#seriously hope you enjoy

[against-all-odds-im-back]

I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to draw @1spooky2me ‘s fantastic Bill design

[limerlove]

nsfw themes, eighteen+

gymrat!vi who frequents the gym every day except for sundays. giving into his wishes to be present for their weekly dinner. any other day? she’s getting her pump in. an absolute given in her world. pink-hued strands stick to her scalp as she pushes for a new personal record on the bench, especially when vi’s bulking. whenever she’s training, she’s so zoned in, nothing can distract — well — it used to be nothing. 

gymrat!vi who secretly enjoys nothing more than working out with jayce. accountability between two best friends turns into a friendly competition. nothing at stake except their egos. seeing who can outdo the other set after set. something to keep them both in line, fit, and violet enjoys the hit to jayce’s ego whenever she can push weight heavier than jayce.

gymrat!vi who isn’t oblivious to the attention thrown her way. with the heatwave of summertime, her muscles are on full display, defined biceps, toned thighs, and god her tattoos are basically a honey-trap. she would be a fucking liar if she acted disgusted by it, part of her likes it a little too much. but hey, everyone likes to be appreciated from time to time and vi is no exception. and she never really saw a problem with it until a one night stand who then not not so subtly stalked her every time she was in the gym, learning her schedule until she had no choice but to leave her favorite gym. silently, she made a vow to not fuck with girls she met at the gym. 

….well, until you. 

gymrat!vi who is a known regular. she knows all the girls at the front desk, flirts with many of them, but to her it’s as platonic as chatting up the barista who brews her dose of caffeine in the morning. it’s ingrained into her morning routine, simply just a part of who she is. so, when she sees you at the front desk she nearly has to do a double take. there’s not a hot chance in hell she’s seen you before — vi would have definitely remembered you.

gymrat!vi who becomes shy for the first time in her life, bringing her membership card up to the scanner and offering a small smile but when looks back you seem to take a second look, eyes locked into her powder-blue eyes. even if just for a moment, you’re veering into her thumping soul. vi can’t help but smile. she reminds herself, you’re just another pretty girl. you’re new, probably won’t even last long. yeah, that’s what vi’s going to let herself believe. it’s not like she’s thinking about your gorgeous lips when she bench presses, or thinking about your gorgeous  eyes taking her breath away — or when vi’s powerlifting she’s so not thinking about lifting you on top of her. 

“if you talk to her, she might actually know your name.”

“w-what, i-i’m not, sh—”

jayce raises his eyebrows at vi, shaking his head as his very questionable friend spots her as she moves the weight the fluidity, her movements only struggling to push through when she reaches the final set.

“she’s the gym owner’s daughter, he’s wanting her to take over the reins, old age and all.” jayce responds as violet places the bar on the rack, her set complete until she moves onto the next one. “your little theory of her not being around for long is kinda crushed. unless you want to find another gym….”

“that’s the whole point of me not talking to her, m’not finding a new gym again. that’s a promise. i can control myself.” 

jayce just laughs. fucking laughs.

“what’s so funny, bro?” vi pouts.

“that you genuinely believe you’re gonna be able to stop yourself and that you think you have a type….and she fits the bill.” 

“oh, fuck off.” vi grunts.  

dropping the fifty pound dumbbells by the bench, lifting up her shirt to wipe some of the sweat off her face only to find you on the other side of the gym, staring directly at her abs like her glistening sweaty skin like it’s a golden ticket to heaven.

“well…fuck.” 

gymrat!vi who notices your presence more and more in the coming weeks. this time not just behind the front counter. you’re with the personal trainers, helping new customers fill out paperwork, and this morning you go wherever vi goes, her eyes can’t seem to stop searching for your figure. especially with those tight leggings you always seem to wear, vi couldn’t stop looking at the fat of your ass if her life depended on it. she managed to squeak out more than a hi to you yesterday, but it’s as far as her pleasantries extend.

gymrat!vi who has her headphones placed on her head, her all black workout set; this time something more modest at her disposable. the black and cotton hoodie covers her head, flares of bright pink wisps shadow from the hood but her shorts reach mid thigh, the overworked muscles in her legs flexing as she lifts the weight. jayce isn’t with her today, which means she basically had to physically restrain herself from talking to you today. even if she can see you sneaking glances at her through her workout, eyeing her legs each time she’s on the leg press. greedy, hot, goddess — vi is so fucked. 

when she walked the following day, you said her name, violet. 

you know her name. 

it’s just the database, it’s the only reason. 

pull yourself together, idiot. 

gymrat!viwho is at the end of her workout, taking her final rest before she does her last set, but here you go again, gawking as you pretend to be readjusting the weight on the racks but you finally stop looking at her, trying to put the last weight, the one-hundred pound bell but you just can’t. even then, vi is trying not to smile with how adorable you look as you struggle. 

before making her way over to you, she slides the black pair of headphones on her tattooed neck, popping the hoodie, seeing if anyone else was going to help you — just her luck — there wasn’t a soul in her at midnight besides her….shocker. 

“stupid, piece of shit, would you just—” 

“need some help there, princess?” vi looks over at you from the workout beach she’s perched on, legs spread wide as her jaw juts out, eyes naturally gleaming with curiosity. 

“i should be able to. i can do this, right? yeah? i definitely can do this.” 

but it only sounds as if you’re trying to convince yourself. the weight of responsibility crushing your spirit by a singular dumbbell. you’re huffing and puffing. life and death here, and all because of a stupid, petty, weight. 

vi stands up, her height towering over your hunched finger. “pick it up with your legs. next time, make it’ll easier.” 

violet doesn’t really use her legs though. the beautifully strong woman kneels on the ground with you, her gloved hand picks the weight up with ease and places it back on the rack. 

“obviously, i know that.” 

violet hums before she offers a hand, helping you stand tall. “of course you do.” 

the sensation bubbling on her fingertips from touching your skin almost seems downright electric — and now vi feels like running ten miles in the other direction for the sole purpose of settling her heartbeat for just a moment. 

“anyways, yeah, sorry to disturb you.” 

“not a problem, princess. never going to say no to a pretty girl in distress.” 

the smile violet offers is adorable, the one she flashes the girls when she comes in for her late work out, from wherever she comes from. but the way she scratches the nape of her neck? that’s just for you. 

gymrat!vi who can’t stop thinking of you, despite her best efforts. constantly, she wonders if you’re seeing someone, but the way you watch her, vi suspects your single as can be. it isn’t until one friday night, just as she’s trying to leave, one of the front girls, rich and pompous, is trying to coax her into meeting her and some friends at the bar tonight. when she’s about to say no for a finale time, growing more uncomfortable by the second, you’ve come up to where she is and, well fuck, violet’s even more embarrassed that one of your employees is hitting on her right in front of you. 

“c’mon! jayce says you haven’t been out in ages. you deserve it, you’re always working out so much. if anyone deserves a treat, it’s you.” 

cursing out the little shit in her mind, she rolls her eyes, trying to contain herself from having an aneurysm. “little shit, divulging all my secrets.” 

sabrina laughs more than she should, tossing her purple hair over her shoulder. carefully, you hover, absentmindedly scrolling on your phone and violet wonders if you stay there for a reason. 

if she’s the reason you’re eavesdropping. 

“so….is that a yes?” 

violet sighs, she hates this. “maybe another time.” 

gymrat!vi who wonders what you thought of the entire time. quiet as a mouse, you hadn’t said a single word to her since you were there to witness the rejection of her employee they still couldn’t seem to just stop. this is what she wants. silence…..right? it’s what she keeps telling herself but now vi can’t stop trying to catch your attention, just an ounce of it is all she craves. today, you only spared her a glance before you talked to jayce. pathetically, she decides to do something to catch your attention, hip thrusts. 

gymrat!vi who looks up as you watch her pelvis lift the weight placed on her abdomen, pushing sturdy hips through the set as you keep sparing glances gawking at her porcelain skin exposed. she can tell you’re at least trying to pay attention to whatever jayce is saying but you’re interest loses focus when she grunts with one final thrust, the bar rolling away from her legs. 

“did you hear that?” vi rolls her eyes at the sound of his chipper voice. 

“what?” violet slips her headphones off, trying to even her labored breaths. not just jayce, but the both of you stand above vi as she tries to catch her breath. 

“i invited her to our brunch with mel on saturday.” 

“oh, is that this saturday?” 

oh, he really is playing fucking dirty. 

“is there a problem, vi?” 

little chicken shit is grinning, goddamn it. she takes another swing from her water bottle, hoping to god you’ll think it’s too forward, too weird, and you’ll just instantly decline. 

“not a problem.” vi grits her teeth as she speaks, jaw clenching as she knows this is surely to be a hole there will be no digging out from. 

or one she so desperately wants to fill.

rayray rants — UM IDK HOW I FEEL ABOUT THIS???? it's kinda different than what i normally post but i might turn it into a little hc series. anyways! hope you like and i have a very special vi post coming soon that i'm really excited about. but yeah! hopefully, i can continue this because vi working out is literally all i can think about. alright, um, see you next time ♡

[lilybug-02]

Pain is a great motivator…

Part 26 || First || Previous || Next

—Full Series—

Meanwhile Toriel:

(Loud noises don't wake her up usually.)

Artist note: I’m so proud of this :))) I know it’s a lot of dialogue and reading, but dialogue is grueling work for me. I’m glad with the art and for the amount of pages I made in such a relatively short time span -w- page 5 was super fun to work on. A lot of blood, sweat, and hours here... :) The backgrounds were a big bore tbh, but I finished them! Yippie!

[lio-rdr]

PART 2 OF THE VDL GANG AS TUMBLR/TWITTER POSTS

part 1 is on my profile under the rdr2 memes hashtag :-)

(thank you so much for the love on the first one, it means a lot <3)

[k6tzie]

oh my goodness ive had so many ideas running around my head about sub! & virgin! ghost and im so in love with your depictions of sub him.. just imagine he being so confused on why hes so painfully hard and he doesnt know what to do, he just wants his mommy help him out so desperately, and hes so confused why it feels so good when she wraps her hand around his length.. 🤭

ive never actually been an anon on your page before so hii

hii my lovely anon thank u for this request, read this and started gnawing on the bars of my enclosure this is so good YES! 💯 sub!virgin!ghost who never had or has time to rub one out, he doesn't know how to 'do it', per se, and he doubts it feels that good anyway - always cynical. he's far too busy to even think of anything like that and he doesn't wanna sit there and just rub it like he's stroking a dog or something. what if it doesn't feel good? what if his hands are dirty and he contracts some illness? he's always overthinking whilst he suffers another night of his painfully hard, fat cock straining his pants as he scrolls through your social media, seeing your pretty little smile and the clothes he's convinced you put on for him to see like minx. and here he is again, back at square one as he thrusts his hips around in his sheets, not daring to touch himself. and next thing he knows, you found out about all this and wanted to take care of your sweet boy. you are the only female figure in his life after all, why not help him? by this point, he's begging you to sit on his face, dominate him, ride him until he is an overstimulated, stupid mess. he's babbling how good your hand feels rubbing his lengthy cock whilst his eyes twitch in pleasure and his pretty brown eyes cross.

you don't let him cum, no not yet. you don't just wanna feel his warm cum drip down your fingers, what a waste. you wanna feel it drip down your belly, or the crease between your boobs - not just on your fingers. instead you climb atop his red leaky cock and sink down right onto it whilst your gummy walls stretch to accompany his girth. his eyes lock onto yours in pure adoration whilst his cock twitches and stretches inside your gummy walls. he loves being fucked by his mommy, a smart one you are. so experienced huh?

and each jagged, awkward thrust he pounds into you is followed by a weak; "am i being good for you? is this good love?" in need of reassurance. so when you cup his face, pouting and reassuring him, "yeah baby," his cum shoots right inside you :(, feels good having his mommy take care of him. but he feels so bad about coming without telling you yet, he was just so overstimulated with emotions he didn't know what to do or say, so he apologizes profusely and offers to get you off with his mouth until you're trembling against his tongue with your juices spread on his mouth, cheek and chin as he holds your waist longingly in hopes you'll say yes. (inspired by this video<3)

[corviiids]

alright. i played death note game for the first time. here are my observations from the three games i played

joined an incredibly lovely lobby. if you guys see this hi im rook and i'm sorry for deceiving you

got kira follower two games in a row

won both, hell yeah

told everyone it was my first time playing the game (true) and that i didn't know how the game worked (also mostly true)

got kira my third game. literally what are the odds of this happening to me i didn't get to side with L a single time

day 1: immediately start killing aggressively with zero subtlety.

raised suspicions to the point i was the literal only suspect and everyone was talking about voting for me

i have all the evidence on me and if i get arrested i lose right here. not good. how do i get out of this

distracted them from interrogating me by asking inane questions and playing dumb

stalled out the timer and diverted conversation until everyone was confused and time ran out, forcing a skipped vote. the timer is LONG. this took a WHILE

one player was ultra sus of me and told everyone else if they died then i must be kira

day 2: immediately handed off the death note and all my evidence to my teammate

instructed them to kill the player who suspected me so that all suspicion would fall on me and not on them

deliberately acted as suspicious as possible to get myself caught at the next meeting

everyone is incredibly sus of me at the meeting because i've been standing near literally everyone

everyone votes for me apologetically ("sorry rook that this is your first experience, no way you got kira three times in a row but it's too sus, hope you get a chance to learn the game properly")

sadly conceded to everyone that i understood i must look very sus and didn't know how to defend myself :(

got arrested. no evidence on me.

guess i'm not kira!

follower killed L

kira wins again :)

monologued to the extremely lovely lobby about my evil plan incl. keikaku doori (joke i made on purpose) and maniacal laughter (this just happened naturally)

"wow. you really do know how to play this game."

(i do not. i got very, very lucky and had excellent teammates. but like, im happy to take credit for it.)

exp boost to 11

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl Dixon x Reader

You’re not sure what to make of the gruff, rough-around-the-edges redneck who lurks the farm when the group arrives with a wounded boy. He’s mean, distant, and nothing like the boys you grew up around—but for some reason, you can’t seem to stay away.

soft/girly reader, gruff aloof daryl, light smut, virginity loss, s2. Hershel’s daughter. little bit of angst in there too. reader has a dog.

a/n: this sat in my drafts for weeks, aimlessly adding bullets here and there. so I finally edited it to be a little more like a story, but without so much filling in the gaps. thought this would be a fun format to try.

Maggie and Beth always made fun of you for refusing to change when the world fell apart, when people started getting sick and tearing into each other like rabid dogs. But you never gave in. You kept your dresses, your lacy things, your cute little skirts. If the world was gonna end, it could do it without taking that from you.

You got used to life, different as it was. You missed the little things—seeing your friends at school, splitting a milkshake at the diner, swearing you’d call them later after your chores. Missed the way your stepmom would huff at you to get off the damn phone and go to bed.

When the group arrived with the boy who’d been accidentally shot, it felt wrong—like your little bubble had been popped, the ugly reality of the outside world bleeding in.

Your dog hated men. Hated strangers. Bared his teeth at anyone who got too close, even Jimmy sometimes. He especially hated the one who bossed his own people around, the man in the baseball cap who strutted like this was his farm, not your daddy’s. But your dog never even showed his teeth at the redneck with the crossbow. That scruffy, sharp-eyed bastard could even scratch behind the mutt’s ears sometimes, rough fingers brushing through his patchy fur like it wasn’t any big deal. Like they had an understanding.

Everyone cringed when Daryl Dixon got too close—his dirt-smeared face, his permanent scowl, that gravel-thick drawl that made people shift uncomfortably in their boots. But you never pulled away. Never flinched when he stood too close, never wrinkled your nose at the scent of sweat and sun-baked leather. You never once made a joke about his bad grammar or the way he talked.

He was everywhere. In the barn when you mucked stalls, boots and skirts coated in dust. In the woods when you picked berries, fingers stained red. You’d turn around, and there he was—watching, muttering, shaking his head like you were a problem he couldn’t figure out. You followin’ me or somethin’? you teased once. You wish, he muttered.

He wasn’t nice to you. Actually, he was downright mean sometimes. Called you "Daddy’s girl" like it was a curse. Rolled his eyes at your skirts, at your soft hands, at the way you smiled too much. Scoffed whenever you talked about something that wasn’t hunting, food, or survival. "Priss," he’d mumble, shaking his head when you’d trip over a tree root or complain about the heat.

But for someone who wanted you gone, out of his way, off his back—he sure had a habit of sticking around.

One morning, you found a wildflower tucked into the strap of your saddle as you got ready for a ride. Small, a little crumpled. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But when you glanced at him, he was already looking away with a red tint to his ears.

Then your dog started following him around. Just a little. Enough that you noticed. Enough that your chest would tighten watching the mutt's tail wag when Daryl would talk to him.

The joke in the kitchen wasn’t even funny. Beth, dropping her voice into some exaggerated drawl, mimicking Daryl like he was some cartoon of himself. You hadn’t meant to laugh, weren’t even laughing at the joke—just at how ridiculous Beth sounded. But when you looked up, he was there in the archway, watching. Expression blank, but eyes of fire.

He was gone all day after that. Nelly was missing from her stall when you went to clean it, which only meant one thing—he’d taken her out to search. Your anxiety skyrocketed. Nelly wasn’t a trail horse, she wasn’t even a reliable pasture horse half the time. She spooked at her own damn shadow, and now she was out in the woods? What if she bolted? What if they ran into someone sick? What if neither of them came back?

When he finally did return—battered, stabbed, blood streaked—you barely heard the others talking over the rushing in your ears. He looked half-dead as they dragged him inside, face pale beneath all the grime, blood trickling from where that woman shot him. You sat at his bedside the entire time, jaw tight, hands clenched in your lap. Not praying, not talking. Just watching. Because if he woke up, you wanted him to see you were there. And if he didn’t—well. You didn’t want to think about that.

You stayed by his side as your daddy stitched him up, hands steady despite the deep gash along his side. You helped where you could—pressing a cloth to the worst of it, handing over supplies—but mostly, you just sat there. Watching. Listening. Daryl didn’t say much outside explaining about finding a doll out in the creek, barely even grunted in pain, but you could see it in the way his fingers twitched, the way his jaw clenched tight as the needle pulled through his skin.

It was late evening when you kissed him, the sun long gone and nothing but candlelight illuminating his pretty face. Just a quick, barely-there press of lips against his cheek, his skin still warm from fever. He didn’t react at first, just kept staring at the ceiling like he wasn’t sure it even happened. But when you pulled back, his eyes were on you, deep blue and swimming with uncertainty, his cheeks a deep flush of pink under the wrap he wore around his head. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But the air between you felt different.

Not long after, your daddy stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Come to dinner. You didn’t move. His voice hardened. Now. You knew it was coming the second you closed the door behind you, his face set like stone. No pleasantries. No warm-up. Just: What’s goin’ on with you and that hick boy? Your stomach twisted, but you kept your chin up. His name’s Daryl, daddy. / And? You shrugged. Your hands felt too warm. Your lips still burned from that barely-there kiss. He’s just a friend. he scoffed. I’d rather he wasn’t. You sighed through your nose. I'm not a baby anymore. He studied you, like he was trying to find the girl he raised somewhere beneath all that you’d become. Then, a slow exhale. No. I suppose you’re not.

The first time you kissed Daryl, you’d thought he’d push you away. Hell, you’d expected it—a sharp grunt, a muttered insult, maybe even a full-on retreat. But when you pressed up on your toes, hands against his chest, lightly pushing him back against the rough bark of a tree while out searching for the little girl, he didn’t move. Didn’t shove you off or scowl or tell you to quit it. His hands hesitated, hovering above your waist before they finally found your lower back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress.

And then… the barn. You didn’t know. You swear you didn’t know. When that little girl came out of the barn that day, your heart felt like it had split in two when you saw his face, when you heard her mother’s cries. Daryl—please, I didn’t—Otis was the one who— But he wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t stop walking as he gathered his things and took his own tent past the broken stone wall, far from everyone else, even his own people. You followed anyway. Daryl, I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t. He stopped short, turned so fast you nearly tripped. Yeah? Or maybe you just didn’t wanna know. Maybe you liked pretendin’. His voice was sharp, but his eyes—his eyes were worse. Cold, unreadable. Guess that’s easy when you grow up on your little fairy tale farm. Playin’ house while the rest of us were out on the road, if not dying of starvation then dyin' by one of them dead assholes you were keepin’ all safe and cozy. You flinched, but he wasn’t done. You lock up walkers like they was just sick. Like they’d get better. But they don’t. And you—he scoffed, shaking his head—you're too stupid to get it.

You’d stormed off after his last words, tears blurring the steps back to the house, to your room where you flopped down, shaking, hollow. Your family—gone. Your world—a lie. He was right. You’d been living in a fairytale, pretending things weren’t as bad as they were. And now, with the barn empty and Daryl’s words still cutting through you, you weren’t sure what was left.

It had been days. Long enough that you started to think he meant it, every last word. But then, late that night, you heard it—soft at first, a knock against the window frame. You hesitated, heart hammering, before sliding it open. He stood there in the dark, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should be here at all. Didn’t mean all that shit I said, he muttered, barely looking at you. Most of it, anyway. His voice was rough, gruff like always, but there was something else under it, something uneasy. You crossed your arms, watching him. Then why’d you say it? He exhaled sharply, rolling a tense shoulder. Dunno. Ain’t good at this shit. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, just for a second. He looked sorry.

You let him inside, and he crawled through your window. He hovered near the bed, stiff and awkward, like he didn’t know where to put himself. He wasn’t touching you, wasn’t saying much, but he wasn’t leaving either. You stepped closer first, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him down, pressing your lips to his. He went still—real still—like he was holding his breath. Then his hands came up, slow, hesitating at your waist before settling there, warm and steady. I’m sorry, you murmured against him. Me too. You kissed him again, and this time, he kissed you back, something messy and unpracticed but desperate all the same.

You pulled him onto the bed with you, and he didn’t resist. Just let himself be guided, let you press up against him, let your hands roam over warm skin and tense muscle. His breathing was uneven, fingers twitching at your waist like he wasn’t sure where to touch. You hesitated, heart hammering, then reached for the hem of your dress, fabric slipping through your fingers. His eyes snapped down, throat bobbing.

He was so, so gentle. You could tell it was the kind of man he was, though the others would never believe you. His hands, though calloused and rough, caressed you like he was mapping every inch of you, trying to memorize, trying to take his time. His lips brushed your shoulder, your collarbone, your ribs, slow and careful, like you might break beneath him.

Jesus, he muttered, voice wrecked as his palm splayed against your bare skin. He was so warm. His fingers flexed, hesitant, skimming over the curve of your waist, dragging over the softness of your thigh. Ain’t never— he swallowed, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. Ain’t never done this before.

Me neither. Your voice was barely above a whisper, shaky, unsure. But you curled your fingers into his shirt, tugging, urging him closer, pressing your lips to his again, and he melted into you like he couldn't stop himself. But you're the only one I’d want to--I want you, Daryl, you'd said.

His hands moved lower, rough fingers trailing over delicate skin, a sharp contrast that made your breath hitch. He was so careful, like he thought he wasn’t allowed to touch you the way he wanted to. But when you arched into him, gasping as his thumb brushed between your legs, he groaned, forehead dropping into your neck.

Tell me to stop, he rasped, voice strained, breath coming heavy. You wouldn't dare. Instead, you reached for his hand, guided it exactly where you wanted it, and watched his resolve snap like a thread pulled too tight.

Through little gasps and murmured whimpers, Daryl brought you to the edge quickly despite all his talk of inexperience. The electricity coursed through you as you caught your breath, his mouth on yours to quiet any noises that could travel through the house. His fingers slowed, teasing, dragging you back from your high just enough to make you squirm beneath him. His breath was heavy against your throat, his body tense, like he was fighting some war with himself.

You sure ‘bout this? His voice was wrecked, hands still trembling slightly as they skimmed up your bare thighs, pressing them apart just enough to make you shiver. You nodded, pulling him down into another kiss, desperate, warm, needy.

He stripped off his shirt, and you ran your hands over the scars, the rough-hewn strength of him, the warmth radiating from his skin. He shuddered when you touched him, let out a ragged exhale when you rocked up against him, feeling how hard he was beneath his jeans. Fuck, he muttered, rolling his hips just slightly, just enough to make you gasp, make your nails dig into his shoulders.

His belt came undone with shaky hands, and when he finally pressed into you, he did it slow, painstakingly slow, stretching you inch by inch. His forehead pressed to yours, breath heavy, arms caging you in. Jesus, girl… his voice was a rasp, like he was barely holding on.

After some time adjusting, you were squirming beneath him, desperate for him. Move, Daryl, you whispered, please, breath hitching as he sank deeper, until he was fully seated inside you, until you were wrapped around him so tight he thought he might lose his mind. He pulled back just enough to look at you, searching, making sure you were okay, that you felt just as good as he did.

Then he moved--It started slow, every thrust dragging a soft gasp from your lips, his name barely forming between them. But when you wrapped your legs around his waist, when you arched into him, he lost whatever restraint he had left. His pace turned desperate, his grip tight on your hips, his groans buried in your neck as he drove into you again and again.

Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, rough and broken, right before you clenched around him, back arching as pleasure ripped through you. The sound you made had him gripping your face with his large hand to quiet you, but it still sent him over the edge, his thrusts growing erratic, desperate, until he buried himself deep with a sharp, breathless groan, his body shuddering against yours.

He stayed there, arms trembling slightly as he held himself above you, catching his breath. You traced slow patterns along his back, your touch grounding, steady. He finally lifted his head, eyes flickering over your face, still dazed. Did I hurt you? / No, of course not, you murmured, breathless, still trying to catch up to everything that had just happened. It was— it was perfect, Dare.

Hours later, when your eyelids felt heavy and sinking, Daryl slipped out from under the covers, reaching for his clothes. You blinked up at him sleepily. Where are you goin’? / Don’t wanna get my ass kicked by your dad before sunrise. You smiled, a breathy laugh escaping you, but maybe he saw the sadness in your eyes at the thought of him leaving you alone in the quiet. He pulled his shirt over his head, slipping his legs over the windowsill. I’ll see you in the mornin’.

But before he swung outside, he paused, glancing back at you. For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was thinking too hard about something, like he wasn’t ready to go just yet. And then, in two long strides, he was back at your bedside, leaning down, hands cupping your face, kissing you hard. It stole the breath from your lungs, left your fingers gripping onto his arms just to keep yourself steady.

He pulled back, eyes dark, lingering for just a second longer. Goodnight, he whispered, and then he was gone.

[smuttyaf]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚.

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞: 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞/𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬 & 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤, 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐝𝐬𝐦. 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.

𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬:

his life is starting to affect you.

𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛:

the story about how you meet.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐭:

harry shows you what he does for work.

𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐫. 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐬: ( 𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 )

harry introduces bdsm.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐦

secrets cut wounds into the relationship.

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

you’re compelled to adapt to his lifestyle.

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞? ( 𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 )

harry likes to tease you.

[zuiz41]

IwaOi/Oiiwa Manga Valentine Special!

Happy Valentines Day, Everyone!! 💖💝💞 🎉✨

[storytellering]

One last ride, together.

[magic-worms]

opening pages of a tf2 comic i’m working on; 1-2 of 14

take these as another (more substantial) teaser! i’ll be very excited to share the full comic whenever i manage to finish it

[spaghettito3]

It's always been Curly (Pre-crash Curly x Reader)

Captain Curly, the dependable captain of The Tulpar. That's who he was and will ever be.  ... Until you joined The Tulpar.

---

Or; a small look into Curly and his relationship with his name and title, with sprinklings of fluff.

ao3

It's always been Curly. Cur–ly; two syllables, a trip up and down the steps, the natural progression of things, finishing off a dance with a bow. It's Curly from the hiring manager of that fast food place when he'd made it just in time for his interview when he was 18, dressed in a suit; It's Grant from that awkward girl in middle school who decided she liked him after seeing him score a goal, then Curly once she knew him a bit more; It's Captain from his crew, and back to Curly again when they want to get on his good side. He was Curly.

He doesn't know how it all began, but eventually people started to favour his last name. It made sense, though; a name like Curly fits the bill for a dude with golden curls. He didn't mind that shift, either—two syllables always sounded better, together, than one, alone. He was Curly.

Grant is that one person sitting on the seat closest to the pick-up area of a coffee shop that you'd see for half a second when you go to get your drink. Curly is that dependable captain of The Tulpar with a crew that relies on him. Grant is that flower pot bought at a market years ago, left sitting at the back of the closet. Curly is a bundle of flowers packed perfectly in paper from that same market, just a few, more-populated stalls away. He was Curly.

So if that's the case, why do you insist on holding onto Grant so tightly?

When you introduced yourself to him and the crew last minute—courtesy of the Pony Express—you referred to him as Grant. Grant; one syllable, an unceremonious fall down the stairs, an abrupt stop, finishing off a dance with a trip. He'd been so used to everyone referring to him as Captain or Curly that a single word alone felt similar to when the wind back on Earth would sometimes suddenly pick up and make a mess of his perfectly styled hair. And despite seeing the mess you've made, you'd continue as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Grant this, Grant that. No mention of that blond curly-haired captain, save for the one you were choosing to call Grant at the moment.

It didn't bother him; he didn't let it bother him, not when he had a job to do and bills to pay and a freighter to man. Hell, it wasn't even about your usage of the name as well; just the reasoning behind why when everyone else called him Curly. Though it was starting to become less like a small gust of wind and more like a rocky, thorny, bordering-on-uncomfortable bump in the road, and his brain soon added that train of thought to the things he'd think about when he'd try to sleep.

He eventually cracked one sleepless night down by the kitchenette with you.

There wasn't anything special that triggered it; no mocking tone he'd sooner expect someone like Jimmy to use back at home, just a simple:

“Hey, Grant. Couldn't sleep as well?”

“Why do you call me that?”

He remembers the slight falter in your smile when he’d lost himself. Curly wouldn't start the conversation with that if he decided it was even a good idea to have that conversation at all. Your act wasn't hurting anyone; it was just a name. There was no need to confront you.

Though as much as he hated ever asking and wanted to take it back, to his dismay, you took it on the chin and chuckled. “It's your name.” Your eyes remained on his, your mug clink-clink-clinking as you stirred on it.

“Everyone calls me Curly.”

“Everyone calls you Curly,” you repeated. That's when you dropped your gaze, and he hated how his eyes immediately followed the line of sight down onto your mug, as if desperate to chase it. You continued stirring on your coffee—surely it's at a drinkable temperature by now—and he debated on getting his own cup. It'd be a waste of time to try to sleep now; no way that he wouldn't overthink and repeat this conversation ad infinitum in his mind.

Eventually, you looked up and he met your eyes at an embarrassing speed. His gaze flickered onto your lips when they quirked into a smile, as if you remembered something funny. You then, with a gentle hand, slid your mug over to him.

“What if Grant gets lonely?”

That was the stupidest thing you could've said.

After all, weren't Grant and Curly the same person? Why the need for that distinction? That's when he realised your eyes were still meeting his; unwavering, curious. You weren't looking at the curly blond hair, the Pony Express uniform, or the body he'd worked so hard to get—just his eyes.

Grant wanted to laugh—actually, he did laugh, it seemed, when a chuckle bubbled out of him.

“That makes no sense.”

He reached for the mug you offered and took a sip. Then, he lowered his cup to speak, his voice softer this time:

“...But I'm sure Grant appreciates the company.”

That was the stupidest thing he could've said. You told him as such with your own chuckle.

“I'll keep on sticking by Grant, then.”

His eyes flickered onto your lips again, and it became abundantly clear that you’d grin every time you said the name Grant; first, an ‘o’ shape with your mouth for the ‘gr’, then you'd widen the shape for ‘an’—before finally grinning to enunciate the ‘t’. Grant; one syllable, a hop down the stairs, a period in a sentence, finishing off a dance with the last step. He teared his eyes away and brought the mug to his lips again, a faint heat rising to his cheeks, but it was too late; now he wouldn't be able to stop noticing your smile every time you said his name or the way you said it.

Ever since then, every time he'd hear a “Grant!” he'd turn his head that way—no longer out of a sense of obligation, but because he wanted to. Because maybe if he turned fast enough he'd catch a glimpse of your smile mid-Grant… But then he'd probably turn his head right back, eyes wide in a panic, because oh god he's not supposed to be anticipating his crewmate’s smile like this.

He’ll think about the implications of his feelings as the captain of The Tulpar later, but for now… It's not so bad being Grant.

[lyntarts]

Me and who?

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 4 - Runaway

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized reader, female reader, Poorly thought out action sequences, Guns, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though I might even tell y'all her name.

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

You wake in the morning with your nose buried in a thick patch of chest hair, and strong arms around you. Your legs are hooked around one of his thick thighs, and something hard digs into your stomach. You start to inch away, but his arms tighten, and his hips cant against you, a thick, sleepy groan rumbling in his chest. It would be a nice way to wake up, if not for the circumstances. It’s been ages since you slept beside another person, let alone someone that feels as comfortable as John does.

“John,” you say softly. You don’t want to fully wake him up, just get him to let you go. “John, please let me go.”

He hums, one hand sliding to your waist, and then down to your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against his thigh. You squeak in protest, becoming aware that you’re already wet, like you’ve been unconsciously humping his leg in your sleep for some time. You push your slightly freer top half away a little, so you can look at him. He’s still sleeping, a little frown on his face as he’s pulled unwillingly toward consciousness. He really is handsome, especially like this, all his defences down, grumbling like a hibernating bear.

“Don’t wake up,” you tell him, as if it’ll make any difference. “I just have to pee.”

One of his blue eyes cracks open, a little unfocused. “You comin’ back?” His voice is rough from sleep, rasping like sandpaper.

“Sure,” you say, even though you have no intention of doing so. Your body seems as eager as his is for something you’re sure is dangerous. Maybe he smells good, like tobacco, warm, boozy spices and something undeniably male, and maybe he feels warm and solid against you, but you don’t want to encourage this. You just want to enough space to clear your head. His admissions last night still have you spooked, John’s words not tempered by a night of surprisingly good sleep. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He loosens his hold on you enough that you can wiggle free, his eyes opening a little more so he can watch you slip out of bed. He rolls over onto his back, and starts snoring gently before you’ve even made it to the bedroom door. You take the opportunity to snag one of the bags stacked in front of the closet and your purse off the dresser and bring both to the bathroom with you. You’re not sure what’s in the bag, but you know the larger suitcase has things from your closet in it, so you’re hoping this one has more from your dresser.

You get dressed, glad that most of your underthings and a comfortable pair of jeans and a thick sweater are inside and pack your toothbrush and makeup bag into the larger one, and creep downstairs carefully. One of them is snoring gently on the couch, but otherwise, the house is silent. You carefully fish a set of keys off the hooks by the door and sneak outside. You don’t know where any of your shoes are except the red heels, so you just leave in your sock feet, and pile your things into the pick-up truck. You’ll drive it into town and leave it there, buy a ticket on a train or a bus, and get the hell back home.

It sucks to have to leave everything you own, beyond the clothes in the one bag and the contents of your purse, but maybe you can call the cops— Well. Probably not. Better to just start over anywhere else. You have digital copies of a few pictures of your parents, and that’s better than nothing, even if their wedding album is sitting on a shelf in John’s living room, along with all the family photos that your parents took of you and them while you were growing up. Your mother’s sketchbooks too, and her camera, and your dad’s guitar.

You bite your lip, holding back tears, and start the truck.

No sense mourning things. The memories are in your head and your heart, not trapped in the pages of books or twisted into the strings of the guitar. You don’t need them.

You haven’t driven in a long time, and the truck, unfortunately, is a manual, which you haven’t driven in even longer, but you manage to pull away from the house without revving the engine too hard, and pick up speed once you get to the road, only just remembering to hit the clutch with your left foot before you change gears. You’d feel pretty pathetic if you only made it to the road before stalling out the pickup.

You’re not sure which way town is, but you figure the road has to lead somewhere no matter which way you choose, so you navigate blindly, turning onto a bigger road a little ways down the gravel one that leads to John’s house. Bigger road means more people, although the hour is still so early that there’s no one around yet. The sun is barely up, and it’s still shadowy in the woods on either side of the road. The woods give way to fields suddenly, the sun making a too-bright debut, shining right into your eyes. You flip down the visor and adjust the rear-view mirror, wincing when you see a blue car a ways behind you, approaching fast.

You didn’t notice the car when you were leaving— It must have been parked behind the bigger van that they’d used to move all your things— but it looks sporty and fast, and judging by the way it closes the gap, there’s no question that it’s them. You push the truck harder, squinting against the light, heart hammering. The car’s engine roars, loud enough that you can hear it over the blood rushing in your ears, and pulls into the lane beside you. Gaz motions for you to pull over from the passenger seat.

You slow up enough that they pull ahead a little, and you yank your steering wheel to the side and stomp down on the gas and the clutch, shifting into third gear and nailing the side of the car, shattering a tail light and making it spin, stopping just shy of the ditch.

For a moment, you’re still close enough to see the shock on their faces, but you’re moving fast and leave them in the dust, at least momentarily. It won’t take them long to recover and catch up again, and if they hit you with the same maneuver, there’s no way you’ll be able to get the truck under control. There’s not enough weight in the bed of the truck to compensate, and you’ll wind up in the ditch for certain.

Funny, how it comes back to you. Learning to drive along mountain roads way outside Aberdeen, either in your dad’s little car or your mom’s old truck (usually the car, which was the easier one to drive. Your dad was the safer driver too, the better parent to learn from), and you can almost imagine your mother in the passenger seat, laughing her head off at the insane circumstances, encouraging you to throw caution to the wind, to get a feel for the road under the wheels and the way the old truck handled. She always laughed when she was under stress, but it’s comforting to think of. Your mum would never let a couple of thick-headed military assholes get the better of her.

The car is catching up again, so you floor it and smash through a fence gate into a muddy field, where the car won’t handle as well, and speed your way across the stubbly remains of wheat, already harvested. The car follows, and, predictably, struggles, the low frame too close to the muck, bumping unhappily over the soft, uneven ground.

Laughter bubbles up in your chest, relieving some of the built-up anxiety. You smash through a segment of the fence on the other side and yank the truck back onto the road, giggling when the truck fishtails a bit, mud slicking the tires on the pavement. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through your system that you feel like you might be sick the moment you let any of this catch up with you. So you keep driving, and pray that it doesn’t.

The car gets close again when you reach another wooded section of road. Through the rearview mirror you can see Gaz pop out of the window, gun drawn, but you don’t hear the crack when it fires, you only feel the impact when the bullet strikes one of the rear tires. You shriek, slamming on the breaks as the truck spins out of your control and off the road, slamming into a tree head on.

The lurch forward as the airbags deploy, your body hitting them hard, knocking all the air out of your lungs as you’re slapped back into he seat. The seat belt bites into your shoulder painfully. You unbuckle yourself quickly, ears ringing too loudly for you to hear the screeching tires of the pursuit car. You fall to the ground when you try to get out, head spinning.

You stumble into the trees, still blinking away double vision. If you can find a good spot to hide— Maybe you can double back and take the car while they chase you blindly through the trees. You cast about, feeling every rapidly forming bruise, wishing desperately that you had shoes, and dive into the underbrush, scooting forward on your belly, brambles catching in your hair as you curl up, out of sight.

“Please come out, doll,” you hear Gaz call out, boots crunching through the woods, closer than you would like. “It’s okay, we’re not mad. Just come out and we’ll take you home, yeah?”

Johnny is yelling further off, his voice incomprehensible but sing-song, mocking. Gaz moves further into the woods. You wait until his voice grows a little more distant before you drag yourself back out, sweater streaked with mud, leaves in your hair, and quickly sneak back to the road. The car is still running, the driver door left open. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“There you are, bird.”

You scream. A gloved hand drops over your mouth, cutting off the sound, and an arm loops around your waist, picking you right up off your feet.

Fuck.

"Look what you did, bird. Wrecked up Price's truck. 'E's not goin' to be 'appy about that." He turns so you can see the slightly smoking truck, the front half of it crumpled beyond repair.

You shake your head until he pulls his hand away from your mouth. "Its not my fault I crashed. Gaz shot the tire out. I wasn't even going to steal it, just leave it in town once I'd gotten to a bus stop."

He hums. You hear the slight crackle of a radio. "Got 'er, lads. Come back to the car."

"Rog."

"Aye."

Ghost shoves you into the back seat. "Stay put," he says sternly. "You're already banged up, don't want to 'ave to tackle you."

You sigh, all the fight leaving you. You feel awful, bruised and shaken up and trembling, and you do nothing but watch as Ghost gathers your things from the truck and puts them in the boot of the car. You slump back in the seat, inspecting the scratches on your hands idly. Your head hurts, and your shoulder aches, and you feel a bit like you've been stepped on, but nothing feels broken, just bruised and tender. You got lucky.

Well, not lucky. There's very little about any of this that counts as luck. Especially considering the look on Johnny's face when he jogs out of the trees. At first he looks stormy, but he grins when he sees you and opens the back door to crawl onto the seat and on top of you.

"Steamin Jesus, where'd ye learn ta drive like tha'?" He asks. "Didnae ken ye were a racer."

"Outside Aberdeen," you reply. Your ribs hurt. Soap’s weight makes every little ache more acute.

"Price isn't gonna be happy about his truck," Gaz says, tossing himself into the driver's seat. "What were you thinking, doll? You could've been hurt."

"You didn't have to shoot the tire." You try to push Soap off, but he wraps himself around you, a bit tight, but bearably so. You’re trembling, and he’s trying to help, in a thoroughly unhelpful way. "I was just trying to get home."

"That's the wrong way. Your home's with Price now." Ghost gets into the other front seat, and Gaz reverses back out onto the road.

You sigh, leaning your head against the window, watching the countryside flash by. It takes an embarrassingly short time to get back to John's house. You didn't get as far as you would have liked, hardly got anywhere at all. Your eyes prickle with tears, but you don't want to cry in front of them. You want to go back to bed, maybe back in time to the morning. You would have been wiser just to curl up next to John again.

Soap drags you from the car, hands a bit rough on your bruises, and pulls you back to the house. John rushes out, worry creasing his face, blue eyes sweeping over you and turning furious. "What happened?" he barks, not at you, but at his men.

"Bird was makin' a run for it," Ghost says.

"Wrecked your truck," Gaz adds.

"That's not my fault!" you protest. "You shot at me!" You glare at him, frustrated tears overflowing down your cheeks. It’s like they have no idea what kind of stress they’ve put you through.

"Woah, woah, c'mere, doll." John pulls you against his chest, wrapping strong arms around you, stilling some of the tremble in your limbs. "You broken?"

You shake your head, leaning into him, gripping his t-shirt tightly. You breathe in raggedly, trying to steady yourself.

"Lads. Why did you shoot at her?"

"Trying to stop the truck."

"She's a civilian you muppets. I take it that the truck's in no shape to drive, or you would've brought it back. You could have killed her." He pets a hand over your head, plucking out a few leaves. "You should’ve let her go."

"She stole your truck!" Soap protests.

"So what? It's wrecked now anyway, innit?" The silence behind you speaks volumes. "Alright, doll, why don't you go get cleaned up? " he murmurs against the top of your head. "I need to talk to the lads, and what I have to say is not fit for a lady's ears."

He gently ushers you into the house and closes the door firmly behind you. You trudge upstairs, feeling utterly pathetic, and lock yourself into the bathroom. Still sniffling, you comb sticks and leaves out of your hair with your fingers and put yourself into a hot shower, where you give yourself the freedom to cry your eyes out, hoping that the sound of water drowns your stifled sobs.

The house is quiet when you shut off the shower and dry yourself off. You wrap the shirt you'd slept in around you and poke your head out into the hallway. John is right there, holding out a bundle of clothes. "Here, sweetheart," he says softly, like he's worried a sharp word will set you off again. He must have heard everything. "I sent the boys to deal with the truck and that tail light, so it's just us. Just come on downstairs when you're ready."

You open the door wide enough to accept the clothes, and he turns to leave again, content to leave anything else to be said when you make it downstairs.

He'd obviously taken his cue from what you'd been wearing already, because he gives you a sweater and jeans again, comfortable worn in things. You go downstairs carefully, every joint and muscle in your body aching, even after the shower.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asks. "Or do you prefer tea?"

"Coffee, please. I can make it. I'd feel better if I did, honestly." You skirt around him to the cupboard where you'd seen Gaz take mugs out, recognizing your own nestled among John's mismatched ones. You put milk and sugar in your favourite mug, and pour in coffee, stirring it throroughly. The clink of the spoon is loud, and so is the pan he sets on the stove top.

"Eggs and toast okay?" He asks.

"Um, yeah. That would be nice. Over easy?"

"Yes ma'am." He looks at you over his shoulder while butter melts in the pan, blue eyes all worry. "Did I say something to you last night? Maybe the sort of thing that made you feel like you needed to steal a truck and run as fast as you could away from here?"

"Um. Yes." You hold onto the mug with both hands. "Some stuff about wanting to start a family. With me."

His ears turn pink. "I see."

"I suppose this is where you tell me it was just the whiskey talking, right?" you ask hopefully. You like him, even if it’s ill-advised, maybe even dangerous to do so.

"Wish I could."

Your stomach twists. “Oh.”

John turns around fully, guilt and sadness written all over his handsome face. He steps closer and touches your arm gently. “I’m so sorry about what my boys have put you through, sweetheart. None of this has been right.” He sighs, brushing a few tendrils of still-wet hair away from your face, studying you, those intense blue eyes focused on you intently. “But there’s something special about you, doll. I really do want to keep you forever. Not if you’re scared, and not if you feel forced— It’s just, the thought of you leavin' and never wanting to speak to me again is— I don’t want that.”

You swallow nervously. “This is just really overwhelming.”

“I know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let this happen. Soap really could have just given you my number.” The smile he gives you is hopeful, and you can’t help but return it, just a little. “Now go sit down, doll. Let me take care of breakfast, hm?”

You nod and move to the table, sitting where you can watch him, and peek out the window too. The car is gone, but the van is still there for the moment, sitting idly to the side. You consider making another run for it, but your aching limbs protest even the thought. There’s not enough fight in you, and you’re not even sure you want to fight John, not the way you do the other three. His only crime has been wanting you to stay, and being a bit overzealous about it. You can’t be mad at him for that, can you? It isn’t really his fault.

Well, it might be his fault, in a roundabout way. He trained them, taught them how to ruthlessly pursue an objective. It’s just not his fault they can’t keep it from coming home with them. That’s a clear failure of whoever does their mental health assessments.

You sip your coffee and watch John crack eggs into a pan. He keeps glancing at you, and his smile flickers on a little longer each time that he catches you looking back, until he doesn’t stop smiling, and just looks happy, glad to have you there, even if you’re just keeping a silent vigil on the other side of the room.

It's not like you have anywhere to go. It'll take days at least to feel like you haven't just been in a car crash, and days more to locate everything to pack it back up. So long as you don't have to share a bed with John again, you think you could live with this, for at least a week. It can't be that terrible, so long as the others leave you alone. You rather hope they just leave. If you asked, would John send them away?

"John," you say as he sets a plate with buttered toast and a couple of eggs on it in front of you, and sets a couple tablets of paracetamol beside your plate. "If I stay… Will they be staying too?"

"I'm going to have them leave this afternoon. That alright with you? We can go for a walk to the neighbours while they pack up, if you're up for it. Maybe dr-- Well, not drive." He sets his own plate down and sits next to you, handing you a knife and a fork. “Have to get that sorted out. But the neighbours-- Rob and Melissa-- Their dog just had puppies a few weeks ago. Do you like dogs?”

You nod, breaking the yolks of one of the eggs with a corner of toast. "My parents had a dog when I was growing up. Some kind of German shepherd cross. Best boy. His name was Rob Roy, because he was a wee outlaw. Mam found him digging in the trash and--" you stop and give John a baleful look. "Sorry. That was more than you were asking."

"No, that's the most you've said at once this whole time. I'd listen to you talk all day, doll. Don't ever apologize."

"Sorry I-- Oh, shit, sorry--" you press your fingers to your mouth, cutting yourself off. "Force of habit."

"I'd like to see you lose that one. You have nothin' to apologize for. Not one damn thing, and especially not talking. I think you have the prettiest voice I've ever heard."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help smiling. "You're just saying that."

He touches your arm lightly. "You don't know me too well yet, doll, but I never just say anything."

Yet hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know him, wants you to stay with him, wants you to like him. Even if it makes no sense, the offer is tempting. It's been a long time since you've let someone get close— You've had the occasional fling, and the odd reunion with an ex that you’d stayed friends with, but grief is like a canyon you can't bear to cross. What if you love someone and you lose them, the way you lost your parents? How could you live with that all over again?

Still, there's something that feels like warm sunlight in his smile, and you can't help but incline toward him, slowly but surely reaching for the light. No one can live in the shade forever. There’s no nobility in suffering.

So you let yourself talk, at least a little. And he listens, hanging on to your words like they're precious, gazing at you with something unfurling in his expression that you can't name. You're almost afraid to try.

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[beefcakekinard]

hey tomorrow

Buck/Tommy; Buck & Maddie; Maddie/Chimney | Rated T | 2327 words

[read on ao3]

Summary:

Two scenes continued, from Maddie's perspective: her conversation with Buck, and Tommy's arrival at the wedding.

Preview:

“So, tell me about the hot pilot?” Buck smiles and ducks his head. He looks bashful. It suits him. “Well, he’s-” Buck pauses, grins down at his coffee, fiddles with the lid. “He’s…?” Maddie prods. Buck laughs and looks back up at her. “He’s, uh, he’s kinda hunky.” She can’t help it – she jumps a little in delight. “Oh my god, Evan,” she says, then rounds the counter. Coffee in one hand, her brother’s arm in the other, she drags him over to the couch and pulls him down with her as she sits. “Okay, start from the beginning, and tell me everything.”

[masters-fav-apple]

BIRTHDAY BASH!!!

🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏

🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏

(You all are hereby invited to Candy Apple Cookie's birthday party fun! It begins tomorrow, March 13th, as a little treat for the mod of this blog since it's their birthday the same day! Make sure to bring some rumors with you, and a extra pair of pants! After all, lier, lier, pants on fire! And happy early birthday to me!!)