bc ofc the bigger girl stuffs her face? Ik he's less of a sappy guy but I'm curious how he would deal with that. Anywho, just an idea, Ily!

It's been awhile since I've written for Daryl so hopefully I did this justice :) Thank you for the request!!

words: 685 warnings: talks of body image issues, possible ED masterlist

You miss the days before the world turned ugly—before hunger became a constant companion and fear lived behind every door.

Back then, your insecurities were just passing thoughts. You didn’t always like your body, sure, but it never consumed you. You weren’t afraid to love food, or yourself.

Now, it’s different.

Now, your weight is the one thing you can’t stop thinking about. Every day, every meal, it whispers doubt and shame.

Before the world fell apart, you never felt guilt gnawing at your throat just because you were hungry. You never questioned whether you deserved to feel full.

Since arriving in Alexandria, where food wasn’t as scarce as the past year had been on the road. The pantry is stocked and warm meals aren’t just in your dreams anymore. 

You feel it crept in at every meal. The guilt and shame. 

You know your weight isn’t a problem, at least no one has ever said so but you’ve grown insecure around every dinner table. 

You’ve started serving yourself less at dinner, even though your stomach growls so much afterward. You’re afraid of people hearing it. 

You’ve made sure to volunteer to take later shifts when the meals have winded down so you could eat without a lot of people around. 

When it’s quieter. When you can lie to yourself in peace.

I’m not that hungry, you tell yourself. I’ll survive like everyone else.

But someone else noticed. 

Daryl. He always noticed more than he let on.

At first, he would glance your way more often during meals. You figured maybe he was judging you too. Maybe he was thinking the same thing you were. That you shouldn’t take seconds. That you should be grateful for what you have and not overdo it. 

One evening while most of the group is still talking around the dinner table, Daryl is leaning against the doorframe just outside the kitchen and dining room. He’s watching you be the last person to get food, scraping the last bits of stew into a small bowl-barely half a serving. 

“You gonna eat that or just look at it?” His voice is quiet like always, but not unkind.

You’re startled a little, not expecting anyone to be watching you. “I’m not that hungry.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first, nods slowly, eyes flicker to your bowl and then back up to look at you sheepishly.

“I been watchin’,” he admits. “You used to eat more.”

Your stomach twists, the shame blooming hot and immediate.

He continues crossing his arms, keeping his voice low. “Ain’t none of my business, but… it’s just us now. You don’t gotta go hungry just ‘cause you think you should.”

“I’m not,” you lie, too quickly.

Daryl steps further inside the kitchen, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable, but pushes through anyway like this concern matters more than him staying silent. 

“We all been starvin’. You ain’t the only one who’s still tryin’ to pretend we ain’t.” He pauses, then adds, “Ain’t about size. It’s about stayin’ alive.”

You look down at the bowl in your hands. It feels heavier than before. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” he agrees. “It ain’t. But I know what it’s like to feel like you gotta shrink just to fit in. Like takin’ up less space makes you safer.”

Your eyes met his, surprised at the weight his voice carries.

“You ain’t gotta do that here,” he tells you. “Not around me.”

And just like that, something in you cracks open. The shame disappearing in Daryl’s presence, feeling safe and understood after so long. 

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t pressure you. Just leans beside you against the counter while you eat slowly, with a slight smile resting on your face for the rest of the night.

The kitchen is calm now. The soft clink of the spoon in your bowl and his steady presence beside you.

There’s no rush. No judgment.

Just you and Daryl and this moment.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel full in a way that has nothing to do with food.

Thanks for reading! my requests are open <3

[eremikayearner]

unspoken ‹𝟹 oikawa tooru

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which, your best friend oikawa tooru is leaving for argentina tomorrow morning.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the stars are pretty tonight, you think. the city’s bright and overwhelming lights seemed to have ebbed away, just this once.

the spring breeze brushes against your skin as you look up at the night sky, lying down against the surface of your roof. and he’s right there beside you. he always is.

tooru, your best friend of ten years, lays beside you. soft chocolate brown hair splayed out against your rooftop, long lashes and brown eyes you knew so well looking up at the sky, and his breathing even. in all your years of knowing him, you have never imagined this day could truly come.

there’s something heavy in the air.

you know you’re not supposed to be sad, because this is your last moments with each other. you should be enjoying this moment — savouring it. but something is nagging at you.

your throat closes up and your chest tightens as your head swims with thoughts. you should tell him. before he leaves. before you lose him.

you turn your head to look at him, your lips parting to speak but the words already choke up in your throat. you look away from him, suffocating silently.

but tooru notices. he always does.

he turns his head to look at you, his face so incredibly pretty and his voice unbearably soft. “what is it?”

it’s moments like these where you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place. the moments where it’s so evident that he cares for you. maybe cares for you a little too much. a little too much for it to feel like the air is being ripped from your lungs the moment you realize he’s leaving.

you can’t bear to look at him.

“nothing.”

you hear him inhale, and the air is so heavy. “talk to me.”

it’s always easy to talk to tooru. it’s always been. you’ve lived and breathed him for as long as you could remember. just recently, the past couple years, there were some things you just couldn’t quite say to him. things you had carried with you for so long and buried deep in your heart.

but you needed to say something. even if those words wouldn’t amount to those feelings at all.

you turn your head and meet his eyes, your heart twisting in your chest as you face his beauty. those kind eyes that looked at you with so much feeling and concern. you will your tears away. “i already miss you.”

his voice is quiet when he looks at you. “i already miss you too.”

there’s something in the air. something caught in your throat. something on the tip of your tongue. and tooru knows it. he looks at you, waiting. hopeful.

“i don’t know what i’m gonna do without you.” you breathe, the promise of tears making your voice just a little higher.

you watch as your eyes glass over, his hand inches toward yours. a slight shift of fingers. a small push of his palm along the shingles of your rooftop. he doesn’t look at you, his eyes focusing on your hand that’s so close yet so unbelievably far from his own. “if you ever need me,” he finally meets your misty gaze, a wistful look in his eyes. “i’ll come back home.”

it hurts. it hurts too much to look at him. to see those tears he’s fighting hard to keep from his eyes. he knows he shouldn’t be sad. neither of you know when you’ll be able to see each other like this again. you should be soaking in your last moments together. he knows it just as well as you do.

neither of you can help it.

“you’ll come back home?”

“whether that’s here,” his hand inches closer to yours and you feel your own fingers reaching for his. “tokyo, kyoto, fucking hell, even sweden—” he looks at you with all the meaning he can ever hold. he’s pleading with you. begging you. to what? to say something? to do something? to stop him?

finally, the warm familiarity of his hand finds yours, your fingers inching closer, your palms just touching. he’s looking at you like you put the stars in the sky. “home is where you are.”

the words are in your mouth, struggling to get past your lips. you need to tell him. tell him before he goes. tell him before you might never see him again. tell him that you’re irrevocably and endlessly in love with him. tell him that your heart is his. tell him that you’ll follow him to the ends of the earth. tell him.

he’s looking at you with so much hope, so much fear and so much longing it nearly tears you apart at the seams. you nearly fall apart when your fingers slowly lace with his — fitting together so perfectly. as if you were made for him and he for you.

the words are in your mouth, so close yet so far from this moment.

“and i’ll always be here,” you say, and it looks like he wants to say more but he just can’t. your hands squeeze his, just this once. to feel him like this just this once. to take in this intimacy with him just this once. you blink your tears away, a melancholic and soft smile on your lips. “to welcome you home.”

and that’s the way the words remain. unspoken.

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `make it stop, sam winchester ༘♡

summary: you're both grieving, but sam needs you more than ever. word count: 1197 pairing: sam winchester x reader now playing;｡･:*♫♪ make it stop (septembers children) - rise against

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The bunker is eerily quiet.

Too quiet. In fact, it’s almost like you can hear him sometimes. Metallica playing through his record player, his snarky, sarcastic comments followed by his heartiful laugh.

A month has passed since Dean’s death. You’re not taking it well, and hell, neither is Sam. You see him maybe once a day if you’re lucky. Sam barely leaves his room, tangled earphones plugged into his phone, dark circles molded to his pretty face. It breaks your heart knowing that he’s suffering so much — and there’s barely anything you can do.

Family don’t end in blood. That’s what Dean would tell you when he wanted to prove that your bond means more than what’s on the outside. You know he took it from Bobby, but it’s a hell of a good precept.

You loved that man like a brother. His courage and pride were contagious, unwavering. Without him, you feel lost.

Completely and utterly lost.

Sam’s bedroom door is open ajar, he’s laid across his bed in a white t-shirt, grey joggers and dark navy blue socks. His hair is wild and long. It’s probably the longest he’s had in a long time. Sam is glued to his phone, with earphones plugged in, as usual. Whilst you’re at the door, you knock gently, and he looks up for a mere second, before backing down at his phone. “Can I talk to you?” You ask him, padding over to his bed. You sit gently by his thighs.

“Sure.”

He is still staring at his phone, and you gingerly move his phone out of his way. “I don’t think we should sit at home and sulk,” you attempt to pick your words carefully, “how about we get out of town for a little while? The bunker isn’t going anywhere.” You chuckle lightly, and Sam looks at you, almost completely deadpan. Your lips purse slightly at his response.

“I know you’re hurting right now, Sammy, but Dean wouldn’t want you to. He would want you to celebrate his life, continue the family business, right? Saving people, hunting things.”

“I can’t do that right now when I can barely save myself.” He mutters, his glazed hazel eyes meet yours, whispers of anguish begin to show through the colour of his iris, his once bright eyes now dull.

“Sam…” You tut, noticing tears form and well across his waterline, threatening to spill. “C’mere,” you pull him into a hug, and his vast arms wrap latch around you as you tenderly stroke his hair.

-

It’s been a couple of hours, and you have a couple of bags packed. You assisted Sam in packing his bags, too, as he’s taking this much harder than you originally thought. You called a couple of air b&b’s and rental homes and found one a state over, a good 5 hour drive away. At this rate, you’re just happy attempting to help Sam, help him feel better.

Sam lifts the bags into the Impala, luggage covering the back seat completely. You’re only away for a couple of weeks, but it feels like you’re moving out.

You offered to drive there, allowing Sam some time to rest. He finds solace in the Impala. Many, many years of driving around the country with his brother surely brings him the comfort he’s been needing.

It still slightly smells of him. A musk of expensive cologne has sunken into the leather seats, one that you’ve come to know and love throughout the years. You know he’s there with you in spirit, probably complaining that you’re driving Baby and not him.

When you arrive, you take a little bit of time unpacking, placing your things in your designated bedrooms and folding your clothes and placing them in the drawers. Although you’re there for two weeks, you feel the need to make it like it’s your home. A fresh start with no memory of your old life at the bunker.

The sun begins to set, a purple and pink sunset graces the horizon with light orange clouds. The trees create a silhouette outside of the window, creating the perfect picture. You yawn, exhaustion finally catching up to you. Rubbing your eyes, you exit your bedroom and prepare to get ready for bed. You use your usual skincare, brush your teeth and pad over to your room, shutting your door behind you. It’s early, but you know sleeping now will refresh you completely for the morning.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

There’s a knock at your door. A light one that shocks you awake. Back at the bunker, you never have anyone knock at your door. You’ve come prepared, though. Just in case.

Stepping over to your door, you open it quietly, only to reveal Sam on the other side.

“What’s up?” You yawn, squinting your eyes slightly. “I can’t sleep.” He mutters, his voice low and gruff. Sam’s clearly been in and out of sleep, his hair tousled and he has a habit of keeping his eyes mostly shut when he’s tired. You grin at him, widening your door. “Do you want company?” You ask, and he nods. Stepping to the side, you let him in.

He crawls into your bed, and you follow suit. Surprisingly, he’s not brought his earphones or his phone with him. You can’t help but feel awful for the guy. He’s lost every family member and everyone he’s ever loved. They’re gone.

Except for you.

As you’re sitting up, he’s beginning to get comfy. He lies on his back, then turns over to his side, facing away from you. The silence between you both is comfortable, peaceful. But there’s something lingering in the air. You turn to face him, tapping him tenderly on his upper arm.

“Sam,” you begin, and he hums.

“Yeah?”

It takes you a second to collect your thoughts, knowing that saying the wrong thing can set him off. You keep your hand placed on his bicep, attempting to keep that connection and ensure he’s listening.

“I know you feel like you have to carry all this shit alone. But you don’t. Like moving forward is the only way to make the pain stop. You don’t have to. It’s okay to grieve and feel sorry and all of the above. It’s normal, but you’re not alone. You’ve got me.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but you can hear the shaky breath he exhales.

“I miss and love him so much too,” you continue, your voice quieter, softer. “There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think about him. I know nothing I can say will fix anything, but I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallow as his body stiffens. Sam remains quiet, his hand settling over yours. Sam’s hesitant, unsure that if he lets go, he’ll lose you too. Nothing in the world right now will bring as much solace than the comfort of one another.

“We’ve lost such a huge part of our lives… but we still have each other. And that’s something.”

Sam lies there, absorbing your words like a sponge. He responds with a small hum in agreement. He squeezes your hand tiredly, so you know he’s got you too.

[samuelwilsonbarnes]

Close Quarters

Pairing: Sambucky Rating: M Words: 2.3k

Sam and Bucky get stuck in a box on a mission and they're sooooo normal about it.

Also on AO3. Inspired by @deadstarvk's incredible sambucky art

♡♡♡♡

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Why would I joke about this? Do I ever sound like I’m joking?”

“You sound like you’re not pushing hard enough, is what you sound like.” 

Bucky huffs in reply. If there were any time to catch their breaths, it might as well be now. The job was done, all that was left was, well…

“Just give me a minute.”

“Do I have a choice? Trapped in here, hot breath on my goddamn neck,” Sam complains, also gulping what he could only hope wasn’t limited oxygen, and he can feel Bucky’s chest press against his every time the two breathe in unison. “Is this gonna be what happens every time we follow through on one of your plans?” 

“This wasn’t my plan. You nearly getting shot out of the sky five minutes in wasn’t the plan. Everything after that was just–” Bucky shifts, and for the first time since the two of them hurtled into– whatever box the men were currently stuck in, Sam became keenly aware of their positioning. Specifically Bucky's position, sat between his thighs. Shit. “This thing worked as cover, didn’t it?” Bucky continues, “We didn’t get blown up.” 

It takes Sam a second to remember what they were talking about, the dive they’d just made, the heavy lid Bucky had managed to slide over the two of them just in time. 

“Shut up, didn’t even know you carry that many explosives on you in the first place. Do you always have that much? How the hell do they fit under that tight ass jacket?” 

Bucky ignores the questions. “Can you feel anything under you?” 

“Only more concrete.” 

“Then I just can’t get a good angle.” Bucky grunts lowly, right against Sam’s ear, but the voice is nothing compared to the slow roll of their hips as Bucky adjusts his spine, attempting to wedge his arm firmly between the top and bottom of the box and force it upwards. No dice. 

“Woah, dude–”

“Hold still.”

“Bucky.” Sam bites out. 

“Hm?”

“Just. Just–”

Bucky pushes one more time, then and relents, slumping slightly closer.

"What?" 

“There could be debris on top of us.” Focus, Sam. Just focus. 

“Can you use the wings to launch us up?”

“Not without smashing us to the top of this thing, and maybe slicing your head off.” 

“They can do that?” 

Sam flicks his goggles to night vision with a retinal gesture, ready to tease the trepidation he expects to see on Bucky’s face, but he falters. Instead, Bucky is just staring at him, gaze bouncing over his features in the dark, damn superhuman eyesight, with something in his expression that Sam can’t read. Bucky only looks away when he realizes Sam can now see him in turn.

“...I’m okay, y’know?”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice sounds almost distant, hesitant. 

“I didn’t get hit. You had my back.” Sam wishes he could shrug, settles for scrunching his nose, “As far as terrible plans go–”

“Ugh, Sam-”

“It could’ve gone worse, is what I mean. The intel was shit, there was too many of ‘em. We made do. The job’s done. Just got tripped up at the end, it happens. I’m alright. You did good.” Sam’s voice is softer than ever, almost a murmur. “So, thank you.” 

In the utter silence and stillness of the box, Bucky’s shuddery little inhale isn’t lost on Sam. He can hear the slight whirring and small clicks as he moves almost imperceptibly. He looks speechless. Sam savors it. “So? How about you?” He nudges lightly, after a moment.

“What about me?”

“You okay?”

“...” 

Sam frowns, the hand he’d had pressed all this time to the roof of their enclosure drops, to settle on the back of Bucky’s shoulder, even though he’s quieted his breaths, Bucky’s still panting. 

“Hey, c’mon, you with me?” there's a pause before his response

“Always.” Bucky says breathlessly. Oh. 

“Then listen.” Sam’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, and he watches Bucky's eyes flutter closed. Drinks in the sight. Nearly forgets himself again. He has to take a minute to screw his own eyes closed before he speaks. “We’re gonna be fine. Gonna take a couple deep breaths, and then we’re gonna try again. Same time, we’ll push on three.” Bucky clenches his jaw, before sighing. 

“Yeah. Fine. Just–” 

“?”

“Could you–” 

“Oh. Sure.” Somehow, Sam knows what Bucky’s asking for. They’ve done it once or twice before.

“In.” Slow, deep breaths. The painful restraint on Bucky's features seems to soften, ever so gently.

“Out.” Bucky deflates slightly more, and what Sam first thinks is pressing in closer is actually Bucky just relaxing all the muscles he’d been holding still to not jostle Sam, considering he essentially sprawled across his lap. Sam leans back to give him room, letting his head hit the wall. which then exposes the length of his neck. 

“In.” This time Bucky did actually draw closer, hair falling in front of his face, hair tickling across Sam’s jaw as he leans into his shoulder, and if Sam didn’t know better, he would think Bucky was breathing him in.

Maybe Sam didn’t know better.

“Out.” Bucky adjusts his body again, he could just be bracing himself, that’s what Sam says to himself. Trying to really angle himself to push hard. Until a gentle hand starts to slide up Sam’s thigh to hold him in place, and Sam reflexively widens his legs to give Bucky room. Then it's hard to think of much of anything.

“In.” Sam barely keeps the word even as he speaks. The breath is a hiss from both of them. 

“Out.” And all that restraint is back on Bucky’s face. In fact, he looks worse than before. Damn. At least he doesn’t look angry with Sam, although Sam’s unsure if even that would be a turnoff at this point. Suddenly, the box feels ten degrees warmer, the material of their suits feels oh-so-thin, and he’s sure Bucky can hear as he thickly swallows. This was getting dangerous. “You– ah, you ready?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice sounds rough, like he had to fight to get the word out. A fact that shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is. 

“On three. One, two, three!” 

Sam lifts his hand back to the roof of the box, grits his teeth and pushes with all his might. 

Bucky pushes hard. With his arms, first, he can’t get any leverage to push directly against the top of the box with his hands but he can shove them into the concrete below hard enough to pebble some of it and try to shove up with his back and shoulders. When the roof doesn’t even budge, he shifts to hinge up with his thighs, but only manages to lift his hips and further fold Sam’s body against him as he goes, pressing them together. Sam has to arch his back and shift onto his toes just in an attempt to keep himself still anchored to the floor of the box. He makes a noisy yelp of surprise at the sudden movement that draws out to almost a whine when he realizes his new position, and he nearly would’ve thought Bucky was politely ignoring if not for the night vision exposing the way Bucky’s eyes fly open to look at him again the second the sound leaves his lips. Still, they keep pushing, and the door doesn’t budge an inch.

"Come on!" Sam calls out to neither of them in particular.

"I am." Bucky grumbles into his neck, and Sam can feel the vibrations from Bucky’s voice across his entire body. 

Sam, as is his habit, switches to riling Bucky up instead of letting himself sit in the embarrassment of almost moaning from the manhandling, "Are you? Are you even pushing?"

Bucky, neck deep in several different agonizing kinds of frustration, gives up pushing, lets out a harsh breath, grabs onto Sam and yanks him closer, gritting out, “What the hell do you think?! ”

Sam, in pure shock, grabs onto Bucky’s wrists for stability, which only gives Bucky an easier time of pulling Sam to him. But now they’re frozen, rearranged in the box to be closer than ever, Sam on his back and entirely slotted against Bucky, who’s on him, over him, solidly wedged between his legs. And because of how well Bucky managed to also wedge himself against the top of the box, there’s nowhere for them to go from there. 

Sam’s goggles had slid up and off his head in the shuffle, so he couldn't even get a read on the other’s face, cloaked in shadow. Great.

It’s Sam’s turn to huff a frustrated breath in response and the two fall into a silence unlike any they’d quite experienced before. And charged silences were like a second home for these two at this point. 

Bucky was finding himself no better off though, unable to quite let go of where his hands rested on the small- god, tiny - waist of Sam Wilson. The one he was meant to protect. Whom he’d essentially trapped. Who he’d never had closer. Who felt so fucking good against him. Who–

“Bucky.” 

“What.”

“Stop thinking so loud.” It’d been minutes of silence at this point, Bucky just stewing, even as Sam had relaxed slightly under him. fingers thumb idly over the leather of his sleeve, over the ridges in the metal of his arm. A grounding thing, that little fidgeting, but did Sam know Bucky could feel every bit of it?

“I wasn’t– I was thinking how to fix it. This.” Bucky manages, just to say something that’s not, at all, what he’s thinking. Sam’s quiet, for a moment, and finally lets out a sigh of acceptance. 

“Gonna have to wait for extraction to get us out of here. That’s gonna be a minute.” 

“How long?” Bucky isn’t sure how much more of this he could take, but never wants the moment to end, Sam fits so perfectly against his body it’s dizzying, like he was made for it. 

“I don't know. Soon.” Sam responds, “I kept my tracker on so they’ll know where to get us. Your comms working though? Cuz I’m not getting anything.”

Bucky shakes his head and goes quiet again. Sam keeps up the idle touches, for his own sake, but he can feel Bucky working through something above him, so wants to offer comfort. And, maybe most importantly, he wants Bucky to keep his hands where they are. 

“Sam?” Bucky asks after what feels like an age of soft breaths and tiny shuffles and trying to pretend they aren’t flush together in more places than they’re apart. 

“Yeah, Buck?” and maybe Sam sounds more affected than he means to, maybe he can’t keep the painfully building want out of his voice, maybe it’s the way he says his name, but it makes Bucky freeze, whatever on the tip of his tongue swallowed down with what almost sounds like a whimper, hands tightening on Sam’s waist and pulling him impossibly closer. 

“You’re kinda killin’ me, here…” 

Finally.

“Am I?” Sam breathes, plausible deniability bleeding out with every passing second, the agonizing slow roll of their hips in unison seeming less and less like a consequence of their synchronized breaths. “Not doing much of anything yet.” 

“Yet.” Bucky lets that thought sit for just enough time to blink the shock into relief and then he’s on Sam like a damn breaking. Somehow even in the tight confines, Bucky’s hands are everywhere. 

Sam’s barely lets the delighted puff of a laugh leave his chest before Bucky’s nosed his way up from Sam’s jaw to brush a gentle swipe of their lips together, a touch that leaves Bucky nearly shaking, a low growl rumbling in his chest before he breathes out the quietest, “Please–” against his skin and Sam can’t take it anymore, rushing to meet him before any more thoughts or words can come take up the space between them. Each kiss is messy and more desperate than the last, lips and tongues and tasted feelings, Bucky’s got Sam moaning into his mouth, utterly unwound, in under a minute.

“You got any idea–” Bucky mutters, when he’s pulled away just enough to let Sam catch his breath, kissing down his jaw again to press lips then tongue to the long stretch of his neck, then Bucky sinks teeth in, earning him a gasp, “The kind of things I wanna do to you?” There’s not much room to maneuver each other any farther, but somehow Bucky’s even closer, and Sam would swear he’s dreaming if each kiss and bite and squeeze didn’t seem to be Bucky also confirming that the two of them were real, together, and not a figment of his own imagination, “The things you make me wanna do?” 

Not prepared for Bucky to be the vocal one between them, and frankly too overwhelmed to speak– not an easy feat– Sam twists his arm enough until he can lift it, tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair and yanking him in for another searing kiss. Bucky purrs in approval, the yeah, you like that? So deeply implied in his pleased little hum it makes Sam shiver. All this, hiding behind long stares and grumpy one liners, oh, Sam wants to devour Bucky whole. As far as Bucky's concerned, though, Sam's been his for ages. To follow, protect, to annoy and admire. Yet to actually lay his claim in lasting marks across his skin, to hold Sam, to touch him, feel him shake and tense and moan against him, to feel a long the lines of his body and the heat pooling between them... nothing in the world could ever feel as right as this.   

“Fuck, Bucky–” Sam manages, voice wrecked in a way that makes Bucky feel like he’s shattering into millions of pieces.

“Yeah, Sammy?” He says so sweetly, while never slowing his pace, stealing kisses and guiding Sam’s body, marveling every time at the ease in which he melts, oh-so-trustingly, into Bucky’s embrace and affections.

“It's- we only got a few minutes left, probably, extraction-”

Sam pauses, doesn't have to see Bucky to know he's grinning at him in the dark, the kind of look that'd make Sam's heart slam in his chest every time he sees it for the rest of his life, as Bucky leans in to kiss him again, and again, and again.

“Guess we better make them count.” 

[mossyscavern]

A reason to be a bumbler

____________________

“Ow!”

“Hold still.” Megatron told him, disinfecting the wound so ‘unwanted visitors’ wouldn’t infect the damaged knee joint. “It hrts.” B-127 hiccups, tears fall down his faceplate. “I know, I’m sorry.” He apologises.

Wiping away the tears running down his mechling’s faceplate. “I told you running in the acid rain is unsafe.” He says, optics focused on the knee.

“I-… I’m sowwy.. I was twying to b-be a big bot.. when.. I slipped and fell.” He told his sire, hiccuping as the older bot scoops him into his restarlueus, shushing and comforting his sparkling.

“It’s ok, I appreciate your honesty.. but there’s some things you’re not supposed to do.” Megatron told him, kissed the top of his baby bot’s helm. “Thank you for being brave.”

He praises. “I’m sowwy.. I’m so sowwy!” Bee cries, burrowing in megatron’s armour as the older shushes him. “It’s ok, I’m just glad you’re not badly damaged.” He says, smiling down at his baby bot softly.

Hugging his youngling as he felt the yellow bot relax in his hold, sniffing. “Can you tell me about your day at school?” Megatron asks.

“U-uh huh! Miss shwapnel told us evewything about these weally cool bug bots called insecticons and they appawently were like techno owganics without the owganic part! They’we soo cool-!”

Megatron chuckles a bit at how quickly b had bounced back, nodding his helm, listening. Every word his sparkling babbles, megatron would listen.

B-127 was way too quiet for a new spark, so when he spoke for the first time he made sure to keep him talking.

He knew the consequences and by golly he doesn’t regret it, not one bit.

“Lord megatron?”

Megatron snaps back in reality, blinking his optics before looking down at Lugnut and starscream. “And why are you here as I reminiscing my past.”

He asks, staring down his SIC and lieutenant. “Mighty megatron, our third in command has been put in the stockades by autobots.” Starscream explains. “Plus, our stock of supplies are running low.. and the delivery ship disappeared.”

Megatron squints his optics, humming in thought, then finally settled on a plan.

“We’ll get our supplies first, then get blitzwing out of the stockades. We embark tomorrow.” He told them, gesturing the two to leave.

Once they left he contemplates whether or not this is the right thing to do… then he decided to use the new comm link. He waited… and waited.. until finally-.

“__Sire! You finally called! Took you long enough__.” He hears his youngling on the comm call, chuckling softly at the little quip.

“Indeed I did.” He replied, settling on his throne. “__Hey, do you think you can come home for the holidays this year? Maccadams has this new blend of energon I think you’ll like__.”

Megatron sighs sadly at that, b-127 always asks every time before each different holiday.. and as much as he wants to spend time with his sparkling… he can’t while he’s a warlord. “I’d love to… but I can’t. Works been tight this cycle.”

“__But that’s what you said last time__!” B-127 Says sadly. “I know, I know.. but I promise. We’ll do something together.” Megatron reassures. “… mmh, ok.”

“Thank you, I’ll make it up to you baby bee. I promise.”

“__Siiire. I’m not a baby bot anymore__.” Bee whines, megatron chuckling at the imaginary pout he’s receiving from b-127.

“Of course not… tell me how was your day?” Megatron asks.

“__Pretty boring, but I saw a tiny cyber-frog on the way to my destination, took the little guy with me to the garden shop and asked the shopkeeper’s assistant to look after the little guy cause she looks after amphibians, then I headed-__.”

Bee kept babbling on while megatron listens. The decepticon leader sat comfortably on his throne as he listens to every word his baby bot says.

Megatron himself maybe banished from cybertron due to his record… D-16 on the other servo, is not entitled to banishment. And he’ll use it to his advantage.

Just for the light of his life, for his baby bot. His sweet little bumbler.

B-127/bumblebee

____________________

… I’m not good at writing toddler speech.

*clap* anyways, Who’s hungry for some stories of animated parental megatron? No..? Eh well it’s here anyways.

A bit of a headcanon I have for animated babybee (and some versions) I’d like to think he was one concerningly mute sparkling, trying to get bee to talk.

With bumblebee being a bit of a late talker his caretakers might’ve tried encouraging him to talk. And it worked… with consequences that is.

But with parental megatron, I’d like to think he’ll listen to every story and every word bumblebee said. And it takes a lot of patience. Something that canon has. Megatron’s patience and bumblebee’s talkative and energetic nature.

… *shrugs* that’s pretty much the long and short of it.

[phantasm-ae]

dumb self stuck in an elevator with neighbour ghost

mdni (18+ only)

cw: suggestive smut, oral (m receiving)

something something being stuck on the lift with your masked neighbour -- all 6'3 and 250? 257? pounds of solid muscle. girth wide and shoulders suffocating the small space. quiet. hulking. brooding. does this guy even talk? no? okay

You'd seen him before, sure.

A towering presence in the hallway, always quiet, always wearing that damn mask -- half medical, half something else, you chalk it up. Maybe a welder's mask? Did it make your clit throb? The answer is between you and your vibrator at this point.

But now. Up close. Trapped. Exchanging oxygen with this hulking mass of a man, you realize something else: the bastard's even bigger in silence

The kind of big that eats up the oxygen. Makes metal walls feel like cardboard and polyester. It makes you feel.... suffocated. Small. Tiny. Christ... docile?

And you hate it. Absolutely hate it.

He's just standing there. Taking up most of the space too. One arm gripping the side railing like he might accidentally rip it off if he clenched any harder. Were those forearm tattoos?

You clear your throat.

Trying not to shake as you palm your phone from your back pocket to turn it on and check the signal. No service... Of course not.

Your stomach dips.

You chance a glance again.

He still hasn't moved. Eyes forward. Posture stiff and mouth quiet. The small movements of his chest rising and falling, the only sign that at least you knew he was breathing. That he was... alive. Arms still gripping the railing like he's anchoring himself to reality. Or maybe to stop himself from doing something else entirely. You hope it was the latter former.

Forearms inked to hell. Pensive and marrowed scars seem to also litter the sharp expanse of his skin. Jesus. Thick lines of ink and chaffed skin disappearing into the sleeves of his grey jumper. Lived-in. Aged. Earned

Your throat is dry. Is it hot in here?

You don't speak. You don't want to chance hearing your voice tremble within the already shrinking space between the two of you.

He doesn't look at you. Doesn't need to. His presence alone does the talking. Doing the silence in with his own sulking figure.

The silence itches. Claws. Cracks

You try again. "So, uh... long day?"

Nothing...

Cool. Great. You swallow hard, press back further into the warming metal wall like you can make anymore space where there isn't any.

And then -- finally -- he speaks.

Low. Flat. Final.

The soft timber sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"You don't have to pretend you're not scared, birdie"

That hits you like a brick. The chill runs and spreads through your bones. You look up.

His gaze on you now. Eyes unreadable and narrowed down. Intense. No smile. No kindness. No... contempt either. Just calculation. Containment. Indifference.

You open your mouth. The words get stuck. Because he was right. the bastard was right. You are scared.

But not in the way you should be.

You're scared of how much your thighs are pressed together

You're scared of how much your breath seems to shake with every quickening exhale.

You're scared of how this feels like a test -- and how badly you want to fail it...

God you were just so dumb, weren't you birdie?

He then steps forward. Just once. Not enough to touch, but enough that you get a taste of the heat of him on your skin. The slab of metal of the lift not even creaking at his weight. Almost as if he was used to crouching and controlling the mountain and strength of who he was.

"v'e seen you", he says. "Little glances. Way you slow down when I walk past ye"

Your heart's sprinting now. Desperate. Thrumming. Wild. And still, your little brain -- glossed now with nothing more but the sight and promise of him near you -- tuning out all the warning signs within your vicinity. Dumb Dumb girl. You don't look away

"Don't act like you didn't want this, birdie"

You didn't.

And if you made his eyes roll back to his skull. Panting. Whining. Cursing out the heavens above as you took him into your mouth. knees bruised. Hair pulled. jaw locking and sore. That answer was between you and your new fwb at this point

[yunwangja]

faultline | 15th shift

masterlist

it was game night for your group.

akaashi, in quiet consideration of suga, had suggested against going to a bar. so, after tossing around ideas in the group chat, bo proposed something simpler, softer. nothing that would feel too much.

it was light, yes—but never too boring. it never was with this group.

shoyo and tobio were at it again, half-shouting at each other over a video game like their lives depended on it. their bickering was half in jest, half in pride.

bo stood beside them, arms folded like some self-declared referee, claiming he was “counseling” them even though everyone knew he just didn’t want to pick a side.

akaashi was in the kitchen, assembling snacks with a practiced grace, as if trying to keep the balance of this night intact by keeping everyone fed and just a little distracted.

you were on the couch, not quite part of anything. just watching.

tsumu sat next to you—surprisingly quiet, for once.

your eyes drift, uninvited but unable to resist, to the other end of the room.

he’s there.

across the table from you, in the soft halo of warm lighting, suga is talking to kiyoko. he’s smiling a little, and his voice is steady, even light. to anyone else, it might look like he’s okay.

but not to you.

you can see it. the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. how it flickers too easily into silence. the tired curve of his shoulders, like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.

and it bugs you. a lot.

"yn. you’ve been boring tonight."

tsumu’s voice cuts through your thoughts, amused, as he watches you stir your drink absentmindedly and not-so-subtly stare across the room.

you blink. “what does that even mean?” you raise an eyebrow, dragging your gaze back to the table.

“we’re supposed to be chaotic tonight,” he says, like it's obvious. “but instead, you’re moping here. which is so not you.”

he leans his elbow on the table, chin in his palm, eyes gleaming with that familiar teasing glint. “talk to me,” he coaxes, the smile on his lips far too knowing.

“i’m…” you compose your thoughts before you start.

you stir your drink once more, then set it down. your hands fall to your lap, your fingers fidgeting.

“for some reason, i’m pissed.”

“pissed? at what?”

you exhale sharply, trying to name the frustration swirling inside you like storm clouds.

“just… i don’t like this,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“hmm… be more specific, please,” tsumu replies lightly, still smiling—but not mockingly.

he’s not making fun of you—he’s just secretly happy you’re opening up to him like this. and you’re not even drunk.

“he’s… going through something. and i don’t know what to do about it.” you press your lips together, a small furrow forming between your brows.

your voice softens, curling at the edges with frustration—at him, at yourself, at everything.

because you wish there was something you could do. but what would you even say if you walked up to him right now? what would it change? would he even let you?

“you don’t have to do anything grand, y/n,” tsumu replies, like he can hear the storm in your chest.

he pops a chip into his mouth, chewing lazily. “you can just be there for him. that would be enough.”

“i know.” your gaze flicks back to suga. “but… i just hate it. it’s stupid—whatever he’s going through.”

“what suga’s been going through is tough, yn,” tsumu says gently, tone shifting. “it’s not something to take lightly.”

“no, not like that.” you shake your head quickly. “i meant that he shouldn’t be going through it. having a suffocating aunt like that is just… plain bullshit.”

tsumu stares at you for a moment—then lets out a soft chuckle. it’s not unkind. it’s more like awe.

you care about suga. you care so much. maybe more than you realize.

“have you talked to him once tonight?” he asks. you shake your head.

he tilts his head at you, like he’s amused but also exasperated. “when do you plan to, then?”

“don’t know.”

“well, you better not miss your chance, then.” he stands and salutes you with two fingers, already walking away.

“wait!” you grab his wrist. “you bitch.”

“what?”

you stare at him, unsure how to voice what you’re about to say. it clings to your throat like smoke.

you sigh and look away. “help me.”

tsumu blinks. “come again?”

“help me talk to him. i don’t know how.”

he snorts—then grins, shaking his head. “you need help? just walk there and ask him how his night is so far.”

“tsumu, that’s scary.”

he laughs harder and squeezes your shoulders. “alright.”

“you’re hopeless,” he teases in a whisper as he gestured you to follow him.

and just like that, he heads to where suga and kiyoko are seated. you trail behind him, heart pounding like it’s trying to outrun your body.

kiyoko sees the both of you approaching with a slightly confused expression.

“kiyoko, let’s help keiji whip up some snacks, shall we?” he says smoothly.

kiyoko gives a small nod, eyeing the situation but not questioning it. “alright.”

“does he need help?” suga asks.

“i think so. yn, stay entertained, will you? we’ll be back,” tsumu says, ushering kiyoko away and leaving you in the seat she’d just vacated.

you shoot him a glare. he only whispers, “you told me you needed help,” before disappearing into the kitchen.

you clear your throat, settling into the seat, glancing at suga who’s already looking at you.

waiting.

“hi,” you say, awkwardly.

he smiles. softly.

“hey yn, how are you?”

“fine,” you answer. “you?”

“i’m doing fine too,” he says, and his eyes linger on you.

the silence stretches. not uncomfortable. just... careful.

there’s a stillness in the moment, like the world pauses just long enough for him to look at you properly — really look.

his eyes soften in that unspoken way that feels almost too intimate for the space you’re in. like he’s memorizing the shape of your presence. like the simple fact that you’re here steadies something in him.

then, a soft chuckle. “what?” you ask.

“nothing,” he says, and the corners of his mouth tilt upward. “maybe i just missed seeing you.” he murmurs.

you blink, caught off guard. “you got that from my single-word responses?”

he laughs again, hand brushing the back of his neck. “yeah. i can’t help it, i guess.”

you stare at him. for the first time all night, he really smiles. and you didn’t even try.

but whatever you’re doing—whatever this is—you want to keep doing it. so he keeps smiling like that.

you shift in your seat, rubbing your hands on your thighs, steadying yourself.

“aren’t you going to play a game?” you ask. “i’m kind of tired of watching those two bicker.”

you gesture to shoyo and tobio, still fighting on-screen.

“maybe in a bit,” he replies. “i’ll just get into the mood. how about you?”

“i can play a game or two, if you want to,” you casually offer.

he looks at you, eyebrows raised. “you want to play a game with me?”

your usual partner at these things is tsumu, and he’s not really well-versed at video games. he works hard, but not skilled.

besides, he remembers what you told him the other night.

“i don’t mind,” you say. “it seems fun.”

he breaks into a slow smile. “okay then.”

you nod. you leaned back into the couch, waiting.

but then, his phone buzzes against the table.

he picks it up, checks the screen. and his face falls. and even before he says it, you know.

“wait a minute,” he mutters, answering the call.

“yeah?” he answers, and he listens emotionlessly to the other line.

his voice turns low. sharp. “i told you, don’t disturb him—”

he pauses. listens.

panic floods his expression.

“what?!” he suddenly shouts, rising to his feet.

everyone freezes.

“why did you—ugh, i’ll look for him.” he ends the call, breath quick and shallow.

keiji rushes over. “what happened, suga?”

“haruki. he got into an argument with my aunt and ran away.”

everything in the room stops. the game. the laughter. the illusion of a peaceful night.

suga grabs his things, already halfway out the door.

“suga, we’ll come with you—”

“it’s fine,” he interrupts kiyoko, his voice sharper now, like he's fighting to keep his composure. “just stay here. i got this.”

“we can’t stay here and play games while we know your brother’s not safe,” shoyo protests, standing up.

suga places a gentle hand on his back to assure him, but his serious face doesn’t convince you. “i get it. but i promise, it’s fine. okay?”

“just let me do this,” he says, a low edge to his voice.

before anyone else can stop him, he bolts through the door.

you stand.

something in your chest is breaking.

“i’ll follow hi—”

“no, i will.”

you don’t even know who you cut off. voices blur into nothing behind you, like distant echoes through fog. you just move.

your legs act before your mind catches up. all you know is that he walked out that door and you can’t—won’t—let him leave like that.

the hallway stretches before you like it’s grown longer, dimmer somehow, shadows swallowing corners you don’t have time to fear. you check every turn, glance out every window, but there’s no trace of him.

then you’re at the front doors.

you shove them open, and cold night air rushes against your face. it’s sharp, cutting, almost sobering.

you step out and scan the street. nothing. no—

there.

your breath catches like it’s been knocked out of you. just ahead, a few feet down the sidewalk, beneath the faint halo of a streetlamp—

his figure.

you run.

“suga!” you cry out.

he stops from his tracks, startled from your voice. he turns around, but his whole body is hurrying to get to find his brother already.

his smile from earlier is now all gone. he looks tired, so much more than he used to when you saw him earlier. like he’s done with everything.

“yn? why are you—”

“suga, let me go with you,” you say, breathless.

“it’s fine, i don’t need anyone coming with me.” he insists, irritation lacing his voice.

“it’s not!” your voice cracks. “it’s not fine, and stop acting like it’s not!”

he looks at you, taken aback for a moment, then shakes his head.

“i understand that, but i don’t need you there, alright?” he says, trying to convince you.

“i’m in a hurry, and i-”

“let me.” your voice breaks completely now. “let me help you.”

he stares.

“i’ll go with you. even after tonight. you can come to me. if you need to get away from your aunt, i can help you.”

he listens quietly, his face straight. you don’t know what’s going on in his head, but whatever it is, you just want to make things better for him. make it lighter.

“please. i can take care of it. i have money. i’ll get a job too. you can stay with me if you want.”

you’re begging. you hate it. but you mean it.

you wait.

and finally, he looks at you.

something cold passes over his face. he has never looked at you like this before.

“yn,” he says quietly. “just stop.”

“i don’t need your pity.”

your heart stops.

he leaves.

and this time, you don’t chase him.

because it’s happening again.

you fall to your knees and cry into your hands, your sobs cutting through the night like glass.

you don’t care who hears.

you don’t care who sees.

you just want it to stop hurting.

it wasn’t long before you hear kiyoko rushing over, kneeling beside you.

“what happened? yn, what’s wrong?”

but what could you say?

you messed it up. again.

notes

dun dun dun

so much drama!!!!!!

ive been burnt out lately sigh (with everything) i think it affected my writing a bit

til the next shift~~

taglist: @lvtilzs @uraviriot @adorawritesalot @nachotrash @staygoldsquatchling02 @gigiiiiislife @rowensboat @frootloopscos @ruwhimsical @mintynoo @chaotic-neutral-ig @zippymaezie @cupidsblonde @loveyislost @mayyhaps @haileebythesea

[papersoilder]

(Yandere Oc) Ian x Male Reader

ˑ 𖥔 ּ ִ 𖦹 WARNINGS: none

̽𖧧 word count: 2000– more Ian content because why not can be viewed as a part 2 of this

You heard the cigarette before you smelled it. That flick of a cheap lighter, the hiss of the flame catching. Then the smoke bitter and clinging, the smell crept into your lungs as you stepped out of your apartment building.

Ian was leaning against the rusted railing like he always did. One hand in his pocket. The other bringing the cigarette to his lips.

“You’re late,” he said, not looking at you.

You didn’t ask how he knew your schedule. He always knew.

“I didn’t say we were meeting,” you replied, adjusting your backpack.

He tilted his head like a dog hearing something only he could. “Didn’t need to.”

You started walking. He fell in step beside you without asking, like he always did. You didn’t ask him to leave either. That never worked. You’d tried before.

“You’re quiet today,” he said after a block. “Something happen?”

“Nope.” You replied calmly popping the p.

“You sure?” His voice was light, but his stare cut sideways those sleepless eyes scanning your face like it was a confession waiting to be read. “You didn’t text me back last night.”

“I was busy.”

“With him?”

There it was. That drop in his voice. The shift from casual to possessive in half a breath. You stopped walking and turned to face him.

“Ian.”

His stare didn’t waver. He held his cigarette between his fingers like it was keeping him from grabbing something else. Maybe you. Maybe his self-control.

“If I find out you followed him again,” you said, low and flat, “we’re done. No more talking. You won’t see me again.”

He didn’t blink. But his mouth twitched. “Did something happen to him?”

“No. But if you keep pushing, something will.”

Ian took a long drag from his cigarette. Then he tossed it to the curb and stepped on it. “Fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“I said fine, didn’t I?” His hands went back in his hoodie pocket. He turned and started walking again. “Come on. You’ll be late for class.”

You stood there for a second longer, watching the back of his head. The way he slouched when he walked, like he carried too much weight in his shoulders. Then you sighed and followed him.

The first time Ian showed up at your window was a year ago. Second story, middle of the night, rain hitting the glass. You should’ve screamed. Called the cops. Instead, you opened the latch.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered.

He was soaked. Hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. “Saw you get into that guy’s car earlier.”

You stared at him. “So you climbed two stories.”

“He put his hand on your leg,” Ian said, like it was a crime. Like that alone justified trespassing.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped aside and let him in.

Since then, he never really stopped. He didn’t ask. He didn’t knock. Sometimes he waited outside your class. Sometimes you woke up and he was asleep on your couch like he belonged there. You stopped being surprised around the third or fourth time. Maybe that was the mistake.

But it wasn’t that you didn’t care. You just… got used to it.

That afternoon, you were alone in your apartment when Ian texted.

Ian [4:31 PM]: can i come up?

You [4:32 PM]: door’s open

Five minutes later, he was at your table, picking at your leftover takeout without asking. You sat across from him, scrolling on your phone.

“Why do you let me do this?” he asked, breaking the silence.

You looked up. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured around vaguely. “Be here. Be close.”

You set your phone down. “Because if I said no, you’d show up anyway. You’ve never cared about boundaries.”

His jaw flexed. “You hate me?”

“No.” You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “If I hated you, you’d know.”

He stared at you again unblinking, unnerving. You’d gotten used to that, too. There was something sad buried in it, like he didn’t know what to do with his own intensity. Like no one had ever taught him how to want something without ruining it.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said quietly.

“You don’t scare me,” you said. “But you do piss me off.”

He blinked. That startled him more than anything else.

You stood, walked around the table, and stopped in front of him. “You want me to be okay with you being like this? Fine. I’ve accepted it. But that means you follow my rules now.”

Ian looked up at you. “What rules?”

“No hurting people. No following people. No threats. No sabotage. No ‘accidents.’ You want to be close to me? Don’t make me regret it.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. You watched the storm roll behind his eyes—violent, needy, desperate. But he nodded.

“Okay.”

You nodded back and sat on the couch. “Now get over here.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

Later, you were half-asleep on the couch. Ian was beside you, arms folded, eyes glued to the ceiling like sleep was a language he couldn’t speak. You shifted, your shoulder brushing his.

“You ever gonna stop looking at me like I’ll disappear?”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

“You ever gonna stop pretending you don’t want me to look at you like that?” he said eventually.

You chuckled. “Maybe not.”

There was quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward. You could feel his breath slow beside you. Like proximity calmed something in him. You didn’t need to ask what. You knew.

“You’re not a monster, Ian,” you said, eyes closed.

“Sometimes I think I am.”

You opened your eyes and turned to him. He was already watching you.

“You do anything like last time again like hurting someone for being too close and I’ll walk. For real.”

He nodded, solemn.

“But,” you added, “if you want to be here, and you can hold that shit back, I won’t go anywhere.”

His hand twitched like he wanted to touch you, but didn’t know how. “I can try.”

You stared at him for a second, then reached over and put your hand over his. “Try harder. Because I do like you, Ian. I just need you to act like you’re worth being liked.”

His fingers closed around yours.

And for once, he didn’t say anything. Just held your hand like it was proof you were real. Like if he let go, he’d wake up back in that hollow place he came from.

You didn’t pull away.

Not that night.

Not yet.