#not exactly a unrequited theory | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ticifics · 6 months ago

Note

hi im so in love with your writing! I was wondering if I could request an angsty remus fic? maybe with an unrequited love theme where reader has a massive crush on him but he notices and rejects reader before they can even confess? its not that’s ok! mwah tyy <33

Unrequited Love

Remus Lupin x f!reader

Summary: It wasn’t just a crush. It was deeper, more desperate. Every day beside him was a mix of silent happiness and growing pain because, deep down, you knew he didn’t see you the same way. And yet, you clung to any shred of attention. A smile in the hallway or the sound of his name on your lips, which he always responded to with that infallible kindness. You knew you were drowning, but you couldn’t help it.

Warnings: angst

A/N: hi love, you are so kind, thank you so much for the sweet words. I hope I did something that meets your expectations - and gosh, maybe, just maybe I am a little devastated, it's two angsts in a row with my boy Remus (that said, of course I loved doing it)

Unrequited Love | part II

You couldn’t quite remember exactly when it all started, but at some point between shared classes and comfortable silences in the library, Remus Lupin started occupying every thought of yours. Maybe it was that afternoon, weeks ago, when he noticed you were struggling to understand the theory behind a complicated spell. He approached, gentle but not invading your space, and said: "Can I help? I think I have an easier way to explain this."

You accepted, of course, your face warm and words stuck in your throat. He sat beside you, his voice low and firm as he pointed to the lines of the book with a slender finger. Every time he explained something, he’d end it with a quick glance, as if he wanted to confirm you were following along. You were so captivated by the sound of his voice that the actual understanding of the spell came later, when you were alone.

That’s when you started noticing the details. The way he furrowed his brow when reading something particularly complicated, or how he smiled to the side, a subtle smile, but enough to light up your whole day. He was different. He didn’t draw attention like his friends, who were usually the center of any room, but there was something in the restrained gestures, the care in his words, that made him seem more... real.

You began seeking opportunities to be near him. Not that it was intentional at first, but you always seemed to end up at the table next to him in the library or choosing the same time to study in the empty classroom. He never seemed to mind. In fact, he always nodded or gave a polite "good afternoon" before returning to what he was doing.

There was that day, though, that stayed engraved in your mind with almost painful clarity. It was an ordinary afternoon, and you were in the library. You had mentioned, without thinking, that you loved chamomile tea because your mother used to say it had a "comforting taste." He chuckled softly, a sound that made your heart stumble in your chest. A few weeks later, while you were sitting in a class, he casually leaned in and murmured: "Did you know chamomile tea was used in Ancient Greece as medicine? Seems fitting, doesn’t it?"

Your head spun to him, surprised. He remembered. It was just a silly sentence you had said, but he remembered. The rest of the class passed in a blur as you replayed each word, each glance.

It wasn’t just a crush. It was deeper, more desperate. He seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but you wanted so much to be the one who could ease some of that. Every day beside him was a mix of silent happiness and growing pain because, deep down, you knew he didn’t see you the same way.

And yet, you clung to any shred of attention. A smile in the hallway, a "Are you okay?" after a tough test, or the sound of his name on your lips, which he always responded to with that infallible kindness.

You knew you were drowning, but you couldn’t help it.

The weeks dragged on like a dream, but a dream that never became reality. With every encounter with Remus, you felt like you were floating, but there was always an invisible weight pulling you back to the ground. He was kind, considerate, but never crossed the line. Every gesture, every word, was filled with a cordiality that you desperately wanted to interpret as something more, but you couldn’t ignore the voice in your head whispering, "He's just being polite. It doesn’t mean anything."

It was in this tension that an idea formed. A letter. If you couldn’t say everything you felt to him in words, maybe you could put it on paper. You had already rehearsed so many times, in your mind, the perfect phrases, the declarations that could, perhaps, make him see you differently. But every time you opened your mouth, the words died before they took shape.

That night, sitting on your bed with the curtains closed around you, you held a piece of parchment. The quill trembled in your hand as you stared at the blank page. Your heart was pounding, a mix of anticipation and fear. What could you write that would capture everything you felt? How could you translate in words the impact he had on you, the way he made the world seem lighter just by being in it?

After minutes that felt like hours, you began:

"Remus, I know this might seem strange or unexpected, but I need to say something that I’ve kept to myself for so long that I can’t keep it in anymore. Since I met you, something inside me has changed. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s something in your gestures, in the way you look at the world, that makes me want to be a part of it. You’re more than kind; you’re someone who makes everything seem... possible. I don’t know how to put it any other way, so I’ll be direct: I like you. More than as a friend. And I needed to tell you. Because holding this in is starting to hurt more than having the courage to say it."

You stopped, looking at the words you had just written. Your breath was heavy, and silent tears threatened to fall. It was a relief, in a way, to see it all there on paper. But the weight of what could happen next was almost unbearable.

For a moment, you considered handing him the letter. Not that night, of course, but maybe the next morning, or during the next class. The idea gave you a spark of hope, but also brought an overwhelming fear.

What if he didn’t feel the same?

That question echoed in your mind, over and over, as you carefully folded the letter and hid it in the pocket of your coat. Your hand stayed there, feeling the weight of the parchment like a bomb about to explode.

Remus knew. He had known for some time. There was no way he couldn’t notice.

There was something in the way you looked at him, a hesitant and hopeful gleam, that didn’t go unnoticed. He noticed the moments when you got closer than necessary, like when you sat beside him in the library even when there were empty tables. He noticed how you seemed to hold your breath whenever he leaned in to explain something, or how your words sometimes faltered, as if the weight of something unspoken was too much.

He wasn’t a fool. The subtleties of the heart, however, were a territory he preferred to avoid. Especially when he knew he couldn’t return the feelings.

You were smart, dedicated, kind in a way that made people want to be near you, and you were beautiful. He genuinely liked your company, but not in that way. Not the way you seemed to desire. Remus felt a tightness in his chest every time this reality pressed upon him, because he knew what needed to be done. He knew that the longer he let things drag on, the worse it would be for you.

That’s why, after Potions class that afternoon, he waited for you to finish gathering your things. He didn’t know exactly what he would say, but the words had been weighing on his throat for days.

“Do you have a minute?” His voice was calm, but there was something in his expression, the way he avoided eye contact for a second longer than usual, that made your heart stop.

“Of course.” Your response was automatic, but the nervousness crept into your voice. He was serious, more serious than you’d ever seen him before, and that sent a chill through your stomach.

As you walked beside him, the hallways seemed longer, quieter. You noticed he didn’t look directly at you, and that only made the nervousness grow.

He stopped next to an empty window, where the late afternoon light fell in soft angles. You held your books to your chest, as if they were armor, while he finally turned to face you.

“I... I think we need to talk.”

Your heart seemed to beat too fast, as if trying to prepare itself for whatever might come out of his mouth. You knew he wouldn’t say this lightly. “We need to talk” was never a casual introduction, it never preceded something good. Still, you tried to hold on to the faint hope, that quiet voice in the back of your mind whispering: Maybe he feels something too. Maybe he wants to say he noticed...

“I... I need to be honest with you,” Remus began, his voice low and serious, his words carefully chosen, but they still fell like stones upon you. “I don’t think it would be fair to let this continue without saying anything.”

Your fingers tightened around your books against your chest. Without saying what? Anxiety ran like fire through your veins, and you couldn’t look away from him, even though part of you wanted to run.

“I’ve noticed that...” He paused, biting his lower lip slightly, as if the words were hard to form. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, looking away for a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. “You’ve been... very kind to me, and I appreciate that. Truly. But I... I don’t want you to think that... there’s something here that isn’t.”

The world seemed to silence around you. Only his words echoed in your mind: “Something that isn’t.” It was as if he had ripped the ground out from under you with a single sentence.

“I don’t understand.” Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. You knew what he was trying to say, but at the same time, you refused to believe it. It couldn’t be this. It couldn’t end like this.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He took a step closer, his gaze filled with something that seemed like guilt. “But I think you feel something for me. Something more than friendship.”

You felt your face burn, your chest tightening as if being compressed by an impossible weight. He knew. All this time, he knew.

“I...” You tried to deny it, tried to find some word that could save you from the abyss opening up, but your voice failed.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, but somehow, that only made it hurt more. “I just... I don’t want you to get hurt. You’re amazing. You’re kind, you’re smart, and anyone would be lucky to have your attention.” He sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly, as if the weight of the situation affected him too. “But I’m not that person. I can’t... see you that way.”

It was as if he had pulled the air from your lungs. Every word felt like a blade, cutting slowly but deeply. You felt tears burning in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not in front of him.

“You’re saying that...” You stopped, swallowing hard, your throat too tight to continue.

“I don’t want you to have hopes where there’s no space for them,” he said softly, as if trying to minimize the impact, but the pain was already there, overwhelming and absolute.

You didn’t know what to say, how to respond. All you could feel was the crushing rejection, the weight of knowing he would never look at you the same way. It was worse than you had imagined, because he wasn’t being cruel. He was being honest, and his honesty hurt more than any cruelty ever could.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, almost in a whisper, and those words were the final stone that fell upon your heart already in ruins.

You nodded quickly, unable to trust your own voice, and took a step back. You wanted to say something, wanted to pretend you were fine, but there was nothing that could be said. So, you just turned and left, feeling his eyes on your back but not looking back.

The first tear fell before you even turned the corner.

Each step echoed like a drum in your ears, blending with the disordered sound of your thoughts. You pressed the books to your chest so tightly that your fingers began to ache, but it was better to focus on the physical pain than the agony that was boiling inside you.

The students around you laughed, talked, ran. The castle was alive, pulsing with the energy of carefree teenagers, but everything felt muffled, distant, as if you were walking through a bad dream.

You turned down a random hallway, not even knowing where you were going, just needing to get away from everything and everyone. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the knot in your throat seemed to tighten with every passing moment, as if it were impossible to swallow the weight that kept building there.

Finally, you found an empty corner, behind a worn tapestry that no one seemed to notice. It was a temporary hiding spot, but it was all you needed. You threw yourself against the cold wall, sliding to the floor, the books falling from your hands as the tears you had held back for so long finally overflowed.

They came hot and relentless, streaming down your face mercilessly. You tried to stifle the sobs, biting your fist, but it was useless. The pain felt like its own entity, growing and spreading inside you.

Your chest ached, a physical sensation of emptiness and tightness that almost made you gasp for air. Your hands trembled, gripping your knees as if they were your only anchor. He knew. Those words echoed repeatedly in your mind. He had known all along.

Worse yet, not only did he know, but he had decided to tell you in such a careful, gentle way that the rejection became even more painful. He hadn't looked down on you, hadn't mocked you, but that only made it crueler. He had looked directly at you and said, without hesitation, that there was no space for you in his heart.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe deeply, but all you could see was his face. The calm expression, the soft tone. The contrast between his kindness and the brutality of what he was saying was unbearable.

What had you done wrong? The question burned like fire, consuming everything around you. You replayed every interaction, every glance, every word spoken. There was no way to erase the moments when your heart raced for something he said or did. There was no way to turn back time and rip the feelings from yourself that you knew he would never return.

In the distance, you could hear other students passing by, carefree voices, laughter filling the hallways. Life continued as if nothing had happened, as if your world hadn't ended in that moment. The contrast was suffocating, a reminder that your pain was yours alone.

You hugged your knees, trying to diminish the feeling of falling apart. All you wanted was to disappear, to become invisible. Maybe, if no one saw you, no one would know how broken you were.

Time seemed to drag on, but it also slipped through your fingers like sand. You couldn’t tell how much time had passed since that conversation. Days? Weeks? Every unavoidable encounter with him felt like tearing the scab off a wound that hadn't even started to heal.

Classes became a kind of silent torture. He was always there, just a few meters away, and you could feel his presence like an electric current pulsing in the air. Sometimes, your eyes would meet for a brief moment, and he’d smile hesitantly, almost as if he were trying to offer some form of comfort.

But there was no comfort to be found.

You started changing seats in classes, picking places farther away. You walked through the hallways with your eyes on the floor, avoiding any chance of crossing paths with him. When he was with James or Sirius, laughing and talking loudly, you found some excuse to leave. Seeing that smile, hearing that laugh, felt like a cruel reminder that his life was going on without interruption while yours was in ruins.

You knew he noticed. Remus Lupin was perceptive, perhaps more than anyone you knew. And that’s why, on an ordinary afternoon, he came over.

The hallway was empty, and you were organizing the books in your bag with slightly trembling hands. When his shadow fell over you, your stomach tightened instinctively.

“Hey,” he began, his voice low and cautious, as if he were walking on glass. “Can I talk to you?”

You didn’t want to. You wanted to turn and run, wanted to scream for him to leave you alone. But instead, you just nodded, because running now seemed useless.

He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I... noticed you’ve been avoiding me.” He ran a hand through his hair, a habit you knew all too well. “I don’t want things to be like this between us.”

The bitter laugh almost escaped your lips, but you swallowed it. “Like what?” Your voice came out harsher than you intended, but your heart was pounding so hard that it was hard to control.

“Distant.” He took a step closer, but stopped when he saw you recoil, even if it was just a little. “I... hope we’re still friends.”

The word pierced like a sharp blade. Friends. Of course. That was what he wanted from you. What he always wanted. And hearing it, said so gently and sincerely, made it hurt even more.

You wrapped your arms around your body as if that could contain the emptiness spreading inside you. “Friends,” you repeated, testing the word on your lips. It felt strange, bitter, as if it didn’t belong there.

“Yes.” He gave a small, hopeful smile. “I really... I’m so sorry, you know? For everything. I never meant for you to feel like this.”

“I know.” Your response was barely audible. You knew he didn’t want to hurt you. That made it all worse.

There was an uncomfortable silence between you. He seemed to be waiting for something, maybe a confirmation that everything was okay. But you couldn’t give him that. Not now.

“I... I need to go,” you finally said, your voice trembling as you slung the bag over your shoulder.

“Of course,” he replied, a little hurriedly. “But... we’re okay, right? I just want you to know, if you need me, I’m here.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, trying to breathe, trying to stop the pain from overflowing once more. When you opened them, you forced a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine, Remus. Thank you.”

Before he could respond, you turned and walked quickly, feeling the tears threatening to fall.

As you turned the corner, you leaned against the wall for a moment, your eyes burning and your breath heavy. He wasn’t cruel. He would never be. And maybe that was exactly what made it all so unbearable.

Night had fallen over Hogwarts, and the castle was immersed in a heavy silence. You were in the farthest corner of the common room, where no one seemed to notice your presence. The only company was the fireplace, its flames flickering irregularly, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

In your hands, the letter you wrote weeks ago trembled slightly. The parchment was crumpled and worn at the edges, as if it had been handled countless times but never read by anyone other than you.

You remembered exactly the moment when you wrote it, the words flowing like a confession from your heart. It was everything you wanted to say to him. All the feelings that had been growing, gaining strength and life of their own. You had poured out every thought, every heartbeat, with the naive hope that he might feel the same.

But now, all that remained was a useless piece of paper.

You smoothed the parchment carefully, your fingers tracing the words written in your hesitant handwriting. Each sentence seemed to mock you now, like a cruel reminder of everything you felt and everything that would never be returned.

The flame of the fireplace seemed to call to you, its warmth offering a final solution to the weight you carried. With a trembling sigh, you stood up, feeling your heart tighten in your chest.

You hesitated for a moment, the letter still firmly held in your hands. Part of you wanted to keep it, hold onto it as a reminder of something that once mattered. But another part of you knew you needed to let go, even if it meant releasing something you never truly had.

"I could never be enough for you, could I?" you whispered to no one, your voice barely above a thread.

Finally, you brought the parchment closer to the flame, and it began to burn slowly. The edges darkened and curled, the fire consuming the words that once seemed so important. You watched each line disappear, one after another, until all that remained was ash and embers.

The pain in your chest was unbearable, but you stood there, motionless, watching as the last particles of the letter were carried away by the wind from the fire. It felt like watching the end of something that never had the chance to begin.

You sat on the floor, pulling your knees to your chest, the tears finally falling freely. They burned, hot and relentless, as you wondered how it was possible to feel so much for someone who would never look at you the same way.

Despite everything, you knew you still loved him. That was the cruelest part of all. Even after all the pain, all the rejection, you couldn’t simply turn off your feelings. He was still the one who made your heart race, who inhabited your dreams, who carried the weight of your hopes and fears.

But he would never be yours.

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 23 days ago

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Hiii, i adore your sebastian sm and was wondering if you’ve ever written him in a yule ball setting? just sebastian being pissy and jealous about this random ball because he wants to ask the reader but he doesn’t know how to😭

Three Years Late | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

RAHHHH OKAY I WAS SO INSPIRED BY THIS I COULDN'T SLEEP. HAD TO WRITE IT IMMEDIATELY. TYSM FOR THIS!

Words: ~3,200

Tags: Mid-Size Reader, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Longing and Pining, Love Confessions, Fluff

Sebastian hated the Yule Ball.

Not in theory, of course. The music was decent, the cider had been spiked, and the enchanted snowfall drifting from the ceiling was beautiful. But none of that mattered. None of it could be appreciated while he stood in the farthest corner of the ballroom watching you laugh at something your date had just whispered in your ear.

Merlin, he hated that guy.

Gresham was his name. Some well-meaning Ravenclaw who wore perfectly pressed dress robes and was top-of-the-class in Arithmancy. Always polite. Always punctual. Always there, hovering beside you in study groups, carrying your books after class. And worst of all, you let him. Smiled at him. Said yes when he’d asked you to the ball.

You said yes.

Meanwhile, Sebastian had yet to figure out how to stop being a complete coward.

You looked incredible. Hair pinned up, dress clinging to every curve in a way that made his throat go dry. He’d never seen you look so radiant and so bloody out of reach.

“I swear to Salazar, you’re going to chip a tooth if you clench your jaw any harder.”” Ominis muttered beside him.

Sebastian didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on you, smiling, spinning, dancing with someone who wasn’t him.

Anne, standing on Ominis’s other side in a sleek silver dress, arched an eyebrow at her twin. "Stop sulking, Sebastian.”

“I’m not,” he said sharply.

Anne gave him a look like she knew better, because she did. She’d seen that exact look before when they were kids and he got beaten at gobstones or Ominis outdueled him in Defense. The difference now was that this wasn’t about being second best in class. It was about you and the way Sebastian had somehow managed to let you slip through his fingers without even putting up a fight.

“You’ve been brooding since the minute she walked in,” Anne said, crossing her arms. “Honestly, it’s exhausting."

Sebastian didn't hear her, because across the ballroom, Gresham spun you out and reeled you back in like it was nothing. Like he’d earned the right to touch your waist. Like he’d practiced for this.

Sebastian’s grip tightened around his glass.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered.

Ominis gave a long-suffering sigh. “What don’t you get, exactly? The idea that maybe you should’ve asked her first?”

Sebastian didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not with his throat tight and his ears roaring with the low thrum of the waltz and the sound of your laughter, distant but unmistakable.

You looked happy. You were happy.

And that made him miserable.

He’d had weeks. Months, even. There’d been a dozen perfect moments he could've asked: lingering after duels, late nights in the Undercroft, your shoulder pressed against his on the couch.

But he hadn’t. Because asking meant admitting the truth, and admitting meant risk.

Sebastian frowned, his voice low, bitter, “What does he have that I don’t?”

Anne smirked. “Do you want the truth, or—?”

“Don’t answer that,” Ominis cut in. “Look. You’ve got two choices here. Keep standing here like a thundercloud with good hair, or do something about it.”

“I can’t do something about it,” Sebastian snapped. “She already said yes to him.”

Anne tilted her head. “Yes, but she keeps looking over here.”

That shut him up.

“...What?”

“She's looked this way at least four times since you started sulking,” Ominis explained like he was commenting on the weather. “And twice during that last dance. Don’t be thick.”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Just stared. You smiling again, eyes crinkling at the corners, your hand brushing Gresham’s sleeve as he said something undoubtedly dull and inoffensive. The bastard probably complimented your handwriting or your essay margins or something equally Ravenclawish. And you looked like you were enjoying it.

Sebastian reached for the nearest tray and grabbed a drink and knocked it back like maybe it could cauterize the godawful feeling blooming in his chest.

Anne made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh as she watched. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I know that look."

"Relax,” Sebastian muttered.

“Please,” Ominis groaned. “please, do not make a scene."

Sebastian’s jaw ticked. “I’m not going to make a scene. I’m not an idiot.”

But if he had to keep watching you from across the room, he really might combust. Might actually die. Because it wasn’t just jealousy, it was something worse. Something hotter. Something that lived in his chest and in his fingertips and lower.

He’d been a goner since fifth year. Since the day you strolled into Defense Against the Dark Arts with that too-loud laugh, that wicked little smirk, and a wit sharp enough to parry him without a wand. It had been bad even then—he was fifteen, high on hormones and hubris, and already struggling to think straight anytime you smiled too long or touched his arm mid-laugh. There were more than a few shameful nights spent staring at the dorm ceiling, trying very hard not to imagine things he shouldn’t.

But now it was so much worse, because you weren’t a pretty fifth year with a sharp mouth anymore. Now you were a full-grown, impossibly stunning woman, and he was eighteen and half out of his mind because your dress hugged every curve like it was designed for the sole purpose of driving him insane. And maybe it was. Maybe you’d known. Maybe you’d looked in the mirror before coming down to the great hall and thought, yes, this will destroy Sebastian Sallow specifically.

And if so—mission accomplished.

Because you were exactly his type. No, you were the blueprint for his type. Full breasts, thick thighs, wide hips he wanted to get his hands on, and enough fire in your eyes to match his worst moods. He’d kill to bury his face between your—

"Sebastian."

Anne's voice sliced through the haze like a cold wind.

He blinked, yanked out of a fantasy he had absolutely no business entertaining in public, let alone with his sister and best friend standing right there.

"You're blushing," she said flatly.

Sebastian swore under his breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. He needed to get a grip. This was getting ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he could just walk across the ballroom, drag you away from your date, and finally say what he’d been holding in for the better part of three years.

…Except that was exactly what he wanted to do.

And maybe, if you really had been looking his way… if there was even the slightest chance you were waiting for him to do something—

No. He shouldn’t.

But if he didn’t, he was going to spend the entire night thinking about your dress. Your laugh. The soft curve of your waist beneath Gresham’s hand.

“I need air,” he muttered, already setting his glass down and stepping away.

Ominis sighed. “Don’t hex anyone.”

He turned on his heel and strode across the ballroom with the stiff, barely-contained grace of someone trying very hard not to commit a felony.

He managed a few half-hearted nods and smiles as he passed classmates—Poppy waved, Everett said something cheerful he didn’t catch, Natty offered a raise of her glass. He acknowledged them all with the bare minimum of politeness, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides, pretending he didn’t feel like a live wire in polished shoes.

The music faded as he slipped out into one of the side corridors—a quiet wing strung with garlands and floating candles. He made it halfway down the hall before stopping beneath a tall window, unlatching the old iron lock with too much force.

The pane creaked open, letting in a gust of winter air.

He braced his hands on the stone windowsill and leaned forward, sucking in deep, freezing lungfuls of December night. Snow drifted down in slow spirals beyond the courtyard below, soft and bright against the black sky.

Maybe it would cool him down. Maybe it would snap him out of it.

"...Seb?"

His spine straightened like a bowstring pulled taut. For half a second, he thought he was imagining it. Your voice, soft behind him, just quiet enough to be mistaken for memory.

But then he turned, and there you were.

He shouldn't have been so surprised. You always found him, somehow. Even when he was trying to disappear.

You stood a few paces back, framed by candlelight, your breath fogging in the cold air. Your cheeks were flushed from dancing, curls escaping from your pinned-up hair, and Merlin help him, you were gorgeous.

He looked away before he could drown in it.

“I didn’t think anyone else would be out here,” you said gently, stepping forward. “Needed air.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, gripping the windowsill behind him like a lifeline. “Yeah. Same.”

You nodded, crossing the last few steps between you until you were standing beside him, close enough that he could smell your perfume.

There was a moment of quiet. Comfortable, almost. Or it would’ve been, if not for the static crawling up the back of his neck.

You leaned on the sill beside him, eyes flicking to the snow beyond.

“He’s sweet,” you said after a long silence. “Gresham.”

Sebastian stared straight ahead, jaw tense. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Seems like it.”

“I'm having a nice time. He’s a good dancer.”

His knuckles tightened against the stone. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s great."

Silence stretched again. When you spoke, your voice was quieter.

"Why didn't ask anyone? Half the girls in school were lining up for you.”

Sebastian scoffed, eyes still fixed on the snow. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “I heard them talking. In the common room. In class. Even in the bloody library.”

He shook his head, lips twisting. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me.”

That pulled his gaze. You weren’t looking at the snow anymore. You were looking at him, eyes steady and searching.

“I thought…” You hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder, trying for casual. “I thought maybe you were waiting to ask someone in particular.”

Sebastian’s heart pounded in his chest.

“I was.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

“I just—” he paused, exhaled, then met your eyes fully for the first time all night. “I waited too long. And then it was too late.”

Another beat of silence.

"I'm sorry, Seb." You reached out, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Whoever she is… she’s an idiot for not going with you."

Sebastian blinked.

You were looking at him with genuine sympathy, eyes soft and earnest, and it took everything in him not to laugh. Or scream.

His jaw clenched. “She’s not an idiot.”

“Well,” you said, stepping back with a small, rueful smile, “she still missed out.”

He bit down on the truth before it could escape his mouth.

Instead, he gave a tight shake of his head. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

You were already turning toward the window again, exhaling a little sigh, oblivious to the storm you’d left in your wake.

And then, without thinking, without planning, without the faintest regard for timing or tact, Sebastian blurted:

“It was you.”

You turned, blinking like you hadn’t heard him right. “...What? Me?”

Sebastian laughed, but it wasn’t really a laugh, more like a breath laced with disbelief and something dangerously close to despair.

“Yes. You. Who else do you think I’d be talking about?”

You stared at him, stunned. Completely still, like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right, like the idea hadn’t even occurred to you.

Of course it hadn’t.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t. Not after he’d spent three years burying his feelings beneath sarcasm and smirks and the safety of being your best friend. And god, he’d tried so hard to be content with that. With friendship. With late-night walks to the Astronomy Tower and falling asleep in the Undercroft with your head on his shoulder, your leg draped over his like it meant nothing. Like it didn’t undo him every time.

He’d sat through conversations about your crushes. Snuck you chocolate from the kitchens when you cried about exams or homesickness or the injustice of being partnered with Leander Prewett in Potions. You’d given him your warmth, your loyalty, your everything, and he’d taken it all with a smile, pretending it was enough.

Sebastian pushed off the windowsill, running both hands through his hair before letting them drop uselessly at his sides.

“I’ve been in love with you since fifth year.”

There. He said it.

“You—Merlin, I’ve held your hair back when you were sick. You’ve patched me up after every dumb idea I’ve had. We’ve fought like hell, we’ve made up like nothing ever happened, and somewhere in all of it I forgot how to exist without you."

He stepped closer now, eyes locked to yours.

“We’ve been inseparable. Every spare moment, every late-night run to the kitchens, every time we snuck out just to walk the damn grounds and talk about nothing—I kept thinking, this is it. This is where I say something.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“But I couldn’t. Because what if I said it and everything changed? What if you didn’t feel the same and I ruined the best thing I’ve ever had? So I kept my mouth shut and I told myself being your best friend was enough.”

He stepped forward, now, hands clenched at his sides. "But seeing you tonight, with him... I realized I’m going to lose you anyway. Or at least, it feels like I am. And I can’t do it quietly. I can’t just sit in the corner and smile while someone else gets to touch you like—like he’s allowed.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care.

“I should’ve told you a thousand times by now. But I’m telling you now. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Silence.

The kind that pressed in on his ears and made the hallway feel suddenly too still, like the air had been sucked out of the castle walls.

You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Like he’d just rewritten every memory you thought you understood. Three years of friendship. Of knowing each other like second skin. Of shared looks and late nights and every secret you never told anyone else.

And now this.

Sebastian stood perfectly still, barely breathing, bracing for it. The inevitable. The gentle let-down. The you’re my best friend speech. The soft smile and the heartbreaking kindness that would crack him wide open.

He could hear it already. “Seb, I love you, but not like that.” “You mean so much to me, I just never thought of you that way.” “I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

He’d rehearsed it. Lived it a thousand times in his head, because he knew that’s how this would end.

And still, it didn’t stop him from hurting.

He dropped his gaze, suddenly exhausted. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know before I watched someone else fall in love with you while I said nothing at all.”

A beat. Two. Then—

"...You’ve been in love with me this whole time?"

He looked up cautiously, afraid to meet your eyes, afraid of what he’d see there. Pity, maybe. Or confusion. Or worst of all, that careful, familiar gentleness that meant you were letting him down easy.

He ran a hand down is face. “Yeah.”

“...And you thought I didn’t feel the same?”

Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck. “You never said anything,” he muttered at length. “And I figured if you did feel something, you would’ve. You’ve always been braver than me.”

You let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

“For fuck’s sake, Sebastian.”

You surged forward before he could respond—hands on his collar, pulling him down—and kissed him.

The world stopped.

You were kissing him. You were kissing him. Not as a joke. Not by accident. Not in a dream.

For real.

It was nothing like the fantasies he’d tortured himself with in the quiet hours of the night. It wasn’t soft or cautious or polished. It was real. Warm and messy and desperate and aching.

And perfect.

A broken sound caught in his throat—half a groan, half a laugh—as he deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers threading into your hair. Your lips parted against his, and that soft sound you made, just the faintest hitch in your breath, lit him up from the inside out.

Merlin, you felt good. You tasted like cider and adrenaline and everything he’d ever wanted.

And the worst part, no the best part, was how familiar it felt. Like this had always been waiting. Like this was the missing thread that finally made the rest of your story make sense.

You broke apart just barely, your nose brushing his, your forehead pressing to his cheek as you caught your breath.

Sebastian’s eyes were wide, stunned, and far too shiny. His heart was doing something reckless inside his chest.

“You kissed me,” he said dumbly. “You—you kissed me.”

You rolled your eyes grinning, and he couldn’t help it, he reached out, touching your face like he was afraid you might vanish. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, then your jaw.

“You... feel the same?” he asked, voice low, awed.

You didn’t even blink. “I've loved you since fifth year, you absolute moron.”

Sebastian let out a choked laugh, relieved and wrecked and filled with something wild and weightless.

“I think I might be hallucinating,” he said breathlessly. “Or worse, this is some sort of cruel, well-crafted illusion from Peeves.”

You laughed, your eyes shining, and you looked at him like he was something precious.

Sebastian Sallow,” you murmured, voice thick, “I've been yours since the day you hexed Leander for making me cry.”

Sebastian remembered that day. Of course he did. Sebastian hadn’t even thought. One second he was watching you storm out of the classroom, the next he had his wand out.

You hadn’t said a word about it then. Just sat beside him at dinner that night like nothing had happened, nudged your shoulder against his, and stolen the pudding off his plate.

He hadn't known what to call the feeling in his chest back then. Now, he did.

“I’d hex him again,” he said quietly. “Twice as hard.”

You smiled, slow and fond. “I know.”

He leaned in again, just enough to press his lips to your forehead.

“So,” you said, muffled into his jacket, “...do we go back to the Ball now?”

“Absolutely not.”

You looked up.

He laughed. “You think I’m letting anyone else near you now?”

You grinned. “Possessive, are we?”

He smirked, leaning down to brush another kiss against your lips. “About you? Always.”

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crescenthistory · 9 months ago

Note

Hey darling, how are you? Hope your having an amazing day ❤️

So I saw your prompt list and I was thinking about b6 and b15 with Regulus Black and kinda Sunshine x Grumpy, like he really tries to keep the facade of being cold and unbothered but reader is just so kind and understanding with him that he just melts whenever it comes to her, the tipical "I hate everybody but you"

hi my love, have been a bit sick and stressed lately, but finding relief in writing, so thank you for your enrichment hihi<3 wishing u the best!

Prompts: B.6 "Are you falling asleep on me?" "..." "Alright then" & B.15 "How are you so cute right now?"

Words: 3k

Warnings: not proofread, use of y/n, regulus black is traumatised and mentally unwell, reader is surprisingly stable and supportive (congrats), trying to make reggie have a dynamic and complex personality, not yet established relationship but Clearly Something, falling in love and fluff, implied fear of (unrequited) love on reggie's part

Note: y'all realllllly love the sunshine x grumpy dynamic with reggie, huh? me too dw

The library was silent except for the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional scratch of quill on parchment. A low fire burned in the corner, its light barely enough to keep the chill at bay, but the two of you had stayed long past the warmth’s welcome. The vast shelves of books loomed around you like silent sentinels, their presence familiar and comforting in the way only a quiet, deserted library could be.

Regulus sat across from you, perfectly composed, as usual. His quill hovered over a parchment filled with notes – meticulously neat, with that sense of perfection you had come to associate with him, exactly as he intended. His dark hair fell slightly into his eyes as he read, but he didn’t brush it away, too focused on whatever passage had captured his attention.

You admired him, hoping your tired gaze was not too obvious – though maybe it would be good for him to see it. The late hour was getting to you, but you didn’t want to leave, not yet. Nights like this, studying alongside Regulus, had become a routine your body craved. Though he rarely gave any indication that they meant something to him, you had come to peak far enough behind the cracks of his exterior to know he did. Should he wish to not be near you, he would have left, he never had any reservations for doing so when Barty got too many of his nerves or Sirius was too loud.

Yet here you were, both of you drowning in books, the silence broken only by the sound of your quills and the faint crackling of the fire. He seemed... content.

You shifted slightly in your seat, hoping to stifle a yawn as you stretched your stiff legs under the table. The movement caught Regulus’ attention, and he glanced up from his book, dark eyes scanning your face.

“You’re tired,” he stated, his voice low and matter-of-fact. It wasn’t a question.

“Not really,” you lied, offering him a small smile as you looked back down at your notes, dried quill hovering over the page. You could feel his eyes on you for a moment longer before he returned to his book, but his silence spoke louder than any rebuttal. You weren’t fooling him, not for a second.

Regulus knew you as well by now, and he could easily see through your casual deflections. He was also sweet enough on you to not call you out on it yet.

Charms had never been so dreadful as it was tonight, all theory as you copied information from the textbook over onto your parchment. You felt yourself beginning to drift again, blinking only made you sleepier, and the words on the page blurring together in front of your eyes. You pressed your lips together, determined to stay focused, but the exhaustion clung to you like a heavy cloak.

You rearranged yourself to be more comfortable, bringing your legs up underneath you and leaning your head on your arm, taking up perhaps a bit more desk space than what is considered gracious.

Regulus’ quill still scratched against his parchment and you looked up at him through your lashes. He hadn’t glanced at you in a while, his brow furrowed as he scribbled something in the margin of the book he was reading. Upon your movements, though, you saw a small, soft smile tug on his lips, the kind that you weren't sure anyone but you would recognise.

It had become a familiar sight, both the smile and the way he hunched slightly over his work, his focus intense. It was like he was shutting out the world around him – around us, he had once absentmindedly corrected when you told him as much. His face blank then, not paying any mind to the giant grin growing on your own face.

“How do you do it?” you asked suddenly, surprising yourself with the question. Your voice was soft, but in the quiet library, it felt like a disruption. Regulus looked up, his quill pausing mid-scratch, abandoning his sentence.

“Do what?” he asked, his voice even, though there was a hint of wariness in his eyes.

“Stay so… focused,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely to the piles of books around you. “I feel like I’m drowning in information, but you’re always so… collected.”

There was a brief pause. Regulus stared at you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he lowered his quill, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

“It’s easier that way,” he said quietly, his voice almost too soft for the stillness of the room. His eyes flicked to the side, avoiding yours as he added, “When you don’t let anything else in, it’s easier to focus.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed to carry more weight than they should. There was always something simmering beneath the surface with Regulus – something unspoken, something guarded. He never let it out, never gave anyone the chance to see what was really going on inside his mind.

And yet, here you were, sitting across from him in a quiet library, long after everyone else had left, simply because you wanted to. So far, he had been brave enough to let you.

“And is that what you want?” you asked, keeping your tone light, non-confrontational. “To keep everything locked out?”

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the table for a long moment before he finally met your gaze again, his expression carefully controlled. “It’s necessary,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You leaned back in your chair, letting his words settle between you. Necessary. The way he said it felt heavy, like there was so much more beneath that single word. You didn’t push. You never did. Regulus wasn’t someone who opened up easily, and the last thing you wanted was to make him feel like he had to.

You wished more than anything that he could see himself the way you did. That he could let go, just a little, and realise that he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

“It doesn’t have to be,” you said softly, almost to yourself, as you turned your gaze back to your parchment.

Regulus heard you, though. He always did.

A small silence fell between you again, this one thicker with unspoken thoughts. You turned a book on its side to read it from your position lying on your arm, trying to ignore the heaviness of the atmosphere. Regulus hadn’t moved, his hands still folded in front of him, his brow slightly furrowed as though deep in thought.

“I don’t–” Regulus’ voice cuts through the quiet suddenly, making you look up. His jaw tensed slightly before he continued, “I don’t let people in because it is… easier. Safer.”

There was something vulnerable in the way he said it, as though he wasn’t used to sharing even that much. It wasn’t a full confession, not by any means, but it was more than he usually offered, and you understood how much it cost him to say even that.

“You've let me in, though, have you not?” you tried softly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “And so far it's been safe.”

Regulus blinked at that, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. He was not sure what he had expected you to say, but clearly not that.

It looked like he was at a slight loss of words, so you continued, smile still plastered on your face. "I understand what you mean, though. It's not easy to trust in general, and you have had it harder than most. Take everything in your own time, Reggie."

Regulus remained quiet, his gaze dropping back to his notes. You could feel him retreating, slipping back behind his mask, and you let him. You weren’t here to break down his defences, only to be there when he was ready to let someone in. His hand skirted closer to where yours was fidgeting with your quill – not quite touching, but close enough. Close enough.

You turned back to your book, allowing him his silence, trying to make sense of the words that felt increasingly foreign. The night was catching up with you, pulling you deeper into the edges of sleep.

“Y/N.”

Regulus’ voice brought you back to the present. You blinked, realising you had almost drifted off again, your head tilted dangerously close to the open pages of your book. There was a certain mirth in his gaze when it met yours, quickly subdued by what looked like a weary worry.

“I’m fine,” you said assuredly, straightening up in your chair with a slight wince. You could feel the stiffness settling into your back and elbow from sitting too long.

Regulus didn’t say anything at first, just watched you with that same quiet intensity he always had, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You should go,” he said after a moment, his voice softer than you expected. “It’s late.”

You gave him a sleepy smile, placing your head in your hand as you leaned on the desk. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”

Regulus exhaled through his nose, odd mixture of a sigh and a laugh. “I don’t mind being alone,” he said, though there was a hesitation in his voice that made you think he didn’t believe it as much as he wanted to.

“I know," you said, tone gentle, "but I do.”

"You mind being alone?"

"I mind you being alone."

That seemed to catch him off guard. He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he looked down at his lap, his quill tapping against the edge of the table in an absent rhythm.

"I don't really know what to say to that." His face was still partially shielded from you, but you could see there was no menace in his words – just confusion, maybe even... amusement?

"Admitting you don't know something is a good start."

He gave you the first genuine laugh of the night, albeit small. "Okay then." He looked up at you finally, slight smile still playing over his features.

You watched him for a moment longer, noting the contrast of his tense shoulders with his humoured face. He was trying so hard to hold it together, even now.

"I'll stay here for as long as you do, Reg, and I know you still have a few pages left in you."

You leaned back in your chair again, stretching and letting out a small yawn. Regulus eyed you carefully, as if considering something.

"I do," he started. "But if you're staying any longer, you should get more comfortable."

He nodded his head towards the place beside him. While you were sitting in a wooden chair, he sat in a comfy, cushioned love-seat with just enough space for you to join him in. Had you not been intent on studying, you might have sat there from the start, but the harsher chair usually helps you study.

Now, though, you did not hesitate to slip around the table and sink into Regulus's seat with a sigh.

He looked at you over his shoulder, body still angled towards his notes, smiling fondly at you. "Better?"

"Much better, though I hope you know you're playing a risky game right now."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, I might fall asleep here and you will have to stay overnight. It would be rude to leave me."

Regulus just laughed, not dignifying you with further banter, as he turned back to his books. You had one in your lap as well, but the words were mostly jumbled by now.

The next hour trickled by with sparse conversation between the two of you, mostly just the comfortable silence you had grown between you over the months. You asked Regulus a question every now and again, about coursework or life, and he gave you his usual, short answers, though with a much kinder tone than he reserved for others who pestered him with interrogations.

He was halfway through an explanation of why the professor thought it necessary to make you write an essay that is essentially just restating the textbook when he felt something soft thud against him. He looked down and saw the top of your head, hair slightly messy from the hours in the library, lodged between his uniformed arm and back.

"Amour? Are you falling asleep on me?"

"..."

"Alright, then." Regulus couldn't help the smile that tugged on his lips, filled with more emotion than he would have let slide with anyone around. "You did warn me."

Careful not to startle you, he manoeuvred himself around so you were resting against his chest instead, and then slowly lowered you backwards to lean against the back of the chair. One hand cradled your head as he moved you, so you wouldn't get whiplash – there was no other reason, of course.

You were surprisingly soundly asleep for someone who asked him a question mere minutes ago, but then again, he suspected you had been fighting sleep for around two hours. To stay here with him. Regulus's heart clenched at that, and it did not go unnoticed by him that before he would have felt immense guilt for this moment occurring, and now he just felt... oddly soft. Warm.

He tried to place you in a comfortable enough position, still keeping some of your weight up with the left side of his body. With a tentative, slightly shaking thumb, he brushed away some hair that had fallen in your face

Part of Regulus ached to stay like this. To have an excuse to be this close to you, to feel so vulnerable without the overwhelming panic that often threatened to take over his body and mind. He basked in the sense of safety you were somehow able to provide him, but it would take hard work to be able to accept and embrace it. In the creeping darkness of the library, secluded just the two of you, it felt much easier.

Yet, despite your jokes about rudely waking you up, he did not want to risk detention for the both of you by being caught staying out past curfew.

"Y/N?" With a hand on your cheek, he tried to gently move your face to get your attention and draw you out from sleep. "Hey, amour, you need to wake up."

You let out an impudent groan, eyes squeezing as you turned your head a little – into Regulus's hand, he noted with hitched breath. "W'is it?" You slurred your words and he had to stifle his laughter.

"You need to wake up, darling. You fell asleep in the library, but we're done now. Time to get back to your dorm."

You just huffed at that, clearly trying to stay asleep by burying your face – still clutching Regulus's hand to the other cheek – into the cushion behind you. He tried to use his hand on your face again to lightly shake you, but you just grabbed his elbow and held it still in response. Eyes still decidedly shut.

This time, Regulus couldn't hold back his laugh, which in turn made you squint open an eye.

"What are you on about, Reggie?" Your voice was not only rough from sleep, but a bit annoyed, which in turn made Regulus all the more humoured. He never would have taken you, with all your painfully kind words and looks and understanding, to be grumpy in the morning.

"I don't even know," he said through a rather large grin. "How are you so cute right now?"

"Don't know, just am. Come sleep."

"No, no, darling. Time to get up so you can go sleep."

It seemed as if his words somehow seeped through your mind and you finally processed the situation. You opened your eyes and all-but-jerked into an up-right position – face now rather close to Regulus's, enough to see the whiteness of his teeth as he laughed at you. He was laughing at you. The bastard.

"Good morning," he teased, forgetting himself.

"Did you call me cute?"

The humour was almost washed from his face as he seemed to wake up himself, but an endearing smile still clung to his lips. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mhm, sure you don't." Your smile now matched his. "How much do you have left?" You gestured to his books with your free hand – only now noticing that your other was still clutching his elbow. His hand dropped from your face the second your properly woke up, but you never let go of him. Maybe the sleep made you delirious or his comment made you brave, because you kept your hand on him.

"Oh, I'm finished." He gave you a look that you couldn't tell if was teasing because you clearly didn't or if he was lying about being done so you could go sleep. Either way, you accepted it.

"Great, let's get us to bed then, shall we?"

When Regulus got out of his seat, he held out a hand to you, to help you up. When you accepted it and ended up standing almost impossibly close to him, he didn't step back, and he didn't look away. He just smiled.

"Yeah, let's."

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cacoetheswriting · 26 days ago

Text

eddie my love | the right where you left me. epilogue

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 4.1k

summary: in a frantic hurry, Eddie Munson admits he’s in love with you and to his pleasant surprise, the world doesn’t end. quite the opposite actually. it keeps spinning. maybe even a little bit faster? especially when, against your nature, you agree to stay.

content warnings: forced proximity, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, emotional hurt / comfort, a little angsty but overall fluff era, some serious mutual pining, use of pet names, plus mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, also touches on topics of: death, grief, toxic relationships, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle, unrequited love — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

To say a lot happened the night of your High School graduation should probably be considered an understatement. Lives changed. Drunken decisions made in a matter of seconds, by you, your friends, they affected the trajectory of everyone’s individual future like some fucked up Butterfly Effect, or whatever the hell the phenomenon is called.

A dramatic chain of events unfolded in front of your very eyes, but rather unfortunately, you don’t remember most of what occurred because you were dancing along that thin line of a mild hangover the next day and completely blackout drunk (queue instead a horrible hangover).

One thing stands out, for sure. The big thing. A motive (of sorts) that swayed the reasonings of your later dilemma: stay or leave.

Eddie Munson admitted his feelings for you, his best friend.

Sitting on a lounge chair in the back garden of Chrissy Cunnigham’s mansion-of-a-house. Your head resting on his shoulder, talking about plans for the summer, and beyond. With a shaky hand, Eddie removes the plastic cup from your grasp and intertwines his fingers with yours. He takes in a deep breath, which you can hear him exhale despite your inhibitions.

“I like you,” the metal-head says.

You giggle next to him, gaze glued to where his thumb presses into your wrist.

“Well, duh. We’re friends, asshat. I’d be surprised if you didn’t like me.”

Eddie shakes his head and twists, facing you. When you catch his pretty brown eyes, your cheeks bloom because there’s something behind his gaze that’s different to any other time he’s looked at you — which, for all accounts and purposes, is actually quite a lot.

“I like you as eh, as more than a friend.”

Upon hearing his admission, your heart fills with joy, growing like a balloon only inside your chest. The world stops spinning and for a split-second you feel stone cold sober. Eddie like-likes you. That fact makes you giddy because he’s perhaps the best person you have ever met and undeniably, he would make a phenomenal boyfriend.

But reality seeps in and a needle approaches the balloon faster than you’d like. A prick in the form of your ex-boyfriend Billy, who is the only other person on this Earth that’s ever admitted to liking you as anything other than platonic. That is until he died and although you can’t exactly prove the theory that people who love you die — since that list is only one, and that’s not enough data for any scientific research — you still don’t feel like tempting fate. Especially because now it’s Eddie saying these nice things and you need him as a friend more than you need him as something different.

“Eddie…”

“Look, I-I just… We could be really happy, angel. If you just gave me a chance.”

The memory is a little hazy. You want to believe you let him down gently, because that would be easier to digest considering what happened later that same night, but a part of you knows there was nothing gentle about how you handled his heart — Eddie’s version of the story corroborates this feeling you’ve carried.

A shove and quick escape from his grasp. Some irrational yelling about not seeing him in the same light and a very defensive stance on how he could do this to you, as if he’d committed some cardinal sin. There’s begging to forget about him ever saying anything (on his part) and some tears (also on his part). And the topic is put to bed. For now, you remain friends. The balloon has popped.

“I need a minute,” Eddie announces without looking at you and walks back into the house.

For a minute, you’re devastated. Thinking you made a mistake reacting the way you did, you consider running after the metal-head and apologising, blaming your nerves since you’d never actually admit out loud that Billy’s death has fucked you up in any considerable way. Then someone hands you a drink and as you down the burning liquid, you forget all about Eddie’s sad expression.

One foot in front of the other, you follow in his general direction with the intention of finding your girlfriends, Robin and Nancy. You want to tell them what just happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind. Instead, you bump into Steve Harrington.

Although it’s no excuse, it all happens really fast.

In the kitchen, you do a couple shots together, laughing and maybe even flirting. Definitely flirting. You don’t mean to. He’s just really fucking handsome and he’s showing interest a) because he finds you to be smoking hot, b) because he’s just as drunk as you, and c) because he has no idea his friend Eddie finally told you how he feels about you.

Bumping bodies, you move through the crowd of your classmates to find someplace private. Steve’s hand is on your waist as you do and a fire ignites within your gut. An emotional connection isn’t something you’re ready for quite yet, but something strictly physical? Well, you want this guy and you want him bad.

Steve’s mouth is on yours before the door even shuts behind him and the rumours are true: The King is a damn good kisser.

He’s got one hand at the back of your neck, the other strategically placed on the curve of your ass, squeezing. He smirks against your parted mouth, then lightly bites your bottom lip before leaning back down and the suave in his movements, the confidence, it all catches you off guard. Although, that could also be the alcohol. You’re both very tipsy.

Suddenly, your feet are up, off the ground. Legs wrapped around Steve’s waist as he props you against the closed door, closing that gap between you further. His mouth is hot against your skin, working its way across your jaw and down the nape of your neck.

At first, you don’t hear the knock on the door. Too lost in the sensation of Steve’s sultry voice, possessive touch, and honestly, literal BDE. But the knocking gets louder and then a voice calls out. A tone you know all too well. You freeze, once again feeling momentarily sober.

Eddie’s trying to push inside. He’s complaining about the resistance until he manages to get his foot in and Steve pokes his head of hair out.

“Dude,” is all Harrington says.

“Shit man, sorry,” Eddie fumbles, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

The expression fades quickly, however, since in the mirror across, Eddie spots your reflection. Hiding behind Steve’s frame, head buried in his shoulder. Your gaze is peeking out, staring ahead into the mirror too.

“What the fuck?”

Steve sees the look on his friend's face and realises immediately how badly he just messed up. He drops his hold on you and stumbles backwards into the room, allowing Eddie to open the door wider and step inside.

The metal-head doesn’t really care about his mate’s apology. His attention is solely fixated on you. The girl he’s into wholeheartedly and rather desperately. Also the girl who mere twenty minutes ago heard him spill his guts on the matter, and rather ungraciously, shot him down.

He’s angry. Why not him? How come you’re into Steve and not him?

“Fuck- Are you seriously going to listen to me tell you how I feel about you, then try and jump into bed with fucking Harrington?” Eddie’s in disbelief, instantly yelling with his arms stretched out as if he’s daring you to fight back. “You’re both supposed to be my fucking friends!”

“Dude, I-I didn’t know you finally said something.” Steve tries to intervene and calm his friend down. “Fuck, man, it’s no excuse but we’re both kinda drunk and this doesn’t mean anything.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and shoves Harrington out of the way before once again, peering directly back at you. You, who doesn’t want to indulge in this nonsense right now since it was just a stupid kiss. So, you turn back out into the hallway, hoping to find another drink.

Your best friend is hot on your heels. He grabs your arm, spins you around.

“You couldn’t even wait a day to soften the fucking blow?!”

“I fucking told you, Eddie,” you snap back, trying to free yourself from his grasp. “I don’t fucking feel the same way!”

Even though it’s not entirely true. At this moment in time, you’ve had one too many drinks and it’s easier to ignore, push down what you actually feel towards him, than address it. People you love die, the devil on your shoulder hisses.

“It’s just a stupid hookup,” you tell him. “You’re not my keeper, Eddie. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Eddie’s silent for a moment. The rage on his face disappears for a split-second, showcasing the sadness and heartbreak you’ve just caused. And if you were sober, you would’ve noticed it sooner – in the moment, as opposed to the next morning when you replayed this interaction in your head. But you’re wasted and Eddie annoyed you by announcing his feelings out of the blue.

“Do you realise you just shit on everything we’ve ever shared?!” Eddie’s pointing a finger, it’s close to your face and your anger spikes.

That’s when you definitely shove him. Or maybe you slap him? He’s suddenly holding your hand either way, preventing you from making this fucked up situation ten times worse, although, in your inebriated state, you don’t really care about optics. Jesus Christ, you don’t really care about anything other than finding another drink.

Undeniably hurt and riled, Eddie on the other hand wants answers and he wants them now. He pulls you through the next open door he sees and kicks it with a thud, right in Steve’s face. No witnesses because maybe if you two are alone, he’ll get you to tell him the truth: what makes Harrington better than him?

What transpires instead is a screaming match you don’t entirely remember the full details of.

Until that moment, you and Eddie have never fought. Not even a silly little argument over the most miniscule thing. He’s been your peace. He’s kept you grounded. Even when Billy talked shit in your ear about the metal-head, you always stood up for the curly-haired boy (much to your then-boyfriend’s dismay).

Standing in Chrissy’s childhood bedroom, your life explodes in front of your drunken eyes. You’re too lost in the alcohol wave to fully understand the repercussions of your words and even worse, your actions. Eddie however, he’s stone-cold sober. He’ll remember every single excruciating detail of this argument, and surrounding reasons, until the day his days on this Earth run out.

Which is why — in the heat of the moment — he calls you a slut and shoves the gifted red guitar pick into your grasp, no longer wanting to have any reminder of how much you mean to him on his body. You don’t want it either. Feeling like he’s policing you, plus that disgusting slut comment, you feel like severing this friendship. So you approach the window and before Eddie knows what’s happening, you throw the piece of plastic out the window.

Then, for good measure, you flip him off.

“Your behaviour is fucking desperate,” he spits in response.

“Fuck you, Eddie.”

You leave him stewing in his own misery, slamming into his arm on your way out the door, and head back downstairs to rejoin the party.

A group of jocks is playing beer pong. One of them whistles in your direction, tipping his head towards the table, a wordless invitation to join them. You do. One game turns to two, then three. The taste of beer is rude on your tongue, even harsher on your stomach, and you’re reminded — a little too late — never decline the strength of your poison. If you must mix, the only way is up.

Excusing yourself, you stagger towards the front door. Fresh air slaps you in the face, doing very little to prolong the inevitable. In fact, it speeds it up. Bending over a plant pot, brown flume, a mix of vodka and beer, spills out of you in waves.

That’s the last thing you remember.

Eddie, having heard a string of apologies from his mate Steve, wants nothing more than to go home, smoke a joint and forget about this wretched night. He pushes through his drunken classmates, fetching a cigarette from the inside of his jacket. With the bud between his lips, he makes it outside, only to stop dead in his tracks.

You’re leaning against the porch railing.

Hesitantly, Eddie walks around you. His first instinct is to completely ignore the girl who broke his heart not even a half-hour ago, so after he hops onto the grass, lighting the cigarette, he’s really doing his best not to turn around. Then you make a coughing sound. An even worse sound follows after and the metal-head closes his eyes momentarily because he knows he can’t leave you here. Not like this.

“Come on, let’s go.”

He’s by your side, propping you up against him. Carefully, he guides your right arm around his neck and slides his left one around your waist. Stumbling over your own two feet, you barely make a straight line. Eddie’s holding you. Kicking rocks and twigs out of the way, so you don’t accidentally trip over them, sending both of you falling.

Eventually approaching the van, Eddie helps you into the passenger seat, clicking the seatbelt into place. His gaze scans yours and before he can help himself, Eddie places a gentle hand on your cheek. Thumb grazes along your muscle as your drunken eyes dilate. Something close to a smile tugs at your lips and Eddie’s heart clenches in his throat because he knows, judging by the glazed look on your face, you won’t remember this part of the night. Only the earlier fight.

Dropping his hand, Eddie offers you a bottle of water from the glove compartment and watches you take a few sips before closing the door. He jogs around the front of the car, sliding in behind the wheel. There’s one last longing look shot in your direction, but you’re not paying attention. Gazing instead out the window, into the night.

The drive to the Wheeler residence is silent.

In fact, no words are exchanged until Eddie helps you into bed.

Having taken off your bile-covered shirt and skirt, the metal-head lifts the sheet covers and guides you under. He places the half-drank bottle of water on the bedside table and is about to switch off the light, walk out and hope tomorrow you’re in a mood to talk, when you say his name. Faintly, at first. He’s not sure he’s even heard anything, or if his mind is playing tricks. Then you say it again, with more conviction, and when Eddie looks at you — what will happen to be the last time for the next three years — you reach for him.

“Thank you,” you croak when he hesitantly takes your hand.

Eddie squeezes your palm, eventually forcing himself to let it go.

“Always.”

Then you close your eyes, letting sleep take over, and Eddie drops your hand before walking out — this time without stealing a last glance.

Three years later and the lie of that always has finally stopped gnawing at the metal-head.

In a frantic hurry, Eddie Munson admits he’s in love with you and to his pleasant surprise, the world doesn’t end. Quite the opposite actually. It keeps spinning. Maybe even a little bit faster? Especially when, against your nature, you agree to stay.

Sitting together on the deck, feet dancing with the cold water beneath, you and Eddie talk.

A conversation that should have been had the morning after Chrissy’s infamous graduation party. Instead, a hangover of shame clouded your judgement back then, and Eddie’s ability to hold a grudge definitely didn’t help the matter.

Perhaps parting ways, not speaking for years — and getting sober — then circling the subject all weekend until it was almost too late, well, maybe all of that was for the best. It helped evolve you two into the people you are right this very moment. Two people who are finally willing to accept the love they definitely deserve.

“I uh,” Eddie clears his throat.

“You love me,” you say, tilting your head slightly in his direction.

He nods, once, slowly, then meets your eyes.

“I do.” Eddie affirms, “A lot, actually.”

A smile circles your lips.

“That’s nice.”

He scoffs a laugh, bumping your arm with his own.

“Well, fuck me then. I guess I take it back,” he teases and you playfully roll your eyes, telling him he can’t.

“All our friends heard you say it,” you point out.

Eddie smacks his lips together, pondering, and your gaze instantly shifts downwards from his chocolate-button eyes, landing shamelessly on his mouth. You want to kiss him, but that would be counterproductive. The spell is only broken when you feel the tips of his fingers reach for your own, currently resting on the wooden deck between.

Letting him hold your hand, you look out onto the lake.

“I had a really good weekend with you,” you admit quietly.

Eddie gently squeezes your fingers and after a beat of silence, he says, “I quit my job.”

Before your head even snaps back in his direction, eyes wide in disbelief, he lifts his free hand in the air to stop you from questioning his actions and jumping to conclusions, and continues talking.

“During breakfast, when you said we’ve only been surface level, I knew you were lying and I realised in that moment just how truly scared you are to feel happy because of what happened to Billy.” The metal-head explains, “After I stormed off, I called my boss at the station and I told him I’m quitting because I decided to come with you to Vegas.”

“Eddie—”

“Shh woman, let me talk,” he stops you with a timid smile. “I aim to prove to you, it’s okay to move on and leave the past in the past. The only way I can do that is if we’re in the same city.”

Life in Las Vegas became fuller with Eddie Munson by your side.

Your tiny apartment suddenly doesn’t feel as suffocating when the metal-head fills it with his trinkets, collection of vinyls, and gradually decorates the empty walls with prints and posters. Eddie gives your now shared home, life and in return you help him find a presenter job at a nearby station — a daytime slot, so you don’t have to spend your evenings alone anymore.

As weeks pass, you introduce him to the wellness hobbies you’ve picked up over the years. Hiking, yoga. Seemingly not a good fit for the dark academia vibe of your non-labeled boyfriend, but Eddie dives into these activities head first because they’re a part of the person you’ve become in his absence and this challenge he’s created (and accepted) for himself — “it’s okay to move on” — requires him to be completely willing.

Next on the agenda of assimilation is meeting your Vegas friends.

Jax being first on the list and although you worried about a potential stand-off of male egos, the two guys click immediately, mainly bonding over their shared priority: your happiness. Later on, at a house party Jax throws, Eddie meets the remainder of your new friend group: Chiti, Savannah, and Sammy. People the metal-head only recently became aware of, but a group that undoubtedly cares for you just as deeply as the Hawkins crew.

And speaking of which, they eventually also make their way down to visit — as promised. The six of you cram into your small apartment, squeeze like sardines in a metal tin, but no one complains because you’re together again, if only for a short period of time.

When it’s just you and Eddie, Earth slows down.

His willingness to simply be there for you makes your heart grow tenfold, and you become more and more obsessed with him. Every single morning, brown-eyes find yours and he whispers he loves you, then kisses you softly. Never once forcing you to say it back, although you feel it. With every fiber of your being, stronger each day, you feel the love you have for him.

One evening, about four months into living together, labeless, but with certain strings attached, the two of you are cooking dinner together. Eddie has just come home from work and you wrapped up an assignment, it’s quiet and blissful.

Sitting at the kitchen island, while Eddie is chopping vegetables and telling you about his day, you realise that it has been a while since you’ve thought about Billy. Honestly, if you had to say, you wouldn’t be able to point out at all when exactly your dead ex-boyfriend crossed your mind for the last time.

And you realise right then and there, you’re no longer scared. Eddie has completed his challenge.

So, without giving it a second thought, you blurt out the three words he’s been longing to hear from you for as long as he can remember.

“I love you.”

His head snaps up, gaze catching yours. Seeing the conviction written all over your features, he drops the knife onto the wooden board and rounds the cabinets, approaching you like a moth to flame. His ring-clad fingers grip your face gently and he’s fighting back a smile, which makes your own mouth twitch upwards.

“Are you sure?”

He’s not certain exactly why he asks the question. Maybe because he wants to hear you utter those words again, and you do, with even more fervour.

Nodding, you say, “I love you, hotshot.”

Grinning like an idiot, Eddie lowers his body, lips smashing against yours in an elated kiss because you love him, and he loves you, and all is going to be okay. The past is the past. You’ve both overcome the associated demons and now you’re here, together.

In love.

Parking your car at the desired destination, you glance out the half-opened window and note how the weather is far from ideal for the planned activities.

It’s cold. Cold enough to make anyone's atoms shiver. Dark grey clouds cover every inch of the sky above, hiding the beautiful autumn sun. The air is brisk. It’s harsh against your skin as you eventually get out of the red Jeep and the unwelcoming breeze that follows makes you wish that you had packed warmer clothes for this weekend.

Déjà vu.

A heavy jacket is draped over your shoulders and you smile, tugging it closer to yourself while looking behind for its wild-haired owner. Eddie winks at you, then opens the boot to grab both of your bags as the door of the lake house swings open and Nancy runs out, arms spread wide as she squeals with excitement.

“You’re both here!”

The hug Nancy gives you is strong, almost full force — pretty much the same as the one she embraced you in at exactly this time last year, in this very same spot. Her arms are wrapped tightly around you and you instantly hug her back, a small smile circling your lips.

“Of course we’re here,” you tell her, pulling back. “It’s not every day your friends organise a weekend getaway to celebrate their engagement!”

She beams and not-so-casually lifts her hand to show off the elegant rock gracing her ring finger. Then, just as quickly, she pulls you by the arm, into another quick embrace and whispers in your ear, “You’re next.”, earning herself a nudge in the side because, even though, you’ve been going steady with the metal-head for just under a year, you’re nowhere near ready for marriage.

Although, marrying Eddie Munson would be far from a travesty.

After saying hello to your brunette boyfriend, Nancy leads you both into the lakehouse. Not much has changed inside, yet the wow effect is still as strong. The rest of the group — Jonathan, Steve, Argyle, Robin — are sitting outside, on the patio. They jump up excitedly when they see you and Eddie, greeting you both like no time has passed (because really, it’s only been a couple of weeks).

Eddie makes himself comfortable next to you, hand on your thigh. He instantly engages in conversation with Jonathan, while you look at Steve. He offers you a cigarette, then lights the bud for you. After a moment of huffing smoke, he leans in closer and with a tender smile on his face says:

“It’s nice to finally see you happy, sweetheart.”

And this time around, right here, in this place where, last year, you’ve reconnected with not only yourself, but the best people in the world, where you met Eddie Munson all over again, opened yourself up to him and fell in the process, the sentiment surrounding your joy is true.

“I am,” you say, leaning your back into Eddie. The primary source of your happiness. Yours forever.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

to all you babes, thank you for loving this little labour of love. i literally can’t believe we’re at the end of this story 🥲 obsessed with every single person that’s liked, reblogged, commented, and overall enjoyed reading this fic. i love you all forever and ever - until next time!

lastly, tagging some cool people that expressed ongoing interest in this story:

@ali-r3n @thelazyarchangel @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @peculiarwren @fxoxo @losingmygrasponreality @kellsck @sp1dyb0y1008 @mmmunson @somethingvicked @darknesseddiem @scream4mami @pineapplechuncks @sophiejayne-illustrations713 @emxxblog @bl0ssomanddie @theladyhellfire @gracelouiseoneill @emquinn94 @transparent-enemy @rach5ive @knew-better-forever-girl-two @lemonmarquee @mossgh0st @probablyin-bed @dustbowleddie @residentoftomlinsonsass @heart-eyed-love @munsonburn3r @helsa3942 @althaiareads @theladyhellfire @v1per1ne @sugarplumsweetiepie @rizzraa @micheledawn1975 @gracelouiseoneill @moremaple @bigpoppascherry @jeangeniex @daisy-munson @ceeezy @kissmyacdc @cyressluvy @mango-slush-boba @iyskgd @bigpoppascherry @everlove @tieganspeirs

#this is it guys; the end #thank you for being a part of their story just as much as me (if not more)#right where you left me.#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson slow burn #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson series #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader

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epicbuddieficrecs · 1 year ago

Text

Weekly Recap | March 18th-24th 2024

It's a long one today folks! I hope you enjoy! :) If you know anyone who's not tagged, don't hesitate to let me know!

idk 'bout you but I can't wait for the final part of the premiere on Thursday!!! 😃

Complete

anything that is beautiful, people want to break. by dylaesthetics (Post-Coma, Trans Buck | 3K | Teen): Buck has never meant to keep it a secret from the one-eighteen. Hell, he trusts them with much more gritty, uncomfortable stuff than that. It’s more like… It hasn’t come up. There’s been no reason for it to come up. But then he gets struck by lightning and the mix-up with his medical records happens. A nurse he hasn’t seen yet barges into Buck’s hospital room, with his entire family in it, blood and found alike, and stares at him for one dumbfounded moment before blurting out a name he hasn’t been addressed by in well over eight years.

not flesh and blood but the heart by Jinko / @jinkohhh (Post-S6, Getting Together | 10K | Explicit): Five times people assumed Chris was Buck's son + one time Eddie confirmed it.

🔥 don’t wanna let you love somebody else but me by fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (S7 Spec, Bachelor Party, Pretend Relationship | 14K | Teen): or, chris wants dating advice and it turns out taking your best friend on a pretend date to practice being as romantic as possible is not a good idea in theory or in practice, considering the pesky being-in-unrequited-love of it all

A Little Bit of the Bubbly by Jinko/ @jinkohhh (Post-S6, PWP, Getting Together | 7K | Explicit): Since turning 30, Buck's relationship with champagne has changed. It also manages to change his relationship with Eddie.

washed away (but not) by Jinko / @jinkohhh (S7 Spec | 3K | Teen): “Well, this is awkward.” Every part of Buck wanted to tell Chim to go fuck himself, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t. Nothing made a situation more awkward than pointing out the awkwardness of it. “So which one of you two made the deathbed love confession?” Ravi laughed, and frankly, Ravi could go fuck himself, too. The both of them could go fuck themselves because both Chimney and Ravi were correct.

i like the way you scratch my itch by oklahoma/ @sunshinediaz (BTHB: Hives | 3K | Teen): Buck’s big blue eyes sparkle. “You’re so cute, did you know that?” he asks, leaning close enough Eddie can count the small red-brown-orange freckles all across his nose. “Even when you’re red from poison ivy.” Red. Red from the poison ivy. Yeah, yep, that’s exactly what he’s so red for. Absolutely.

meet you in the middle. by dylaesthetics (Getting Together | 2K | Teen): OR buck and eddie get their shit together during a regular friday movie night at the diaz house.

🔥 Even in Winter There is Eranthis by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels / @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Hades/Persephone AU | 45K | Explicit): Buck is supposedly a god. Supposedly. But he's got no idea what his domain is or what role he plays in Olympus. When he meets Christopher, a young boy lost and trying to find his father, he helps Chris get home - and ends up accidentally binding himself to the Underworld. Now bound to Eddie, the god of the dead, Buck must spend half the year with him in the Underworld while winter reigns above. But even as something grows between them, there are still trials to endure. Just because the gods are not mortal... does not mean they cannot die.

🔥 My Blood on Your Skin (My Rose on Your Snow) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Mythological AU, BDSM | 80K | Explicit): When Eddie needs cash and fast to take care of Christopher, his LAFD Academy buddy suggests a job as a bouncer at Elysium - an exclusive sex club in downtown Los Angeles. Eddie doesn't care what goes on there, so long as he's paid, but he finds he cares a lot bout the club's enigmatic owner, Evan Buckley, and it's not long before the two of them are violating every boss-employee rule in the book. But there's something different about Buck and the club, something not quite... human. If Eddie wants to keep Buck, he's going to have to delve into the world of immortals, and all the risks that implies.

and check out the amazing podfic!! 🔥 My Blood on Your Skin (My Rose on Your Snow) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314

hold tight, you’re slowly coming back to life by bucksclipboard/ @excuseme-greentea (S7E01 Coda, Getting Together | 3K | Teen): Eddie runs into Natalia at the grocery store. He learns something about her and Buck’s breakup that gives him the final push to take care of his own complicated love life.

🔥 miracles under your sighs and moans by napricot (Sex Pollen, PWP | 21K | Explicit): When Eddie gets exposed to an experimental aphrodisiac on a call, he realizes there’s only one person he trusts to help him get through it: Buck.

Touch Me and I'll Scream by rogerzsteven/ @rogerzsteven (BTHB: Unhealthy Coping Mecanisms, Established Buddie | 5K | Mature): At his low, Buck uses rough sex as a way of self harm.

in another life by bellabrady (Coma AU | 2K | Not Rated): Or: Buck's in a coma and dreams of a life where Daniel never died and he never became a firefighter.

Locations by rogerzsteven/ @rogerzsteven (BTHB: Vomiting, Drowning | 4K | General): In which Buck drowns.

I was born to take care of you by Beulaugh/ @if-music-be-the-food-of-love (Getting Together | 3K | Mature): Buck has a revelation at work and then promptly falls on his face. Eddie Diaz's ass: 1, Evan Buckley: 0

hold the silence. by dylaesthetics (Post-S6 | 3K | Teen): OR while looking for clothes to donate, Buck stumbles upon the shirt he was wearing when Eddie got shot.

Tomorrow we can drive around this town by lamardeuse/ @lamardeuse (S7 Spec, Drunk Eddie | 4K | Mature): If Eddie had been sober, he would have realized it wasn't something to be happy about. But drunk as he was, it had the blood singing in his veins, because Buck was going home with him, not Tommy. Tommy could go fuck himself – or you know, anyone else who was willing, but not Evan Buckley. Because Eddie was a pathetic, sloppy drunk and his best friend had a responsibility to make sure he didn't choke on his own vomit or drown himself in the bathroom sink.

sang to the sea for feelings deep blue by Tizniz/ @tizniz (S7 Spec, Cruise Ship Emergency | 14K | General): God, he hopes Buck got out. That he isn’t trying to get to Eddie. That he gets to go home. And not just because Christopher needs him, although he does since Eddie is fairly certain he’s not making it home this time. He doesn’t let himself dwell too long on that thought. No, Eddie wants Buck to go home because he deserves it. Because Buck deserves to live. Because Eddie needs him to live.

you've got game by browney3dgirl6/ @hoodie-buck (S7E01 Coda, Established Buddie | 1K | General): a silly little late night conversation about chris being a 'ladies man'

take this life and make it yours (take this heart and let it love again) by Maira/ @carrierofthepaperclips (Canon Divergent, Post-Coma | 31K | Mature): Before he could second guess it, he’d dialled Eddie’s number and listened to it ring in his ear. As soon as he heard the click of the connection, he said, “Eddie, what the hell, man?” “I meant what I said. I don’t know who you think you are, but call this number again and I will contact the police.” . . . or, the one where Buck finally figures out he's in love with Eddie, only for things to not go as planned. At first.

if i bleed, you'll be the last to know by heartbeatdiaz/ @loserdiaz (S7, Hurt Buck | 6K | Teen): buck gets stabbed while out on a run and then... doesn't tell anyone about it. eddie loses his shit when he finds out, they have a moment in the kitchen and they kiss.... not necessarily in that order.

Baby, take me by 42hrb / @exhuastedpigeon (S7E01 Coda, Getting Together | 4K | Explicit): “Same thing,” Eddie nuzzled him, stubble scratching even more as he moved his face. When he stopped nuzzling, he pulled back far enough that he could see Buck’s face. “I said stop thinking.” “Kinda hard to turn my brain off.” “Pretty sure I turned it off just fine last night,” Eddie said with a smirk that went straight to Buck’s cock, already half hard just from the way Eddie’s stubble is dragging across his skin. “Is that how I get you to stop thinking?”

when you call me yours by browney3dgirl6/ @hoodie-buck (Established Buddie, Proposal | 5K | General): Buck starts calling Eddie his husband. Only problem...they're not engaged. aka the 5 times Buck refers to Eddie as his husband and the 1 time Eddie makes it true.

just lay back in my arms for one more night by diazbegins/ @evanbegins (Established Buddie, Fluff | 2K | Teen): Buck loves Eddie as he naps.

Brat Burrito by Tizniz/ @tizniz (Established Buddie | 1K | General): Just a cute Buddie moment about breakfast burritos.

it's a sliding into home kind of day by devirnis/ @devirnis (PWP | 3K | Explicit): Eddie’s eyes still don’t leave the television. Frowning to himself, Buck cranes his neck to get a look at what could possibly be more important than him coming home after covering a tragically Eddie-less shift. A baseball game evidently is the answer.

your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep by BekkaChaos/ @bekkachaos (New Years Eve, Getting Together | 8K | Teen): aka, Eddie's in love with Buck and he doesn't know how to tell him, until there's a miscommunication and fate (well, Hen) intervenes.

Loose Threads by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Secret Relationship | 3K | Explicit): New to dating and keeping it quiet, Buck and Eddie get a little carried away on a slower shift at the firehouse. But when the alarm eventually sounds, a spur of the moment mistake leaves them a little mixed up.

Married Life by buddiefication (pumpkincreamcoldbrew)/ @911onabc (S5, Getting Together | 2K | General): Taylor films Buck for a TikTok challenge, and Buck finds out he would much rather be his best friend’s husband than his girlfriend’s.

A Seal By Any Other Name (Would Still Be My Best Friend) by bigfootsmom (Seal!Buck, Post-Tsunami | 5K | General): Evan "Buck" Buckley is a collection of oddities. But they're just what makes Buck Buck and Eddie loves him for them. Eddie had thought that after their years of friendship (and maybe something more) that nothing Buck could do would surprise him anymore. But there is one oddity that Eddie never saw coming. “How about you start with why there was a seal in my bathtub and now there’s just you in my bathtub.” (Part 1 of Seal!Buck as in the aquatic mammal)

Just Add Water by bigfootsmom (Seal!Buck, Tsunami | 3K | General): There may be more to Buck than meets the eye. But he's still only human(ish) and getting stuck in a natural disaster with his best friend's son is still all sorts of terrifying. A small hysterical part of his brain thinks about how ironic it would be if this was how he died. Him, a mythical aquatic creature, drowning. The universe would surely laugh and the long line of Buckley ancestors would turn in their graves. (Part 2 of Seal!Buck as in the aquatic mammal)

you can be my daddy (come on, you know you like) by bigfootsmom (Getting Together, Daddy Kink | 4K | Mature): Buck has a teeny tiny problem. One, he's in love with his best friend. Two, he wants to call said best friend Daddy.

It's the softness that breaks you by bigfootsmom (BDSM, Hurt/Comfort | 6K | Explicit): Or the one where Buck has more issues with intimacy than he had originally thought.

lay your love on me by bigfootsmom (PWP, Getting Together | 3K Explicit): Buck never thought the words he said to Eddie in the kitchen would ever come back to haunt him like this. Honestly, he’s not complaining.

you made me feel (i've got nothing to hide) by bigfootsmom (Virgin!Buck, Established Buddie, PWP | 8K | Explicit): Buck has a secret: Contrary to popular belief, Evan "Buck" Buckley is actually a virgin.

WIP

🔥 Right Where You Left Me by hyacinthusbloom/ @thebloomingheather (Canon Divergent, Post-S4, Angst | 22/? | 162K | Explicit | ❗️Warning: Rape/Non-con): "Therapy?" Eddie suggests. Buck almost laughs, but instead says, "I'll go if you go." Because he had fully expected him to be chicken shit, to disagree, and instead Eddie, the bastard, replies, "Deal." Or Buck never tells anyone that he slept with his therapist and deals with the butterfly effect years later.

🔥 Any Other Way by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, S2 | 6/18 | 37K | Mature): In a switcheroo alternate universe, Buck spends young adulthood in the military, while Eddie, who has no idea Christopher exists, spends his twenties messing around, finally enjoying freedom away from his family’s expectations. When they both end up in Los Angeles, at the 118, some things are different, and others will be the same in any universe.

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briar / @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon S1-S6, S7 Spec | 122/? | 374K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

#buddie #buddie fanfic #buddie fic #buddie fanfiction #buddie fic rec #epic buddie fic rec #911 fanfic #911 fanfiction #911 fic

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darylmydix · 10 months ago

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THE SCARS WE SHARE | daryl dixon - 003

summary: you were the only good thing daryl had in his life. bonded by similar trauma, you suffered abuse at the hands of your stepmother, just as daryl had suffered from his own father. when you finally decide to escape your abusive home life, you're forced to leave behind your best friend in the process. now with the world in an apocalyptic state, you're left wondering if daryl was even alive.

pairings: daryl dixon x fireader.

warnings: smut, violence, blood and gore, unrequited love, best friends to lovers, mentions of s/a, mentions of abuse, mention of suicidal thoughts/attempts, mention of drug use, use of deadly weapons, fluff, angst, slow burn, strong language, kidnapping, coercion, seasons 5-11, 18+, minors dni.

word count: 2.3k

author’s note: if you asked to be in the taglist and you’re not, i apologize. it wouldn’t let me tag some of you. and yes, the person featured in this chapter is exactly who you probably think it is. also warning because this chapter may be triggering as it has attempted s/a.

You stare dolorously at your reflection through your vanity mirror; there was a desperate desire to wipe off all the makeup that coated your face. If the action didn’t come with an unpleasant outcome, you probably would have. Especially if it made you unappealing to whatever “guest” your stepmother had coming by.

You were adorned in a sultry black dress that was form fitting and showing off your curves. One thing your stepmother loved doing more than degrading you was dressing you up like her own personal doll. You hated it. You never pictured yourself as the sexy type. You didn't wear makeup because that merely wasn’t your cup of tea, and typically dressed down to avoid unwarranted gazes from depraved men.

Not that it mattered anyway. Dressed up or down, it still never ceased a creep from saying anything perverted. Merle Dixon proved that theory for you when he referred to you as “sugar tits” the couple times you’d been around him.

You get up from your vanity stool, shuffling over to your bed. You plop on the edge, trying to calm your nerves. You never knew what to expect from the men Sandra brought over. Some of them like to sit and talk before they get to business, while others like to jump straight into it. Some of them were vanilla and traditional, while others had kinks they were into.

None were ever too extreme, but it all made you feel filthy and uncomfortable nonetheless. What made you more unsettled was how many of the men were old family friends, or people in the neighborhood. It surely opened your eyes to how fiendish humans could be.

That’s why you always cherished your friendship with Daryl. He could be an asshole, and a bit prejudiced at times but deep down he had a heart of gold. You were lucky to be able to witness that side of him. He gave you hope for humanity.

A hard knock at your closed door interrupted your thoughts. You could feel your heart beating through your chest as it often did when this ordeal occurred. You let out a deep, unsteady sigh before speaking. “Come in.” You say. As the door opens, you’re face to face with a man you’d never seen before. “Well hello there.” He smiles, shutting the door behind him.

“H-hi…” you mutter, examining the man in front of you. He had longish gray locks, and facial hair. And he wore a buttoned up black long sleeved shirt embroidered with skulls and roses on it. He gave off a biker style. “I’m Joe.”

“Y/n.” You reply dryly, now looking away from the man.

“You’re very beautiful. I wasn’t sure what to expect.” He laughed heartily as though this whole scenario wasn’t disturbing. You don’t bother to respond, wanting the man to just get started and let this baptism of fire end. The man seemed to notice your lack of communication, and walked over to you. You tense a bit, but he suddenly takes a seat on the edge of the bed with you.

“You seem apprehensive, darlin’.” He says.

You weren't sure what he was expecting from this situation. You were being trafficked by your stepmother, and he was a dirty old man contributing to the crime. The man pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Y’know,” he starts. “I get it. This isn’t the most forthcoming thing to be happening right now, and you probably think I’m just a pervy old gu–”

“Can we just… not talk? I want this to be over as quickly as possible.” You finally speak up. The man looks at you, his expression suddenly changing from faux sincerity to an off putting smile. “Oh darlin’, this won’t be quick. It’s been awhile, so it might take me some time.” He chuckles before standing up and moving in front of you.

You keep your head down, not bothering to look at him until you hear the sound of metal clanging together. The man suddenly throws handcuffs beside you where he was sitting. You scrunch your brows together, looking from the cuffs to him. “Cuff yourself to the headboard.” He says, his tone demanding and not as laidback as it was moments ago. His entire demeanor had changed like the flick of a switch.

Your eyes widen at the command. You had never been cuffed to the bed before from any of the past men. The thought of being restrained and not able to fight back if anything happened frightened you. You weren’t so willing to put your trust, or even life into the hands of this stranger, who you were now getting an unwavering feeling about. “Go on. Do it.” He pushes.

“I don’t think… I don’t think I should.” You say slowly, looking away from the man’s displeased face. “You don’t… think you should?” He repeats your words just as slow. You nod your head. “I just wanna be comfortable. That’s all.” You try your best to get him to rethink the cuffs, but he seemed to be dead set on them. “Your mama back there told me you were obedient. I didn’t pay nearly $200 for you to tell me what you won’t do, girl.” He spat.

You cringed at him referring to Sandra as your mother. She could never be your mother. “She’s not my mother.” You correct him. The man scoffed. “I don’t give a damn who she is to you. I paid that money, and I’ll get what I want even if I have to cuff you myself.”

You shake your head. You didn’t care if you were going to suffer the consequences from this later. You’d put up with a lot of odd things from these men, but even the sheer thought of being cuffed to the headboard gave you crippling anxiety. You stand up from the bed, the man still towering your small frame. “I’ll get you your money back,” you assure him. “But I can’t allow you to cuff me.” You stand firm on your decision.

You tried to push past him to leave the bedroom, but were suddenly snatched by your wrist and pulled back. “Ain’t no need for that girl because I’m getting my money’s worth.” He says before tossing you to the mattress. You quickly try to get back up, but he’s pushing you down and grabbing the cuffs. “Get off me!” You shout, struggling against him.

“You’re only going to make this worse for you. Stop squirming.”

A stinging sensation comes across your cheek and you cry out in pain. The man had slapped you, leaving your cheek heated. “Sandra!” You yell for your stepmother in the most desperate attempt to get the man off of you. You knew better though. Your stepmother didn’t care what happened to you. As long as she got money, you were at the mercy of the men who paid her.

You muster up all your strength, finally able to flip the man off of you. He falls to the floor with a thud and a “oomf”. You use this opportunity to quickly jump from the mattress. The man swiftly gets back up to his feet. You know you had no time to make it to the door without him stopping you. You run to your dresser, grabbing the razor blade off the top of it.

Joe approaches you in ignorant bliss, unaware of the tiny blade you held. “Nowhere to run, girl. Let’s just bury the hatchet and start over. No cuffs.” He offers as if you were going to let this psychopath have his way after what he tried to do. “Fuck you, pig.” You snap.

“Have it your way.” He says, lunging at you. You speedily swing your arm, the blade cutting the man’s hand. He steps back, holding his bleeding hand. “You little bitch!” He shouts in pain. You take this opportunity to run to the door, ripping it open as you run out to the living room. You head for the front door, but are immediately grabbed. “Hey!” Your stepmother shouted. “What the hell’s going on? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“That bastard tried to assault me, didn’t you hear me screaming for you?!” You cry.

“Assault? Did you forget your place, girl? He’s supposed to do that.” She spat angrily, knowing she was going to lose money for this.

“He tried to make me cuff myself to the bed, and when I told him no he tried to force me!”

“You think you have a say in what goes on? I do! If he wants to cuff you to the damn bed, then so be it. He’s a paying client, and I will not lose out on my money just because you wanna bitch about goddamn handcuffs!”

You look at her through wide eyes. Your stepmother was always cruel, this was no shocking matter. But to let this man attempt to assault you and tell you to just deal with it? You refused. You shake your head, snatching away from her grasp. “No.”

“No?” She questions. “I’ll teach you to tell me n–”

“I want my goddamn money back, bitch!” Joe came stumbling into the living room, his hand dripping blood. Your stepmother turns to him, her eyes drifting from him to his hand. “What the fuck happened to your hand?” She asks.

“That little whore cut me, that’s what!” He grimaced. “I want my money back, or both of you bitches are gonna pay.”

“Listen, I’m sure there’s a way we can work this out.” She tries to reason with him. As the two of them go back and forth, you use the opportunity to make your grand escape. You whip around, running to the front door before jerking it open and running outside. You could hear your stepmother yelling your name as you ran down the street barefoot.

You run to the only place you could run to, the only person you could run to.

You ran the entire 20 minutes until you finally reached the trailer parks. You walk through the gravel trail, ignoring the pain of rocks digging into your feet. You’re relieved as you see the Dixon residence lights on. You walk up the stairs, frantically knocking on the door.

“You get into some kinda trouble again, boy? Who the hell is bangin’ on the damn door like the feds?”

“Hell should I know?” You hear Daryl’s voice, footsteps approaching. You step back as the door opens with Daryl on the other side of it. Daryl’s staring at you, a worried expression on his face as he looks your shaken frame over. “Who the hell is it?” Will yells.

“It’s for me.” Daryl responds, closing the door as he steps outside. “The hell happened to you?” He’s grabbing your chin, looking you over. “Is that blood?” There’s a hint of fear in his voice at the thought of you getting hurt that bad. You nod your head. “But it’s not mine,” you assure him. “It’s some guy. I cut his hand after he tried to…” your lip quivers, eyes watering as you try to force yourself to explain to him, but he stops you.

“You ain’t gotta repeat it. He still there? I’ma kill that son’na bitch.” He stomps down the stairs. You follow him. “Daryl, no, wait!” You grab his forearm, stopping him. “Fuck we waitin’ for, huh?! I ain’t just gonna let ‘em get away with it!” He swings his arm in frustration.

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter,” you say. “Last night you said this doesn’t have to be our reality…” you pause before speaking again. “So run away with me.” You speak through glossy eyes.

Daryl stares at you with a blank expression, as though he didn’t hear you. “What?”

“Let’s run away,” you repeat. “We could go anywhere. We could start over. Get out of this fucking dead weight town, with these twisted fucking people. Me and you…”

You await his answer, hopeful that he’d agree.

But he didn’t.

“I can’t.” He replied.

“What do you mean you can’t? Yes you can. We could leave right now and never look back, Daryl–”

“Man, I said I can’t!” He snapped. “I can’t just leave Merle alone with that asshole in there. He’s my brother.” You stare at him in shock. “And what am I to you?” You ask him. He doesn’t answer, looking away from your hurt gaze. “What am I to you?” You ask again, your eyes watering. He still doesn’t answer, almost as if he’s afraid to say.

“You think he cares about you? You’re not even worth a damn to care about.” Sandra’s voice echoes in the back of your mind.

“Oh god… Sandra was right. You don’t give a damn about me…” you push past him, on your way to leave the trailer park but Daryl hastily grabs you. “Aye, stop. You know that shit ain’t true. I just… I just need you to wait. Once Merle’s outta jail I’ll tell him so he can come with us.”

The thought of Merle tagging along wasn’t ideal. All his presence would do is drag Daryl down and the whole point of you two running away together was to get away from bullshit. Unfortunately Merle brings bullshit wherever he goes. Regardless of that fact, there was no clear way of knowing if he’d even come along when he’s out.

“And what if he says no? Then what?”

Daryl goes silent again, but that was all the answer you needed. You nod. “I get it,” You whisper. “Stupid of me to ever think you’d choose me over blood.” You sniff, laughing at yourself. “When he’s out,” you say. “We’ll ask. I’ll wait a little longer.”

“Will you?” He speaks up. Now it was your turn to go silent, not answering his question as you began to back away to leave. “I’ll see you later, Daryl.”

Taglist:

@daryldixmedown, @supernaturalstilinski, @vampiresluv, @myassisasolarsystem, @mosstheshoeshoethemoss, @scripteria, @moonlightreader649, @creepumiku, @filmsbyblair, @ginger-haired-queen, @darylsdollie, @inkofthebrain, @teethvenom

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maxdibert · 1 month ago

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And so far, you still haven't given a plausible reason for Bellatrix being a poorly written character, just your limited taste for Snape and the whole "but she's sooo mad" thing 😆

Your followers seem pretty fed up with you too.

Look, I wasn’t planning on doing this, but let’s play the game. You want us to talk about why Bellatrix is a flat character? Then let’s talk about why Bellatrix is a flat character:

1- Bellatrix is introduced as fully formed: she’s fanatically loyal to Voldemort, sadistic, and cruel. And that’s exactly how she ends her story. There’s no personal growth, no introspection, and no hint that her behavior comes from a place that evolves or shifts throughout the narrative. Her allegiance never falters, her motives are never questioned, and we never get a deeper exploration of what makes her tick beyond her madness and obsession.

2- Bellatrix functions more as a symbol than a person. She represents Voldemort’s inner circle and the absolute loyalty of a true fanatic. Her violence is over-the-top and theatrical, meant to shock rather than reveal anything meaningful about her as a character. Her only moment of potential complexity — the implication of her unrequited obsession with Voldemort — is treated more like a twisted joke than a layer of depth.

3- Unlike other female characters in the series, Bellatrix’s femininity is not nurtured, maternal, or intellectual: it’s chaotic, sexualized, and tied to destruction. She is essentially a caricature of “female madness.” Even her appearance is designed to contrast with the idea of traditional womanhood. She’s not given interiority; she’s a foil, especially when compared to maternal figures like Molly Weasley, who literally kills her in a showdown that equates good motherhood with moral superiority.

4- Bellatrix doesn’t drive the plot on her own, she’s an accessory to Voldemort. Her major scenes are never about her, they’re about what she does to others. Torturing Hermione, killing Sirius, dueling Molly… she’s a plot device in other characters’ emotional journeys, not the center of her own.

5- Bellatrix is, ultimately, a flat villain archetype. She’s written as mad, bad, and loyal to the end, without any meaningful exploration of why she is the way she is. She could have been fascinating —a privileged woman radicalized by blood supremacy, used and discarded by the very power she worships— but none of that is explored. She’s a theatrical evil woman, and that’s all the narrative allows her to be.

So no, she’s not a “well-written complex character.” She’s a recurring villain with barely any layers, whose function is to represent chaos, cruelty, and fanaticism. That’s it.

But now we’re also going to talk about why Bellatrix is not a feminist icon, nor a character who challenges traditional femininity, nor one who revolutionises the narrative by breaking the mould or the status quo. And while we’re at it, you’re getting a free feminism lesson, since you’ve been asking for it so much:

1- A caricature of Female Madness: Bellatrix is not a character with real agency or complex psychological depth: she is a flat, exaggerated figure, created to be feared, ridiculed, and punished. Her femininity is presented as deviant not as an autonomous force, but as a distortion of the traditional ideal: a hysterical, fanatical, cruel, and unhinged woman.

This archetype directly aligns with what Laura Mulvey identifies in her theory of the male gaze: many women in patriarchal fiction are not subjects with their own desires, but objects of male viewing and discursive control. Bellatrix exists as an extension of Voldemort, whom she worships with religious fervor and pathological devotion, interpreted as sexualized fixation, yet completely one-sided. At no point does she express personal desires that aren’t shaped by Voldemort’s dominance.

2- The “Madwoman”: Bellatrix embodies the classic stereotype of the “crazy woman,” a cultural construction long used to discipline and discredit women who deviate from the docile, maternal, and rational norms of femininity. Her wild hair, maniacal laughter, and chaotic aggression devoid of clear motivation all reinforce this trope.

This representation is heavily critiqued by theorists like Teresa de Lauretis, who explores how dominant narratives punish women who do not conform to the expected roles (mother, wife, caretaker). Bellatrix is childless, without a visible partner, devoid of maternal instinct, and emotionally fixated only on a male authoritarian figure: her narrative punishment is violent death, without nuance or redemption.

3- Patriarchal Fantasy: From a feminist perspective, breaking gender norms isn’t just about aesthetic or violent power. A woman isn’t automatically feminist just because she is strong or dangerous. Bellatrix does not subvert patriarchal power: she upholds it. Her loyalty is to the existing totalitarian and purist order, she becomes a tool of the regime, not a rebel against it.

What’s more problematic is that Rowling grants her no complexity. We’re told nothing of her interior life, ideological origins, or contradictions. She is a female character constructed purely from the male gaze: hypersexualized in her cinematic portrayal, fetishized as a “bad girl,” and turned into an object of spectacle, not a subject with voice or depth.

4- Narrative Punishment: Like other “strong” women in Rowling’s world who do not embrace caregiving roles (Bellatrix, Umbridge, Rita Skeeter), the narrative punishes her harshly. Only characters like McGonagall or Molly Weasley are rewarded—women who exercise authority while maintaining traditional roles.

In short, Bellatrix is neither a revolutionary character nor a challenge to hegemonic femininity. She is a narrative tool built to symbolize female hysteria, fanatical devotion, and irredeemable evil. Far from empowering, her depiction reinforces the message that powerful women who reject traditional roles must be destroyed.

I hope this has satisfied you. Honestly, Bellatrix has never been a character that interested me enough to analyze her, but since you’ve spent the last 24 hours harassing me about this and insisting that I do your meta homework for free. well, here you go. Now, sincerely, if you’re not going to say anything that requires more than half a brain cell, I invite you to leave.

And if you insist on staying on my blog because you’re clearly obsessed with me (which is basically what it looks like), then I’m just going to block you. Simple as that.

Or like we say in spanish: Te lo metes por el culo payasa.

#bellatrix lestrange #bellatrix black #Bellatrix lestrsnge meta #Bellatrix black meta #Bellatrix lestrsnge analysis #Bellatrix black analysis #Harry Potter #Harry Potter meta #Harry Potter series #gender roles #female hysteria #male gaze #female character #female characters in media #feminist theory #feminist analysis #death esters #Voldemort #meta post

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comphy-and-cozy · 3 months ago

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Signs - Lukas Dostal

Pairing: Lukáš Dostál x OC (f)

Summary: Lukas' best friend, Evie Sato, is on a mission to find love. He's her support system, her personal photographer, and her biggest supporter. And she doesn't realize he's in love with her.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: Little bit of angst, little bit of fluff, a lot of simping. One very slight reference to sex and... that's it? Who am I? ← BACK TO MAIN MASTERLIST ← BACK TO 'SO CLOSE TO WHAT' MASTERLIST

Lukas always knew he’d make it to the NHL someday. He worked hard, focused on his drills, trained all summer. By the time he was a teenager, he had dedicated himself solely to hockey, telling himself that each day he was one step closer to realizing his dream.

And then he got to the United States and life as he knew it changed completely. All at once, he was playing in the AHL, and then his NHL debut, and then a steady NHL backup. He adjusted to life as a Westerner, learning how to play on smaller ice, experiencing Southern California warmth—and traffic—for the first time.

But none of that flipped his world upside down the way Evelyn Sato did.

Lukas is sitting on the rooftop level of his apartment building, back leant against a cushioned lounger. Evie is lying perpendicular at his side, the back of her head resting on his thigh. Her skin is coated in the pinkish-orange hue from the sun that’s slowly slipping under the horizon. Spectacular lavender clouds are splattered across the sky, like a scene straight out of a Bob Ross canvas.

To anyone on the outside looking in, they might think this is the sight of two lovers enjoying a Southern California sunset.

They’d be wrong.

Not for lack of wanting—no, Lukas has that covered—but because, no matter how many guys Evie dated, no matter how many relationships failed, she couldn’t see that the guy she’d spent so much time searching for is the one she’d never noticed. Not like that, at least.

They met through a friend of Trevor’s, becoming fast friends after being paired together for a beer pong tournament. For Lukas, it has long been an unrequited love affair, though admittedly, he’d never dared share his feelings for her for fear of scaring her away or ruining what they had. And what they had, while maybe it wasn’t quite what he wanted, was the easiest friendship he’d ever fallen into.

Lukas was sure there had always been a space for her carved out in his life, and now that she’d filled it, he wondered how he’d ever gotten by without noticing the gaping hole he now felt every time they were apart. He felt completely himself with her; outside of that one secret, Lukas had never kept anything from her, nor she him. It’s like muscle memory, everything falling exactly into place when they’re together.

It’s a beautiful friendship. And, in theory, has all of the makings of a beautiful relationship.

Maybe someday he’ll work up the courage to tell her how he feels. He’ll bumble over some nervous, desperate monologue, tell her that she had him at hello—he doesn’t know the reference, but he knows it’s from something romantic—and proceed to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset.

But until then, Lukas is resigned to helping her take her Instagram photos (that doubled as dating app carousel photos) and deciphering texts from situationships, determining which ones wanted one night and which ones were boyfriend material.

Through it all, Lukas stayed diligently single. Less for the fact that he was waiting for her—though he would admit that there was a piece of him afraid to get himself in any sort of tangle just in case Evie did ever come to her senses—and more for the fact that no one even came close to Evelyn Sato, so what was the point?

Of course, Evie occasionally comments on how long it’d been since he mentioned a girl. Usually he can play it off like he’s just busy, focused on the season, but sometimes she’ll nudge him and say, “You’re a professional athlete, Luk, you should take advantage of that.”

So he laughs it off, nods along, and on road trips, he dusts off the old app and swipes on a few girls who look nothing like her—he knows it’ll only make his heart ache if the girls he innocently flirts with remind him of Evie. (He doesn’t actually meet up with anyone anymore after he kissed a girl in Dallas and saw Evie when he closed his eyes.)

Nothing ever goes anywhere, but at least he has written proof that he tried. It wasn’t that he ever expected Evie to verify the truth of his statement (that would be insane—she trusted him too much); the evidence was more to lie to himself that he wasn’t in too deep.

But, while Lukas is busy trying to play 4D chess to keep his monumental secret, Evie is on a mission to find love. And Lukas has to watch as goes on date after date, coming home either disappointed or—worse—giggly, with flushed cheeks, wondering what their wedding hashtag should be. He grits his teeth and musters up his most supportive smile, listening to her gush about how he held the door open for her and what big 4 consulting company he works for, resisting the urge to grimace. If she’s happy, then so am I has become his mantra.

Inevitably, though, that perfect man from date 1 slowly (sometimes quickly) lets down his mask, shows his true colors, and Lukas braces himself. And eventually, Prince Charming turns into ‘Chad Do Not Answer’ in her phone.

Those breakups—the ones where she ends it—are tolerable, mainly because she’s usually back to her normal, wonderful self within a few days, and, selfishly, Lukas is glad he gets to claim the #1 spot in her life again.

But sometimes, things don’t end on her terms. Sometimes, she gets dumped, and Lukas has to bite his tongue and keep the rage that simmers in his stomach inside. It isn’t fair, none of it is—and how could anyone ever not want to be with her? Here he is, yearning for her, doing everything right, and yet he still has to watch as some other guy takes what he has for granted and leaves her behind.

While he knows he should have even a tiny bit of relief when he hears the words He broke up with me—because she’s single again, and maybe this time will be the time—the empty waver of her voice breaks his heart far more than the fact of her not being his. He can’t enjoy it, even selfishly, because she isn’t happy.

And Lukas, ever the world’s most perfect best friend, is always there to pick her up when she falls; he has her Dairy Queen order memorized from the times he had to come to her rescue, holding her crying in his arms until she fell asleep. The bottom left drawer of her dresser is full of his sweatshirts that he’s left her wrapped in when he has to leave for a road trip but she’s afraid to be alone; he usually FaceTimes her at least once on his trips, but when she’s in that state of fragility, he’s sure to check in more frequently.

It was nice, he admitted, to be the one man who was ever-present in Evie’s life, like a lighthouse on a bay, consistent and steady, a beacon of light for her to navigate back to. So far, he’d outlasted every single one of them, and from the sound of her current debrief on her latest beau, he was about to add another tally to the list.

“He never picks up on any of my hints,” she says with a huff. “I told him I didn’t care if he went to the bar with his friends, but it was obvious he wasn’t actually supposed to go.”

Lukas bites his tongue. He decides now isn’t the time to point out that Evie’s communication with her boyfriend, Dan, isn’t exactly clear, and that he is the only one who understands the Evelyn Sato language—from the look in her eyes that says I want to go to the way she chews on the inside of her cheek when she’s frustrated. Instead, he just nods and hums and gasps in the appropriate spots of her vent session.

“And my god,” she says, “he can’t ever seem to take the hint when I’m… in the mood.”

Lukas feels his face get hot. He hopes his cheeks aren’t stained pink, but if they are, she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she’s picking at the fray on her shorts, eyes unfocused, like she’s replaying a recent memory. He feels the sting in his heart at the thought that it’s hurting her to be with someone who doesn’t understand her.

“It’s just like—know me better, you know?” she continues.

Lukas doesn’t realize his hands have started gently playing with her hair, a soothing card of his fingers through her long strands. He loves the way her black hair gets that bluish sort of glow in the right sun. The crease in her eyebrows soften just slightly, telling him to continue. “Right. Your partner should hear you and see you.”

She’s quiet again, soaking in the dying rays of golden hour, and he knows that she’s fast approaching a difficult decision. He opts to remain quiet, too, thinking to himself how beautiful she looks under the early dusk light.

Evie breaks up with Dan two weeks later. She doesn’t cry about it, which Lukas is thankful for, but she does act a little strange and he can’t quite place why. He has a western Canada road trip a few days later, which he thinks will give her enough time and space for her to process her feelings.

When he returns, everything seems normal, and she invites him over for takeout and Seinfeld reruns—one of her favorite post-breakup activities.

They’re sitting on her couch, empty Sweetgreen containers on the coffee table beside a half-finished bottle of her favorite kombucha. (She always goes on a bit of a health kick after a breakup.) Evie is typing on her phone, and Lukas asks conversationally, “Back to Hinge?”

Glancing up from her phone, she looks at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then she shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“No? How come?”

Evie shrugs. “I think maybe trying so hard is part of the problem.”

Lukas feels his heart flare. He swallows the urge to say, You don’t have to try with me, and instead just nods in understanding. “Yeah. Taking a break is probably a good idea. Give yourself some space.”

That same expression on her face appears again, the one that she had when she told him she broke up with Dan. Like she’s stuck on a decision and isn’t sure what to do. Lukas glances away, giving her the privacy to have her thought; when he looks back, her brown eyes are trained on him.

“What is it?”

“Luk, you… you hear me and see me,” she whispers, echoing his words from that night.

He’s paralyzed, afraid to say anything, afraid to even breathe for fear of changing the wind that might send her rolling off in a different direction. His heart thumps in his throat, caught somewhere between fear, elation, and utter disappointment.

“I can’t believe I never saw it,” she says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

It feels like a trap, and part of him is bewildered at how she found out—but of course she saw through him. Just as she couldn’t hide from him, he had to realize it was foolish to try and hide from her. Especially not something like this, something that was woven into the very fabric of his being, stitched into every glance and smile and pressed into the tone of his voice.

Lukas doesn’t know what to say, so he stammers, looking for the right structure and arrangement of words. How long had he dreamt of this moment? Fantasized about what it’d be like to finally say it out loud, to see her smile as she realized what he was saying? Longer than he’d like to admit. And now, here he is, fumbling it harder than scoring an own-goal in a game.

She sits up further, scooting closer to him. Her hand, never afraid, now timidly reaches out to caress his cheek. “Luk?”

And then, as if he was a sleeper agent activated by the sound of his name from her mouth, he unleashes.

“I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I love you, Evie, and I have since we met. You’re the first person I want to talk to in the morning and the last person I want to talk to at night. I love your sleepy smile in the morning and I love the way the sun brings out the blue of your hair. The reason I don’t even try dating anymore is because no one compares to you. I just—I love you. You’re my favorite person. You’re my best friend.”

He’s not really sure what he said—he blacked out after the first three words—but it must have been good, because Evie is smiling. His heart thunders in his chest, still feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins from his confession.

She takes his hand, and he tries his best to keep it from shaking; if she notices, she doesn’t let on. “I’m glad you told me, even if it was super delayed.”

Lukas feels a soft laugh exhale out, too aware of the heat in his cheeks that he knows is a bright shade of crimson. He doesn’t know what to say, the unspoken question lingering in the air, feeling like lead in his throat.

Does she feel the same way?

His mind flits through the situation, reminding himself that finding out your best friend has been secretly in love with you is a lot to process. There’s a brief thought that the fact that her immediate reaction wasn’t to grimace and reject him on the spot—maybe it’s a good sign. Lukas clears his throat. “Um. You don’t have to… y’know, say anything back or whatever. I know that’s a lot to take in.”

Evie’s smiles, her eyes full of an appreciation that he understands, that even after baring his soul to her, he’s thinking about her and how she feels. Lukas’ heartbeat returns to a more normal level, and eventually a comfortable silence falls back over them as Jerry, George, and Kramer get into more nonsense.

A while later—he isn’t sure if it’s been 5 minutes or an hour—he hears her shift on the couch beside him. “Luk?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could kiss me?”

Lukas doesn’t think he heard her correctly. He turns to face her, but her expression is inquisitive, maybe a little bit bashful. Her eyes are a little bit wider, a small flush on her cheeks making her glow like they were watching the sunset on the roof. Looking at her, he realizes that he heard her exactly correctly.

“Are—are you sure?”

She nods. “I want to see what it feels like.”

And then his heart goes from 0-60 in the course of three seconds. He watches her scoot a bit closer to him and he can’t believe this is happening. Some of her hair has fallen loose from her messy bun, and he finds himself brushing it away from her face, leaning in closer to her. He knows his breathing has gotten heavier, but he doesn’t care; not with her lips on a fast-track trajectory to his.

Their mouths hover inches apart, pausing to feel each other’s breath against their lips. Lukas familiarizes himself with the feeling, memorizing it. Savoring it.

Evie’s smile is the last thing he sees before his eyes close and his lips finally graze hers. They’re soft, plush, perfect—everything he’d imagined they’d feel like. His heart soars, his senses flooded with her warmth and the smell of her perfume and the sound of her sigh; she is everywhere, and he never wants this moment to end.

To his dismay, it does end, but when she pulls away, he’s rewarded with a wide smile and flushed cheeks—an excellent consolation prize for having to be separate from her lips.

She’s quiet for a moment, and Lukas tries to quell the rapid thump of his heart. He wants to know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, because for once, he can’t read it on her face.

The words blurt out before he can stop them. He has to know. “So… how—what d’you think?”

Evie’s tongue darts out to lick at her lips, almost like she’s tasting him one more time. Then she smiles. “I think I could’ve saved myself from a lot of bad dates if we’d done that sooner.”

Author's Note: I promised @smileysvech I'd find the right fic to make my Dostal debut and am glad to say this one was perfect! Hope you like it bestie 😘

Taglist (message or comment to join!): @lam-ila @ashloveshockey @cellythefloshie @smileysvech @senditcolton

@fallinallincurls

#lukáš dostál fic #lukas dostal fic #hockey fic #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #so close to what fic series #dividers by @thecutestgrotto and @cafekitsune

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angel-kyo · 1 year ago

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Pay it no mind

Part XX

In which reader confesses their feelings to Gojo, but it seems these are not returned (maybe?).

Warnings: reader is on the receiving end of rejection (kinda), and the fact that I'm obsessed with unrequited love is a warning itself. Mentions of injuries, marriage, and... Huh, that's it.

Previous: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part IV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part XVIII, Part XIX

----------------------

“Did you know [name] rejected a marriage proposal from the Zen'in?”

Satoru almost spat out the tea he was drinking upon hearing Ieiri’s words. Then he did his best to put on his nicest smile.

“And I thought you didn’t like cracking jokes, Shoko.” He laughed, but in reality, he could not find it funny.

“I wish I were joking,” she said taking her own cup to her lips.

Seriously, it’s not funny.

Why the Zen'in? Who among the Zen'in? Who was idiotic enough to…?

“I’m not sure of who exactly or why. All I gathered is mostly gossip,” Shoko went on, not allowing any more questions to form in Satoru’s mind. “But what I do know is that the rejection was not taken kindly.”

Of course, a rejection would not have been taken kindly by them, but it still puzzled Gojo, and by the look his friend had on her face, Shoko felt the same way. Was it even allowed to reject anyone from the Zen'in?

You did not come from a renowned sorcerers’ clan, for that reason you probably had no one who would fiercely push you into an arranged marriage, but it was also why it did not make sense that anyone related to the Zen'in had taken a special interest in you, someone who virtually had not a strong presence in the jujutsu world.

“When?” Satoru asked.

“Weeks ago, maybe more,” his companion stated.

Maybe around the time they started coming back with more wounds than explanations.

That led Shoko to the second half of her theory. Whoever you had made angry, had enough connections to keep stepping on your heels while you were out completing missions.

Shoko started digging into it after the last time you had come to her back from a battle. Your injuries had been bizarre for the simple routine mission you had told her you were going on that night, and after seeing the report of your mission, she noticed the curse you had fought had been misclassified. “That happens sometimes, it’s unfortunate it happened to them,” Ijichi had said, unaware that those misfortunes had been happening a lot with the missions assigned to you as of lately, as Shoko herself realized after looking at all reports from your missions of the last couple of months.

It could be someone from the higher-ups, but if I told that to Gojo, he might just go and kill them all.

Ieiri took a look at him. Judging by the thin line on his lips, he was in deep thought. Contrary to what Shoko had been expecting, she had surprised him, at least as much as one could surprise Gojo Satoru.

You did not tell him that either, huh, [name]?

“Don't think much of it,” Shoko said in an attempt to pull Gojo back to Earth, "[name] did not tell me anything, but if someone is holding a grudge and trying to do a number on them, I think...”

“I won’t let it happen,” Satoru’s voice sounded definitive. "I won't let anything happen to them."

I hope so, Shoko thought.

***

“Honey, I’m home!” Satoru cheerfully exclaimed upon crossing the door to your apartment.

You rolled your eyes in the kitchen. He had been doing that almost every evening when he came to visit you after work, and such visits had not been scarce either.

At this rate, the neighbors are really going to think he is living here.

“That smells good,” Satoru whispered in your ear, one of his arms already wrapping around your waist.

“You are just looking for a free meal.” You laughed and looked at him. “Why don’t you set the table?”

He nodded and was quick to leave your side to do as requested.

As you sat to eat together, you could not help but smile at how domestic it felt to have Satoru dinning with you any other night, even if he would sometimes leave for work or to sleep at his own place, it felt as if he was installing himself in your life more intimately.

You both talked about your day, your students, and overall, what you would be up to the following day. However, Satoru had left out his conversation with Shoko form earlier. As much as he wanted to know the details of what happened with the Zen'ins and ask why you had not said a word to him about it, he did not want to push for an explanation yet.

Maybe you had been coerced into not talking about it, or maybe you were trying to keep everything still given that the child Satoru (often with your help) was kind of looking after was also related to the Zen'in clan, and that had created discord between them and the Gojo families in the past.

The more Satoru thought about it, the more it appeared to him that the Zen'ins were trying to bug him with the idea of a marriage. He had always considered you family after all, and of course he would never allow his family to fall into a Zen'in’s claws.

***

It was unfair.

It was unfair how good Satoru looked after a shower.

He had taken a quick shower after dinner and changed into the spare clothes he kept at your place.

You were sitting in the living room trying to watch TV, but the man that had just walked in and taken his seat next to you was distracting.

“Like what you see?” he asked without looking at you as he browsed the channels on your TV.

When had he grabbed the remote? And why had you not realized you were staring at him?

“I… Don’t be ridiculous.” You turned your reddened face away from him and stood up. “I’m taking a shower.”

Satoru smiled as he watched you march away. He knew he was good-looking as a fact, but what he truly enjoyed was having that effect on you. It was only fair in his opinion; after all, you had the same effect on him.

Satoru looked at the screen in front of him but did not feel like watching anything, so he turned it off and walked to your room.

He heard the water running when he passed by the bathroom door, and he assumed you were still in there, so he went right to your bed. He sat down and that was when he noticed the drawer of your bedside table had not been closed properly.

He had no intention of snooping, but the cover of the book inside caught his eye, so he took it.

Pride and Prejudice.

Satoru observed it. It was a used copy but in pretty good shaped. His first thought was that you must have obtained it from a secondhand store.

Why would they put the book in the drawer and not on the shelf with the rest of their collection, though?

Satoru knew you read a little bit of everything, but he did not know you were a fan of romance, let alone of Austen, but he would not have teased you for it... Or maybe just a little.

He opened the book on the first page and the hand-written dedication under the novel’s name seemed to answer his question as it read:

"My affections and wishes are unchanged." – I.H.

Satoru immediately knew whom those initials belonged to.

He closed the book and threw it back into your drawer as fast as if it had burned him.

----------------------

Note: This part was initially going to be longer, but at some point, it got divided into two parts. Oh, well... I should get a breather for a couple weeks now that the semester is over, so hopefully I can upload that not too far away in the future.

Thanks for reading!

Next: Part XXI

@mavs-stuff @witchbybirth @crookedlyaddictedone-blog @tqd4455 @maybe-a-bi-witch @mo0nforme @maliakealoha @zacatecanaaaa @blushhpeachh @astriarose @missesgojosatoru @ba-ks @sukunasleftkneecap @songbirdlully @cole-silas @heijihattorisgf @chokesonspit @hersheyzzz @smolbeanzzz @luciledreamz @avidreadee123 @moonmalice @ratscandaler @sadmonke @allie-jay @username23345 @spin-garden @ashehateaccount @kayzens @blehtotheblehtothebleh @stellasloth @bloopsstuff @cheesemachine44 @tetsuski @rosellerinfrost @catowru @bi-narystars

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk #gojo x you #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #gojo x y/n #jjk gojo #gojo fanfic #gojo flu #satoru x reader #satoru x you

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pastorfutureletthembe · 1 year ago

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Because of my brain's fucked up chemistry, I bring you bilibili's most hilarious (sarcasm) ploy. This is one of my favorite official artwork. The palette is simple and our beloved characters seem to have fun!

🙂‍↔️ Don't be fooled.

I'll start with the obvious, as always: red stains and apple knives. The pictures are telling enough.

Then we have the number 8. Which, I have my theories on, but nothing significant enough to make a whole post about it yet.

Let's start with the 8 of hearts. If you look carefully, you'll notice there are exactly 8 chandelier arms. 8 strawberries are visible on each cake (one is missing two parts and the other one is partly behind a shadow who must be Li Tianchen). Lastly, but Im not entirely sure of myself here, you can probably count 8 wine glasses (they are rounder than others).

Crossed theory: the missing pieces of the cakes are exactly between IV and VI of a clock. V is hinted yet again 🤌✨ but there are two cakes... making cakes... Yep, you guessed it: one entire Curve, as described in Rick and Morty:

The curve basically walls off the infinite number of universes, in which INSERT IMPORTANT CANONICAL NODE happens, from the rest of the infinite multiverse. A model often used to explain is that the definition of the Central Finite Curve has no set parameters; it's just wholly random and infinite therefore can be represented as a repeating, immeasurable shape modeled with a circle. The Central Finite Curve would then present a finite collection of dimensions.

(Gosh, I do have a lot of meta planned for this show, kill me now // Edit: DONE)

STEPPING AWAY FROM THE LYING CAKE-

For archives purpose, I'll just point out that two Aces of Hearts probably means there are two of the same while there should be one. I don't know if this was a clue already or yet to be resolved. They're both near a candle, a glass and a bottle. It gives the whole table an odd symmetry. Like a mirror you cannot see the frames of. The 8 on cards are also symmetrical + the placement is repeated with both chandeliers. The symmetry of the table implies there is a fourth cake off-screen.

There is one mistake though, I don't know if it was made on purpose or not: none of the hearts are upside down. The 8 of hearts is wrong: there is supposed to be symmetry on the card itself!

Since we already got a tarot reading in the chibisodes, here we go: (a quick google research for this one)

"In divinatory tarot, it could be a mix between the Lovers and the World. Indeed, the ace of hearts relates to the World as it represents the triumph of the individual on the elements that surround him. It also relates to the Lovers thanks to its romantic attributes and consequences."

- latincards

THE DARKER SIDE OF THE ACE OF HEARTS MEANINGS: EXPLORING CONTRASTING While predominantly seen as a symbol of love and positivity, the Ace of Hearts can also have darker or more complex meanings. In some interpretations, it might signify heartbreak, emotional manipulation, or unrequited love. This aspect reminds us that the heart's journey is not always smooth and that love can sometimes lead to challenging or transformative experiences.

- thedopeart

(Sidenote: You should be aware that the LOVERS doesn't exclusively concern romantic aspects of life in our modern world, but life partners in the general sense, people deeply tied to you.)

As for the 8 of Hearts:

The Eight of Hearts is often associated with emotions, love, and relationships. It signifies deep connections, harmony, and positive energy in matters of the heart. When this card appears in a reading, it suggests that love and emotional fulfillment are on the horizon. This card is a symbol of balance and stability in relationships. It indicates that there is a strong foundation of trust and understanding between partners.

Hearts are a recurrent shape used in Qiao Ling's artworks but I'll make another post for shapes/characters related stuff.

For the record, Cheng Xiaoshi isn't drinking red wine on the Halloween poster. Doesn't know where this is going but I've done my share of meta for today 🙂‍↕️

>>> In conclusion,

RED is the real clue here. May it be to indicate the presence of Li Tianchen or VEIN. The same shade of red is all we see, as if a filter was used, and since Li Tianchen's eyes glow red, I guess it's related somehow (metaphorically speaking). The fact everything is the same color was also designed to trick us about the blood on the knife. The aces could be CXS and LG... or LG and Liu Xiao (he seems to be obsessed with him so why not.) In any case, I do see a paradox hidden in plain sight here.

The cards are there as a positive outlook: they are together in this, their friendship is what will thrive on the dark side of the clock! It encourages them to open themselves to others and trust their bond.

#link click #shiguang dailiren #时光代理人 #lu guang #cheng xiaoshi #qiao ling #meta #official art #li tianchen #easter eggs

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ladyhoneydarlinglove · 26 days ago

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one piece drabble | zosan | pride kisses 2025 challenge

(inspired by this incredible pair of sketches over on bsky)

{SHY KISS}

In theory, a date should not have been a difficult undertaking. After all, Sanji and Zoro had already been through all the hardest steps needed for entering into an actual relationship, including the whole rivals-with-benefits deal, the years of supposedly unrequited pining, the gut-punch of realizing one’s true feelings whilst staring death in the face—even a blow-out shouting match turned confessional moment, angry tear-filled declarations and all. They knew exactly where they stood with each other now, and exactly what they both wanted out of the love shared between them. Compared to everything else that they’d already put themselves through, a date should have been a laughable simple affair.

So why was Sanji experiencing the same kind of light-headed, sweaty-palmed nervousness that he’d had the first time a pretty girl had actually smiled at one of his romantic overtures?

“Well,” Nami mused from her perch on the bed as she watched Sanji change his vest for the third time that evening, “have you guys ever been on an actual date?”

“I… guess not?” Sanji frowned as he buttoned himself up. “I mean, we’ve gotten dinner together before, but—”

“Then there’s your answer. It’s a first date, and you’re nervous because you want to make a good impression,” Nami said with a cheeky smile, her eyes glittering in barely concealed amusement.

“But it’s Zoro,” Sanji scowled. “I don’t need to make a good impression, and I sure as fuck shouldn’t be nervous, I should be—I should—I don’t fucking know, but not nervous!”

He rounded irritably on his own reflection in Nami’s full-length mirror, chewing on his bottom lip in lieu of lighting up a cigarette; the girls’ quarters was a strictly non-smoking area. “This looks okay, right?” he said, twisting so that he could assess his new outfit choice of camel brown trousers with a burnt orange vest at different angles. “Why do I feel like this doesn’t look okay?”

“Sanji-kun, you have never once looked anything less than impeccable in the entire time I’ve known you, and quite frankly a big dumb gorilla like Zoro is lucky that you ever deigned to look in his direction,” Nami assured him, batting her eyelashes in obvious exaggeration. “Roll up the shirtsleeves, though. He likes your forearms.”

It was a testament to just how worked up Sanji was over this stupid, stupid date that he barely even preened at Nami’s patent flattery, instead turning to stare at her as he said, “Really? He told you that?”

Nami rolled her eyes. “No. But trust me—I’ve seen the way he stares at them while you’re working.”

“Oh.” Sanji blinked dumbly. “And how is that, exactly?”

“Like he wants to take a bite out of them,” Nami said with a wicked grin, and Sanji’s face got so hot he was surprised his head didn't burst into flames on the spot.

“Right,” he coughed, rolling up his sleeves. “Can you help me pick out a tie, please, Nami-swan?”

After another ten minutes spent waffling over neckwear and finally settling on something dark brown with an orange accented diamond pattern, Sanji emerged from the girls’ quarters looking… Not terribly different from how he normally looked, if he was being perfectly honest. Because Nami was right; Sanji was always impeccably dressed. It just felt different because tonight, he had dressed with Zoro in mind.

Zoro was already waiting for him on the dock where they’d anchored Sunny; as Sanji approached, he saw that the swordsman’s hair was soft and fluffy-looking in the way that it only became when freshly washed, and he got a distinct whiff of a balsam and cedar scented soap that he had given to Zoro himself. That alone would have been enough to have Sanji weak at the knees, but what really sent his heartrate through the fucking roof was Zoro’s robe, which was a silk haori in a deep, navy blue.

Sanji knew for a fact that Zoro didn’t own any silk navy blue haoris. And it wasn’t a piece of clothing that he could have borrowed from anyone else on the crew. Which meant that Zoro. Had bought a new item of clothing.

For their date.

Suddenly, Sanji’s three hours of fretting over his own appearance didn’t seem nearly adequate enough, and he was kicking himself for having settled on the dress shirt and vest combo instead of going for a full linen suit ensemble like some kind of moron when Zoro looked up.

“Hey,” he said, gaze flickering up and down Sanji’s form as the tips of his ears began to flush. “You, um. You look good.”

“Oh,” Sanji replied, the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears. “Thanks. So—so do you.”

Zoro went bright red all the way down to his collarbones, while Sanji’s head lit itself on fire for the second time tonight. “Shall we?” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound quite as strangled as it felt.

If so, Zoro didn’t mention it. He only nodded, face screwed up with a curious mixture of embarrassment and determination as he stepped closer to Sanji and, after a moment’s hesitation, took his hand.

Sanji was too busy staring dumbly down at where their fingers were now laced together to notice Zoro leaning in until he felt the brush of a nose against his cheek, and then a soft, brief press of Zoro’s lips against his own.

He’d never have any solid proof, but Sanji was still dead certain that the only reason Zoro ever let him live down the fact that he blacked out for a solid three seconds following that kiss was because the stupid swordsman must have done the exact same thing.

#one piece #zosan #sanzo #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #sophie fic #pride kisses 2025 #sorry this one is in past tense i didn't realize until i was finished and i was too lazy to change it lol

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yuma-mukami-garden-god · 1 month ago

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ALL THINGS REIJI!

Headcannons:

Reiji x witch s/o

Reiji NSFW alphabet

Good girl asks to be punished

Oneshots:

A thorn in the mind (NSFW) s/o who is exactly like Shuu with a listless attitude and only find peace rotting on a couch but has incredible potential that shines once in a blue moon, that Reiji notices and can't help but admire but also loathes that he's invested in somone who's against all his standards. Basically a lazy intelligent s/o that stresses and intrigues Reiji.

Control theory - a thorn in the mind part two (NSFW)

Gravity of composure (NSFW) (kind and warm) gf, the "problem" is that she has big breasts

gravity of composure pt 2: pressure points (NSFW)

Discipline (NSFW) Reiji Sakamaki x Reader (NSFW, Brat Taming, Bondage

Glass Masks (NSFW) s/o that is responsible and mature, basically a mirror of him, who was parentified at a young age and never truly got to be a kid to get to know themselves as a person

Wild whispers (NSFW) artistic wild s/o she writes poetry and paint sand sings and dances and writes, she has a vivid imagination and can spin stories out of nothing

Perfectly obedient (NSFW) Reiji Sakamaki x Female Reader (Dom/sub, degradation, praise kink, light bondage, aftercare

Porcelain and fire Reiji Sakamaki x Sweet MILF!Reader

Tempting Order Reiji Sakamaki x Bold, Lustful Reader NSFW

Candy and Discipline Dom!Reiji, spanking, light bondage, power imbalance, dumbification kink, breeding kink, possessiveness, praise + degradation, lace and heels kink, emotional denial

The Placebo affect

A* student/ A+ student jealous reiji doesnt like being second in the class, his temper flares when you beat him on a test with perfect scores.

the lab rats reversal Sub!Reiji x Dom!Reader. you put reiji in his place, the tables have turned

A grade he'll never mark Reiji Sakamaki x Smart!S/O unrequited feelings, cold Reiji, approval-seeking S/O, emotional neglect

S/o with venus dimples

Reijis bitter regret reiji had an affair and was discovered by his lover but instead of admitting his mistake he used harsh words to scold her, but his lover was pregnant and accidentally had a miscarriage when he realized he regretted it

Art:

Reiji Shower selfie

Reiji Christmas pic

Other:

#asks open #anon asks #anime and manga #diabolik boys #diabolik lovers #diaboys #dialovers #littlehoeart #reiji sakamaki

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grahamsblood · 1 month ago

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why byler should happen

first of all i would like to start reminding you this show has always been about outcasts. ever since season 1, the duffer brothers have been exalting being different and not being sorry for being who you are.

that being said, although almost all of the main characters are somehow excluded by societal norms, will byers case has always been different. not only has he always been bullied like the rest of the kids, he's been bullied especifically for being gay.

will byers is one of the only two canon Igbtq+ characters in the show, and the only one among the main characters. on top of that, will has always been the one who suffered the most, whether when it comes to his feelings or the upside down.

although gay characters are way more common in media now than before, it's really rare to see them get their happy ending, and they almost always end up dying or just completely miserable, fitting into the "bury your gays" trope.

and that's exactly why i believe the duffer brothers, who put in the effort to defend diferences and diversity, wouldn't choose to kill him, or make him continue suffering for unrequited love, therefore contribuiting to this stereotypical trope.

while gay people often face such difficulties on real life, whether it's with high mortality rates or unreciprocated crushes, it's extremely important to make sure that doesn't come off as the only possibility.

repeatedly representing gay people as sad, miserable and loveless, movies and tv shows end up contribuiting to a single narrative, that can be extremely harmful to the community.

it's extremely important to show that gay people can experience love. that loneliness or death aren't they're only possibility. that's why having a main queer character find love and happiness in a major tv show like stranger things would be extremely significant.

i've recently seen some fan theories about will sacrificing himself for mike's and eleven's happiness, and what i want you to realize is how harmful it would be to send that message: that the queer kid should sacrifice his happiness and life for heterosexual love.

knowing the duffer brothers, i believe it's extremely unlikely that that's the message they are going for. and that's why i believe will byers not only should, but will end up happy, alive, and dating mike wheeler, of course i know the duffer brothers might just not care, but i choose to believe they know what they're doing.

#stranger things #byler

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lottiesnotebook · 5 months ago

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happy DADWC! for some horror, how about “There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” for Hawke/Anders/Justice?

So this turned out to be way more than a snippet, which always happens when I start to write these three! I hope you're alright with a longer fic than usual, because editing it down is not in the spirit of the evening… I also thought this would end up slightly more horror than hurt/comfort, but… Anyway, please enjoy Justice experiencing the Horrors of his first ever crush (with a lot of angst for Anders on the side.)

Rhiannon Hawke/Anders/Justice, pining, angst, hurt/comfort, the mortifying ordeal of being known, pre-relationship, Justice character study

@saladruiner | @dadrunkwriting

a hole in my soul

Mortals do not love as spirits love. Justice has always known this, at least in theory. To love, for a spirit, is to be drawn to another's nature like a moth to a flame, whether out of similarity or compatibility or fascination. To love, between spirits, is to entwine, to commingle, to merge and perhaps become something greater than your individual parts, until your mutual purpose is fulfilled and your natures pull you apart. Mortal dreamers use the same language for their desires, but the deeds and emotions they associate with them are so different as to be unrecognisable - to be drawn to a fellow spirit or mortal soul has never driven Justice to consume or possess them, to take from them until there is nothing of what he loved that remains. It has never left him raw and agonised in its removal, its absence. He is- he was complete in himself. There was no space for yearning for anything beyond his purpose within his nature.

Since he was cast from the Fade, he has learned much of mortal love in absentia. He feels it in the ache in Kristoff's breast when Aura looks at him with revulsion, the ghosts of a thousand smiles and tender moments that exist now only in stolen memories. He feels in the frantic beat of Anders' heart when he wakes from a nightmare or a different sort of dream weeping Karl, Karl, Karl. He feels it when they let their magic burn through the man he loved, and through the Templars who killed him. It is an open, unhealing wound, and no matter how much magic or lyrium or vengeance he pours into the space it left, he cannot heal it. Love, to mortals, then, is an injury that never heals, and he will protect Anders from suffering it again at all costs.

He cannot, therefore, tell him I love you in good conscience, for all that what they have become- what they are, monstrous though it may seem to his mortals, is love incarnate to spirits and demons alike. They are united in form, in purpose, in goal, and there is no being in the Fade or the mortal world he would prefer to be entangled with than Anders, now that they are one.

It pains him, that the name mortal tongues give to what they share is abomination, that Anders can only call what they share as corruption rather than love. Not the lack of reciprocation, exactly - mortals do not love as spirits do, and the emotions Anders feels towards Justice (guilt, warmth, shame, affection) are a pale shadow to the searing grief of Karl's absence - but the fact that Anders cannot see the beauty in what they share through the horror, and that is in part Justice's fault. His rage, his vengeance, after all, destroyed the Templars who sought to tear them apart, for all that Anders blames himself.

All this, though, he can accept. Love, even unrequited, is as ancient as mortal hearts and dreaming. It will not destroy him, and he will not permit it to destroy Anders. Desire is an entirely different matter.

He feels it spark beneath Anders' skin the first time Rhiannon Hawke brushes her fingers against his arm, the warmth of her fingers tangible even through the thick fabric of their sleeve, and he flinches back from it. Anders' surprise mingles with disapproval, mingles with irritation.

"Am I not even allowed to enjoy looking at beautiful people any more?" he complains to their reflection, and Justice feels himself twist in confusion, in shame.

I did not- she was a distraction, he defends himself. The contact was unexpected. I did not know you would welcome it.

"From Hawke?" He can feel Anders' disbelief radiate through both of them. "Have you seen her? She could touch far more than my arm if she wanted- if things were different," he amends, his gaze sliding away from his own reflection, and he feels it pulse again - the agony of love's absence, where Karl Thekla used to sit between his ribs.

I do not wish you to be hurt, he offers, and Anders makes a scoffing sound low in his throat.

"You don't want me distracted," he retorts.

The two motivations are not in conflict, Justice says, tries to flood their bond with the affection he feels, the worry, but Anders cannot accept them. Our purpose cannot be fulfilled if you suffer.

"I've been suffering all my life," he grumbles, "Why should this be any different?"

It is not a question that Justice can answer, and so they fall to silence, the bond between them an uncomfortable, fractious thing that he cannot soothe, however hard he tries.

Hawke could soothe it, he thinks, bitterly, with her glib tongue and bright smile and warm hands that make Anders' nerves sing like lyrium beneath his skin, but Justice, at least in this world, this place, cannot be soothing, cannot be ameliorative. Justice in Kirkwall is a broken bone never set, a gnawing hunger never sated, and this does not make for a comfortable life to share, however much he wishes Anders to be comfortable, however much his beloved deserves comfort in a world that has too often been cruel to him.

He feels the ache for it secondhand, through their shared skin, whenever Rhiannon Hawke laughs or smiles or reaches out a tentative hand, awaiting permission to touch them again, and, if not for the pain that lay in wait after such tenderness, he would almost be tempted to surrender, to say: go to her, let her give you what comfort she can.

But he knows the agony of love when it is taken away, and it will be taken from them, as it was from Kristoff, from Aura, from Anders when he lost Karl. It is a beautiful, impermanent thing, but its beauty is not worth the havoc it wreaks in its wake, and Anders has faced far too much of that havoc in his short mortal life to suffer further from it.

So yes, he knows that desire is a danger, both for his host and for himself - he has seen how it has warped others of his kind, twisting them away from their purpose, and he does not intend to be so transformed. He is guarded, he is wary - and still he is unprepared for it when it comes upon him, when Rhiannon Hawke reaches out to seize his hand mid-battle and press it to the side of a frightened apprentice mage who'd just attempted to set fire to her hair.

"Heal him!" she orders, and he does, but first, he feels himself burn beneath his skin with sudden, fearful want. She is not Anders - she does not have his intimate knowledge of the world's injustice, or the rage and loathing they both feel when it is enacted, but in this moment, he sees every bit of the warmth, the beauty that has drawn Anders in like a moth to a flame. He sees Mercy incarnate, and the urge to keep hold of her hand, to entangle himself with her as he would if they were both spirits, rises up to choke him.

His love for Anders is as much a part of his nature as his purpose, now, but this- this is something alien, some flaw in his nature, or that of the body he inhabits. It is well to be drawn to Rhiannon for her mercy, for her fairness, but he should not long for the touch of her hand on his, should not meet her eyes and feel the song of lyrium burn through him, should not see her dark hair cling to her sweat-streaked skin and itch to smooth it to order again. These are not desires a spirit of justice should possess.

I think, he murmurs to Anders, one morning as he shaves, when he can see his lovely, beloved face well enough to read the emotions that flicker across it, you were right, when you said I was becoming corrupted.

Anders' hand jolts as he speaks - the razor draws a line of bright blood against the red-gold of his stubble, the pale foam of the soap. Justice forces his fingers to open. The razor clatters into the basin with a splash. Anders stares at its palm as though it is no longer his own.

"Right." His voice is shaking, and Justice can feel his lips peel back into a smile that feels hideously, monstrously false. "I suppose now I get to say 'I told you so', right?"

I did not say you corrupted me, Justice corrects him, hastily. This is not a burden Anders must bear - he cannot help Justice's weakness, or the flaws of his own flesh. I meant- there is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.

Anders flexes his fingers again, then, cautiously, covers its wrist with his other hand. "My anger-" he begins, and Justice interrupts, before he can spiral into self-loathing once more.

Not your anger, he corrects. Wrath and Justice are far closer than you like to acknowledge. This is… something else.

"Tell me," Anders demands, and, when he does not respond immediately: "Justice, please. You can't tell me you're becoming a demon and just- leave it at that!"

The words start off as falsely light and playful, as Anders always begins when he is covering up some darker emotion, but something harsh and unhappy breaks through towards the end - fear, he realises. Anders is afraid for him.

I do not have words for this, he says, and it is true. There is no language he knows for this- wanting that is far more of the body than of the mind. Mortals speak of it, he knows, but till now, he's had little cause to listen.

"Then show me," Anders demands, and - blessed, cruel, overwhelming - opens his mind fully to Justice, and for a moment the bliss of connection, of love fulfilled if only for a moment, and he feels Anders gasp, the weight of Justice knocking the breath from his lungs.

This, Justice says, when he can surface long enough to pull together the images, the sensations - Hawke's face glowing with fierce determination, her voice taut but determined: Heal him!, her lyrium-bright eyes, the brief heat of her hand on his-

And Anders, bewildering as always, begins to laugh. To laugh so hard, in fact, that he shakes, that his knees buckle, that he has to sit down right there on the floor of the clinic, holding his knees as if otherwise the laughter will shake him to pieces.

This is not amusing, Justice informs him. I am- becoming warped by carnal desire! I am no better than the demons who misled the unfortunate souls of Kinloch Hold! Anders, I- I want. Beyond the bounds of my purpose, I want her.

"Justice," Anders informs him, when he catches his breath, "As a healer, I am afraid the diagnosis is far more dire than that."

What, pray tell, could be worse than corrupting my own nature and yours into a warped perversion of our true selves?

Anders lays a hand to his cheek, and Justice feels the warmth of connection surge through him, of comfort, something he has never wanted- never needed before, and something like an echo of the lyrium-song flashes through his skin. He flinches back from it, and Anders, gently, tenderly, returns the hand to his cheek anyway.

"Justice, my friend, my better half," he says, though he is still trying to swallow his laughter, "I suspect you are suffering from lovesickness."

This is not a joke!

"I am not joking," Anders soothes. "I've taken a look at your symptoms, and- Justice, you have a crush."

That seems to be the right word for it. Justice feels truly crushed by the mortification of the revelation.

Spirits are not meant to have- crushes, he says, resentfully.

"Yes, I know, you're above all that, with your glorious ethereal commingling of natures-"

I did not say they were base or foul, merely- antithetical to our nature.

"Not so very antithetical, apparently-" Anders pauses, takes a breath, seems to calm: "This is really what you fear corrupting you? Not my anger? Not- what we did, when we left the Wardens?"

Anger is a part of my nature, as it is yours. This… this is something alien to me.

Anders joins their hands, then, and Justice squeezes them together, making him laugh. "Not so alien," he says, soft and wondering. "You- you love me. Even now, knowing what you know."

I always have. He lets it flow through him, now that the walls between them are eroding, lets it spill over the aching wound where love has always sat within him, hopes it will dilute some of the pain. This would not be possible, if I did not.

He does not expect it to be reciprocated, but he feels it nonetheless - the secondhand lyrium-song that rushes through him, its sweetness, its familiarity.

"This is how love begins, for some of us mortals," Anders tells him.

It is not so, for spirits. He shows him flickering images of Anders as he has always seen him, his stubborness, his resilience, the wrongness he sees within the world and longs to put right, all the things that drew Justice to him like a moth to a flame, less desire than magnetism, the inevitable pull of their natures to each other.

"But your body is mortal now," Anders reminds him. "Is it corruption, to take on some of its traits?"

Is it corruption, Justice echoes, for your soul to carry the weight of my anger? For mine to hold some of your bitterness?

They do not know the answers any more - the truths their worlds tell them are too different, too disparate. But for once, the bond between them is a flood of joy and affection rather than a tightrope to walk, and surely there can be no evil in that, for all that they do not understand it yet.

#fic #dragon age #asks #dragon age 2 #justice da2 #justhanders #justice x hawke #anders x justice #anders x hawke #justice dragon age #anders dragon age #rhiannon hawke

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