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verricherri · 3 days ago

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Reasons Rhett Falls in Love With You (Over and Over)

A/N: HEHEHEHHEHEHE 😈 you already know what kind of mess this is about to be Warnings: if you thought you were about to recover from the endless trap that is Lewis Pullman — don’t. i’m dragging you straight to the bottom with me and we’re gonna rot together 💅 Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

The Way You Talk to Amy

Rhett doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Not really. He’s halfway through brushing dirt off his boots, crouched just inside the barn, when he hears your voice drifting from the porch — light, warm, touched with that soft cadence that makes his ribs ache in a way he can’t explain.

He doesn’t move. Just listens.

You’re sitting beside Amy, and she’s going on about a colt she saw out near the creek — skinny thing, barely a few months old. Most people brush her off when she gets like this, too full of excitement and facts and possibilities. But not you. Never you.

You ask questions. Real ones. Not the kind meant to placate a ten-year-old, but the kind that say, I care what you think. I want to know more.

“Think he’ll let me ride him when he’s older?” Amy asks, hopeful. “You?” You laugh, a smile shaping every word. “He’ll be lucky if you don’t train him better than half the men on this ranch.”

Amy laughs so loud it echoes, pride curling in her chest. Rhett feels it too — like warmth blooming from the inside out.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, watching you.

The way your braid slips over your shoulder. The way your thumb gently rubs circles into Amy’s knee. The way Amy looks at you like you hung the moon and rearranged the stars just for her.

You glance up and spot him.

“You done eavesdroppin’, Abbott?” He lifts a brow, easy. “Didn’t know I was invited.” You pat the porch beside you. “Now you are.”

And he sits. Not because he needs to — he’s got chores, horses to tend, fences to mend. But because this? This is what home feels like. Amy’s legs swinging against the wood, your laughter cutting clean through the dusk, the scent of sun and hay and your shampoo in the air.

He doesn’t say it. Not out loud.

But this is what love looks like.

—

The Way You Fit Into the Kitchen Like You’ve Always Been There

It starts the same way every morning now — the clang of a skillet, the smell of bacon, the quiet hum of your voice carrying over the clatter of breakfast.

And it always begins with you elbowing Rhett out of the way.

“Move, cowboy. You’re blocking the stove.”

He doesn’t argue. Not really. Just grumbles something about the wrong skillet.

“It’s a pancake, Rhett. Not a classified mission.”

You wear his old flannel like it’s your armour, hair twisted up, mismatched socks sliding across tile. Amy sets the table with quiet focus. Royal mutters about the paper and his missing glasses. Perry tries — and fails — to sneak bacon off the plate.

You swat his hand without even turning. “Not unless you’re feeding the dog.”

The kitchen is full — not just with people, but with something unspoken. Something steady. Something like you.

Cecilia breezes in, lips parted in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. She’s cooking for you boys now?” “Not for them,” you say. “They just keep showing up.”

Rhett stands in the doorway, pretending to sip coffee, but mostly just watching you flip the last pancake, hips swaying to music that isn’t even playing.

You don’t just fit. You belong.

Later, when the plates are scraped clean and the house is quiet again, he finds you rinsing dishes, sleeves rolled, suds on your wrist.

He slides behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, presses a kiss to the place where your neck meets your shoulder.

“You like bossin’ my whole family around?” You lean into him, smile tucked into your voice. “Someone’s gotta do it.” He exhales against your skin. “Don’t stop.”

You won’t. He knows that now.

—

The Way You Carry Quiet Joy

Some days are heavier than others. But this one? This one’s light.

He finds you out by the line, hanging laundry. There’s grass stuck to your calf, your skirt twisting in the breeze like it’s dancing for no one but the wind. You’re humming again — that tune he still can’t name — soft and steady, like your own personal heartbeat.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just leans against the fencepost, one arm slung over the top rail, watching you.

You move with ease. Peg, shake, lift. Shirt after shirt, sheet after sheet. Your fingers work without thought. But your smile — that’s what gets him.

Amy runs by, chasing the dog. You laugh, loud and unfiltered. The kind of laugh that says, I’m safe. I’m happy. I’m here.

Rhett doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

He just lets himself feel it — that ache that comes from wanting something so badly, it hurts a little just to watch it exist.

You spot him eventually. “What’re you starin’ at, Abbott?” “Just admirin’ the view.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile softens.

He stays longer than he needs to. Just to be near it. Just to watch you be.

—

The Way You See What He Can’t Say — And Say It For Him

Dinner’s tense.

Royal’s worked up — about the barn, about the storm, about the goddamn roof that still isn’t fixed.

“You always leave things half done,” he grumbles. “Same story since you were seventeen.”

Rhett’s jaw locks. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the plate. He’s learned not to. Learned to take the hit, swallow it, bury it deep.

But then your fork clinks softly against your plate.

“He shows up,” you say, voice calm. “Every day. Whether anyone thanks him or not.” Royal snorts. “That supposed to mean something?”

You stare him down. No raise in volume. No shake in your hands. Just steady, clean honesty.

“It means he gets the roof done. Just not your way.”

The silence that follows is almost violent.

Cecilia shifts. Amy looks between faces. Perry blinks like maybe he just saw lightning strike indoors.

But you? You just keep eating. As if it’s no big deal to defend a man’s soul like that.

Rhett can’t look at you. Not right away. Not without choking.

But eventually, he glances sideways. And you’re not looking back. You don’t need to.

You already said the thing he never could.

And it wrecks him. Every time.

—

The Way You Say His Name When You’re Laughing

The barn smells like hay and motor oil and chaos.

Amy’s got duct tape stuck to her jeans, and you’re elbow-deep in a wheelbarrow that’s seen better centuries. There’s a pile of wood, a wrench, and a prayer — that’s the whole repair strategy.

Rhett walks in and freezes. “What the hell are you two building? A bomb?” You don’t even look up. “Don’t need your judgment, Abbott.” Amy grins. “Uncle Rhett, this thing’s an engineering marvel.” “It’s a death trap.”

And then you laugh.

Oh, God, that laugh.

It bursts out of you, bright and crackling, like lightning through a summer field. And between every giggle, you manage to say his name — not like a warning, not like a call.

Just like it’s yours to say.

“Rhett,” you gasp, breathless, eyes lit up like fireflies. “You’re such a buzzkill.”

He should be mad. Should be scolding. But he can’t stop smiling.

Because there’s something in the way you say his name when you’re happy. Like it’s music. Like it’s always belonged to your mouth.

And Rhett thinks — yeah. I’d let her call me that a thousand times and still feel it hit like the first.

—

The Way You Hum When You’re Focused

It’s late.

The house is quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes when every door is locked, every dish is done, every light has been dimmed to a glow.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, slicing peaches.

Rhett watches from the table. He should be helping. Or sleeping. But instead, he’s got one elbow propped, coffee going cold, just… watching.

You’ve got that faraway look again. Like you’re thinking about something too soft to speak aloud.

And you’re humming.

That same damn tune. Off-key. No words. Just you, and the peaches, and the rhythm only you seem to hear.

And for a moment, he swears the house is breathing. Like you brought life into it — filled it with something sacred.

He doesn’t speak.

He just listens.

Because there are pieces of you that only come out in the stillness. And he wants to know every single one.

—

EXTRA

The Way You Don’t Know He’s Already Chosen You

You didn’t mean to stop.

But the sound of his voice freezes you halfway down the stairs.

You were just getting water. You weren’t even wearing shoes.

But now you’re pressed to the wall, eyes wide, heart thudding.

Because Rhett’s voice — low and tired and real — is carrying from the kitchen.

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” he says.

Cecilia doesn’t answer right away.

He laughs. But it’s not happy.

“She ain’t even tryin’, Ma. That’s what kills me.”

You don’t breathe.

“She hums when she slices peaches. Same tune. Every time. Don’t think she knows. But the house... it feels alive when she does it.”

He pauses.

“She says my name like she’s always known how. Not like she needs me. Just... like she wants me around.”

You press your fingers to your lips.

“I don’t think I knew what home felt like until she came in and started acting like it was already hers.”

The air shifts.

“She loves Amy. Stands up to Dad. Runs the kitchen better than I ever could. I keep waitin’ for it to feel like a phase. But it don’t.” Cecilia speaks then, quiet and clear. “So what’re you gonna do?”

And Rhett says it — soft, but steady.

“I’m gonna marry her.”

You don’t cry.

But your breath hitches, your chest twists, and your whole world shifts a little on its axis.

Because you didn’t know.

Not until now.

And tomorrow, when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense —

You’ll finally understand why.

TAGLIST:

MY CHERRIES: veri🍒: @tokkiz @lizzie8878 @mrsparker3696 @pixie2k5 @0urlady0fs0rr0ws421 @astromilku drop your cherries: veri🍒: tag for ALL of that character works

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott x y/n #lewis pullman

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flufftato · 2 days ago

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Sincerely, who?

Haikyuu! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Bokuto Koutarou ❥➳·₊˚

ꕀ

〃fluff 〃pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x reader 〃wc: 983

a/n: Special guest - my love Akaashi hehe. Btw i'm so torn. Do you think bo is a "babe" or "baby" guy?

Bokuto is a needy little shit.

If you were to make a playlist for him, “needy” by Ariana Grande would be the first song.

You noticed this trait when you first met him. This loud, oddly owl-like wing spiker was in constant need of praises and encouragement from his teammates in every game.

But you still ended up falling for him.

After years of dating, it has become a habit of yours to leave a little note in Bokuto’s gym bag every day.

It’s really just a simple reminder to stay hydrated, eat his lunch properly, and a ‘I love you’ at the end. It’s a daily dose of affection to keep him going.

And it works. It keeps him going the entire day.

Sometimes when you’re in the mood, you’ll put in some extra loves for him. Maybe a short poem you saw online or a cheesy pick-up line you think he might like. Whenever you do, Bokuto swears he could spike 24/7 straight through the week.

But today just as you were trying to tuck the note into his bag, the phone rang.

You put the folded note down on the kitchen counter before heading to the living room where the phone was.

It was a windy day. Autumn had officially arrived last week, and the breeze was colder than usual.

Autumn has always been your favourite. It’s not too hot like summer, not freezing cold like winter — just cool enough to save on eletricity bills.

You really shouldn’t have opened the window that morning.

While you were still on the call, the wind picked up and fluttered across the kitchen. The note, left too close to the edge, was blown off the counter.

A few minutes later, Bokuto came bounding in, grabbed his gym bag with a quick shout of, “Gotta go, babe! Love you, bye!” and was out the door before you could even say back.

By the time you returned to the kitchen, you spotted the little folded note resting quitely on the floor near the fridge.

Crap…oh well.

You shrugged it off, thinking he would be fine without the note for just one day.

How wrong you were.

The aftermath landed right on his teammates.

Akaashi, specifically, suffered the most.

—

“Akaashiii, don’t toss to me! I don’t think I can spike without y/n’s note!”

“Okay. I’ll toss to the others.”

“Huh—”

Akaashi is so used to this. He knows Bokuto just needs a moment before bouncing back in full force.

But not today.

Bokuto eventually grows restless, so Akaashi decides it’s the perfect time to set for him — only to see the ball lands right past the line. Twice.

That’s when Akaashi knows this is serious.

Frowning at his sulking teammate slouching in the corner of the room, Akaashi sighs. It’s time to act.

He rips a page from his notebook, pulls out a pen from his pencil case, and quietly slips into the storage room.

Akaashi sits on a folded mat, pen in hand, staring down at the torn piece of paper. For a long moment, he just…thinks.

He tries his best to recall the notes Bokuto had gleefully shoved in his face over the past few months. But it’s all a blur now. And he deeply regrets never reading them properly.

So he switches tactics. What would he want to read if someone left him a loving note? What would touch his heart and give him the much needed boost?

“Just a few more hours before you can finally be at peace, honey.”

…Yeah, no. That’s not gonna work.

After what feels like five hours (but was really actually ten minutes), he finally writes something that looks passable. He even makes sure to mimic your handwriting.

“You’re the best. See you tonight”

Akaashi caps the pen with a nod. This should be good enough.

He slips back into the court and casually sneaks the note into the bottom of Bokuto’s bag.

“Bokuto-san,” Bokuto’s hair perks up slightly. “Do you have a spare kneepad? I can’t find the other one.” And the hair deflates again.

But being the sweetheart he is, Bokuto still drags himself over to fetch the extra kneepads from his bag.

When his fingertips brush against the paper, he freezes.

“What is it, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi appears right on cue behind him.

Bokuto stares at the note that he swears was not there before in utter confusion.

“It’s…a note?”

“Ah, it’s from y/n, isn’t it? That looks like her handwritting,” Akaashi says smoothly, almost too smooth.

“I don’t know…it looks kinda off. And it’s usually longer…”

“Maybe she wrote it in a rush. Still sweet of her, though. Even when she’s busy, she still makes time to write them.” Akaashi’s fingers are crossed behind his back.

Bokuto squints at it suspiciously…Well, he did saw you on the phone sounding serious this morning. Maybe you rushed off to answer the call — that would explain the hasty words and handwriting.

Just as Akaashi thinks he’s about to be caught, the little clueless owl lights up and immediately calls you.

As soon as you answer, he gasps dramatically:

“Babe! I saw the note! I thought you forgot! I love you too my little matcha mochi!”

“Wha—”

“Sorry babe, can't talk long. Break’s almost over. I'll see you at home, bye!” Beep.

You’re left standing in the living room, phone still pressed to your ear as your eyes landed on the real note resting neatly on the coffee table.

Later that evening, you receive a heartfelt text from Akaashi, thanking you for hyping Bokuto with all those notes.

And begging you to never stop. Not even for a day.

You made it up to Bokuto that night with plenty of kisses and snuggles, and you made a mental note to buy Akaashi lunch tomorrow.

Oh and burn that real note before Bokuto finds out.

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sweetheartfaist · 3 days ago

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art’s falling apart. finals, tennis, pressure building like a bruise under the skin. he comes to you in the middle of the night, quiet and fraying. he doesn’t ask, just curls into your chest and trembles. when you touch him, it isn’t just to get him off—it’s to hold him together.

cw: soft dom!reader, emotional vulnerability, explicit sexual content, handjob, crying during sex, light dacryphilia, academic burnout, stress relief, begging, praise kink, sub!art, maternal undertones, aftercare, verbal grounding, intense intimacy

it was just past twelve-forty when you heard the door handle shift—quiet, delicate, like maybe he thought the sound alone could shatter something. the click as it opened was barely audible beneath the hum of the heater and the distant shuffle of rain outside the dorm window, but still, your body stilled before your brain even caught up. you knew that kind of silence, the kind that was too careful. too heavy. too full.

you glanced up from your phone, still dimly lit in your hand, and your heart tugged the second your eyes found him. art donaldson stood in the doorway like he didn’t want to exist. hood pulled up over messy curls, jaw clenched tight, that familiar tension humming off him like static. he didn’t look at you. didn’t even move for a beat. just stood there like he was trying to find the strength to come inside and wasn’t sure he had it.

the string lights around your bed cast him in soft gold, catching in the wet shine around his eyes. you spoke first, gentle and quiet, like you were trying not to scare a stray animal. “oh. oh, art. c’mere, baby. c’mere.”

his shoulders jumped a little. not like a flinch, exactly, but something close. like your voice cracked something open in him. he hovered there for a second longer, jaw working like he wanted to say something sharp and bitter but couldn’t get it out. then he dropped his bag by the desk with a dull thump, kicked the door shut behind him, and crossed the room in a few long, slouching steps.

he didn’t say anything as he climbed up onto the mattress. didn’t ask, didn’t explain. he just crawled into your lap with a kind of collapsing grace, limbs folding in on themselves, his cheek settling right over your belly like he’d done it a hundred times before. like it was instinct. like he was home.

“couldn’t sleep,” he muttered after a long pause, voice hoarse and thick, warm against the thin fabric of your sweatshirt. “too much in my fuckin’ head. too loud.”

you exhaled softly and carded your fingers through his curls, working slow from the base of his neck up, letting your nails scrape just enough to soothe. he nuzzled closer with a little whimper, one hand curling up under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed wide against the bare skin of your waist like he was trying to remind himself you were real. “i know, baby,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “i know it’s a lot.”

he shifted then, burrowing even deeper into your middle, dragging his hood down one-handed and breathing harder now, like everything was pressing in on him and the only safe place left was under your ribs. “practice was shit,” he mumbled. “couldn’t land a serve, kept double-faultin’ like a fuckin’ amateur. coach was givin’ me that look all afternoon like he’d already written me off.”

you hummed, fingers still moving, gentle and steady. “you’ve been pushing too hard.”

“feels like everything’s fallin’ apart,” he went on, voice breaking around the edges. “gotta paper due tomorrow, group project i haven’t touched, two tests next week. and i still haven’t eaten dinner ‘cause i got stuck at the training center tryin’ to fix my fuckin’ swing. i—fuck, i feel like i haven’t exhaled in four days.”

you wrapped your arms around him tighter, cradling him like he was something precious. “oh, artie,” you breathed into his hair. “you’re so burnt out, baby. your brain’s fried. that doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you need rest.”

he went quiet again, but you felt the way he clung tighter. the little shake in his shoulders. his voice when it came next was raw and small, muffled against your belly. “i don’t know how to stop. if i rest… i don’t know. it feels like everything’ll just break. like—like it’s all holdin’ together by one thread and if i let go, it’s over.”

you cupped the back of his neck, lips brushing his temple. “nothing’s gonna fall apart, baby. i’ve got you. i’ll hold it with you. just breathe.”

for a long while, he didn’t speak. just breathed—shallow and ragged at first, then a little deeper, a little slower, your fingers smoothing the tension from his scalp. and when he finally moved, it was soft. tentative. his mouth found the bare skin above your waistband, pressing a featherlight kiss there. then another. then he rubbed his cheek against you like a sleepy puppy, curling into himself, whining quietly under his breath.

your hands stilled. “art,” you said gently. “what’s goin’ on, baby? you want something?”

he didn’t lift his head, didn’t look at you. just gave a tiny nod and said, quiet as a secret, “m’not tryna be a perv. don’t make me say it. just… please.”

your hand moved instinctively to his cheek, guiding him up until he looked at you, glassy-eyed and flushed, every inch of him open and desperate in that particular art way that cracked your chest wide. “tell me what you need, puppy.”

he sucked in a shaky breath, already moving, catching your hand and guiding it down under the hem of his shorts. he didn’t even hesitate—just pressed your palm flush over the bulge in his briefs and shivered. “fuck—yeah. yeah, there. please.”

you blinked, stunned for a second at the sheer heat of him through the fabric. the way it twitched against your hand, damp with precum, throbbing under your touch like it had been waiting all night. “jesus christ,” you whispered, fingers closing gently around the outline of him. “you’re so hard, artie.”

“been like that since dinner,” he said, red-faced, trying to bury himself in your stomach again. “tried to ignore it, tried jackin’ off in the shower but it didn’t help. it just—made it worse. i just keep thinkin’ about you. about your hands. your voice. i dunno. i just—i need it.”

you slid your hand slow over the heat of him, still over the cotton, and his breath hitched like you’d knocked the wind out of him. he whined again, high and helpless, and curled into you like he was trying to disappear.

you felt him tremble under your palm, hips twitching, his whole body wound tight like a rubber band about to snap. his voice was thin and trembling—“ohh fuck, yeah, that’s—that’s good—don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“you poor thing,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss his temple, your strokes still slow and light. “walkin’ around all day like this, baby? hard and achy and no one takin’ care of you?”

“n-no,” he breathed, voice shaking, curling his fingers tighter into your sweatshirt. “just—fuck, just you. only you. no one else gets to. s’only ever you.”

you slid your hand down, hooked your fingers into his waistband and tugged his shorts low, just enough for his cock to spring free. it slapped against his lower belly, flushed dark and leaking, thick and twitching in the warm air between you. he whined at the exposure, soft and sharp—nnnhhhh, fffuck, i—it’s so much—but he didn’t pull away.

“oh, baby,” you cooed, wrapping your hand around him properly now, feeling the weight and pulse of him, the way he jumped at the first touch. “you’re leaking all over yourself.”

he whimpered, cheeks flushed and shiny-eyed, jaw slack and lips parted. “hurts,” he gasped. “been hurtin’ all day. m’balls ache. couldn’t focus on anything, i—fuck, i feel crazy.”

you started stroking him slow, twisting your wrist just slightly on the upstroke, your thumb dragging through the wet sheen at his tip. his thighs twitched around you, his breath coming faster, soft and broken—hahh, hnnhhh, fuhhhck—his hips rolling up like instinct, chasing the friction with needy little shoves.

“you’re okay,” you whispered, holding him close with your other arm. “you’re okay now, puppy. just let mama take care of it.”

“don’t say that,” he choked out, voice strained. “gonna make me cry.”

“you can cry,” you told him, soft and firm, kissing behind his ear. “you can do anything, baby. i’ve got you.”

his whole body was vibrating now, shaking, every muscle tense like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer will. your hand moved slow and steady, dragging slick sounds out of his cock—shhhlick, shhlickk, shhlick—each stroke making him twitch harder, his abs flexing, toes curling under the blanket.

“tell me what you need, artie,” you murmured, lips at his temple, your hand never stopping. “you can say it. i’ll give you anything.”

his voice broke on the next breath—“dunno. fuck. just—don’t stop. please, just keep—need you to—fuhhhck—need you to hold me.”

“i’m not goin’ anywhere, baby. let go. come for me.”

he let out a strangled noise—ahhhhhnnnngghh fuhhhckfuckfuck—and his whole body snapped taut, his cock jerking in your grip as he came hard, thick streams spilling across his stomach and your knuckles. he was sobbing before the last spurt even landed, clinging to you like he’d break apart without your arms around him. his face buried in your neck, hot and wet, breath catching in tiny hiccups.

you didn’t stop touching him. just slowed your strokes, milked him through the comedown, your other hand cradling the back of his head, rocking him gently against your chest. his cum was still warm on your skin, sticky where it smeared on your sweatshirt, but you didn’t care.

you kissed the side of his head, soft and lingering. “you did so good, puppy. such a good boy.”

he hiccupped, breath stuttering, and you could feel the tears finally giving way to little shivering sighs, his body sagging boneless in your lap. you reached for a tissue and wiped him up slow, cleaned him careful, like he was something delicate. when he sniffled, you stroked his hair. when he sighed, you kissed his brow.

he looked up at you eventually, eyes red and glazed and soft like wet clay. like he’d melted entirely.

“thank you,” he whispered, voice barely there. “dunno what i’d do without you.”

you smiled, brushing the sweat-damp curls off his forehead. “you don’t gotta think about that, baby. i’m always here.”

and he believed you. in that moment, he believed every word. because for the first time all week, his lungs didn’t feel like they were on fire. because you were warm and real and safe, and he could finally breathe.

#ִ ✦ . sweetheartfaist ⊹　 ❜ ᵎ #─── chloe’s writing.#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #smut #challengers smut #challengers oneshot #art donaldson drabble #drabble

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hanniescookie · 20 hours ago

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love me back - yjh ⁠◜⁠teaser◝⁠

—⁠☆ when your long forgotten middle school crush walks into your bakery on a random tuesday, your whole life spirals. to top it all, you're forced to be his pretend wife for a mere apartment.

pairing - jeonghan x f!reader

genre/warnings - non idol au, fluff, romance, angst, humor, slice of life, fake dating, one sided love, one sided pining that turns mutual, middle school classmates to strangers to lovers, best friend's cousin kinda situation, slight cursing, use of petnames, kissing, skinship, mentions of drinking alcohol

wc - 0.5k for the teaser

A/N - 🥁❗the teaser for my bbangi's ( @kissbyoon ) birthday special fic is here!!! baby, i hope you love this, and i'll write you a whole birthday wish post on the 16th hehe ｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡ i am not yet done writing this whole fic, so lord knows what the word count is gonna be, hopefully i'll stop before it reaches 20k. comment under this post to be added to the taglist!! full fic out on the 16th of june 🤍

A sigh of relief escapes your lips as the last customer leaves and Seokmin flips the open sign outside your cozy bakery.

You lean against the cool metal of the counter, the sweet scent of flour and sugar enveloping your senses. The evening rush had been crazy, and left you fairly exhausted.

“Alright, Seokmin, almost there!” You call out, wiping down the counter with a practiced hand.

Seokmin is already wrestling with a string of fairy lights near the window. “Just gotta get these stars to hang right! Your friend deserves the best!”

He grins, and you can't help but smile back. He's so kind, and truly the best person you've met ever since you ended college.

It is Seri’s birthday tonight, and you haven't seen her in ages, especially due to the distance of miles stretching between you both and the responsibilities of adult life. However, she had promised she'd celebrate her twenty third birthday with you.

You disappear into the back, pulling out a small, perfectly frosted strawberry shortcake from the chilled display. It is Seri’s favorite, and you’ve baked it especially for her. You hum a little tune as you carefully place a ‘Happy Birthday’ topper on it, the vibrant red of the strawberries popping against the white cream.

When you return to the front, Seokmin has managed to string the lights across the bakery, casting a soft, warm glow. He is now fumbling with a handful of balloons. “Thank you, Seokmin. This looks perfect. Just a few more minutes until she gets here.”

Just as you are about to grab a balloon yourself, the little bell above the door jingles. You look up, expecting Seri, and panicking that she's here even before you're done with the decor.

“Oh my goodness, there's no way you're here al—” Your words get stuck in your throat, forming a painful, hard lump. It feels like a stone, lodged right in the center of your windpipe, making it impossible to breathe.

There's no way you're not hallucinating.

A tall figure steps in, head bent, eyes glued to his phone. He doesn't look up, doesn’t acknowledge you or Seokmin. He just walks inside, making himself a quiet presence as he stops by one of the tables, completely absorbed in his screen.

Your heart, which had been beating with happy anticipation, suddenly feels still, like everything around you has frozen. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the gentle pop of a balloon Seokmin is trying to inflate, even the cheerful glow of the fairy lights—it all fades into the background.

Seven years.

It has been seven years since you’d last seen Yoon Jeonghan. Your unrequited love for most part of your life.

He is older now, of course, and much much handsome. More manly with his hair styled to fall on his forehead. The line of his jaw is sharper, yet his long lashes are exactly the same.

It is undeniably him.

The boy from middle school, your friend's cousin, the one you’d poured your heart out to in a letter he never answered. He is here, in your bakery, and he hasn't even looked up.

Then, the door opens wide and a happy, familiar voice echoes around the space. “Surprise! Did you miss me?”

It is Seri, her arms wide for a hug. But your excitement, the one that had been bubbling inside you all day, is gone. It had vanished the moment Jeonghan walked in, silent and oblivious, leaving you to second guess every emotion you'd stuffed far away in your heart.

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rhisturn · 14 hours ago

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dare i say, this is getting a bit ridiculous now.

the no video after tour was enough tbh, if you think about it from the other way around, people, including myself, paid thousands of dollars/pounds to be at tour, travelled 16 hours in my case, and then we couldn’t even get a vid.. i completely understand in that case they needed to rest, but wasn’t it like 2 whole weeks since tour ended at that point.

but what’s the excuse now, this isn’t the first time in the past couple months they’ve done this either. the stalking situation cannot be used as reasoning either because matt especially has been the most active he’s been in months this past week, and if that was the issue they would have gone completely silent. if they were to have been silent all week, and not post today because of the situation. i would have 100% understood, i’m sure we all would. but that hasn’t been the case

i get nervous saying this shit because people lick their arses so bad in this fandom. like i love them so much, but it’s okay to call them out. they’ve one ‘public’ obligation a week, to post a 20 minute video on a friday at 2:30. that’s it. they don’t do anything else anymore. it’s not like we’re getting hours of twitch streams, wednesday videos, podcasts or anything. one video is all they gotta do. bare in mind it pays their rent, is their source of income, is the reason they are where they are. like how are we struggling with ts.

of course it’s also okay to be late with things, it happens. but again, this is their job. haven’t they been doing this long enough for this to be a non existent problem anymore. schedule videos if you know your gonna be busy or if there’s a chance your gonna miss a post. but the thing that bothers me if the lack of communication, being almost an hour late at this point is one thing, but for there to also be complete radio silence, is ridiculous. if your running late or even if you aren’t gonna post. it takes a second to tell us. they’ve got no communication skills with us anymore

i understand not wanting to talk to us like they used to, especially after the past week. but it’s still, again, their fucking job to do this shit. i feel like it’s not a lot to expect. this is probaly at this point the most hate they’ve ever gotten in their career with the ‘their falling off’ and ‘their gonna quit soon’ shit, so if that isn’t the case wouldn’t you go out of the way to improve your content and do the absolute most to ensure people stop talking. not to make it worse, again.

i feel like it this point it’s starting to piss everyone off. at the end of the day, their 21 year old men and this is their only job. when they do stuff wrong, we don’t have to baby them and act like the lack of accountability or communication is okay. in their line of work, that is quite literally their only responsibility. and even amongst everything going on with the hate at the minute. they clearly still don’t care.

this obviously isn’t just about not posting today, cs that would be slightly dramatic lol. but this has been a problem for months and months. even before tour. there’s no excuses anymore.

edit:

well chris has just posted a pic on instagram and nick is liking posts so clearly their all fine and there’s nothing wrong for all the people using that as an excuse. they just don’t even have the decency to tell us anymore, love this dynamic we’ve got going on with them now. 10/10 communication

don’t rip me to shreds please and thanks :)

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #mjsturn

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pagesfromthevoid · 3 days ago

Text

Sources of Strength | j. s. | 3

Jake Seresin x school counselor!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Language, but nothing else?

Author’s Note: Two pretty idiots who kind of hate each other but don't actually.

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

“The big thing you gotta keep in mind,” Jake says as he wraps up the tour for the high schoolers. His eyes linger on Aaron, the kid from earlier, for a moment before he looks at everyone else. “Are your sources of strength. What keeps you goin’. Who keeps you goin’. You keep those in mind, you remind yourself every chance you get, and you’re gonna do fine.”

Rooster is leaning over to whisper something to her, and she looks up at him as if considering if he’s right or not. Jake can’t determine if she decides her choice, either. When the kids are dismissed to go explore the visitor’s center museum, he saunters over to the two of them and gives her the same polite smile he gave her that morning.

“Don’t you two look cozy,” he comments, looking between her and Rooster.

“One of these days,” Rooster warns, rolling his eyes. “This is where we leave you though, unfortunately. I don’t know about Bagman here, but I have actual work to get done.”

“Jokes on you,” Jake taunts, rolling his toothpick behind his teeth. He catches her watching, and for some reason, he damn near swallows the thing. “I’m technically off the rest of the day.”

Rooster flicks him off before offering his hand to the counselor, who takes it with a laugh. Then he’s walking off, slipping his sunglasses back on. Jake reaches for his own, but realizes he has no idea where he put them. For a minute, he pats himself down then gives in. She’s watching him with an amused smirk on her face, like she knows something he doesn’t, and he touches his head to check if he’s an idiot.

He’s not.

Shit. Not another pair.

“That was great advice,” she offers, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s about to walk towards the museum, and Jake finds himself following her. “The sources of strength stuff. I like that a lot, actually.”

“It was the only advice I got at the academy that I actually listened to,” he admits with a chuckle, taking the toothpick out of his mouth as he falls into step with her. “You know, because I have such an issue with authority and all.”

“Oh, so we can add ‘oppositional defiance’ to the list of theories then?” She asks, looking up at him. But she’s got a smirk on her face –not a I’m going to ruin your night smirk but a playful one.

Jake thinks she’s finally flirting with him.

“You can stop addin’ anything to that list,” he counters, narrowing his eyes at her with his own smirk. He opens the door to the museum for her, and she brushes past him. Just enough. Just barely there. But he can feel her, and he thinks for a second he may let this woman ruin his life.

“But it’s so fun,” she points out, sitting down on one of the benches towards the front of the museum. She’s got her eyes on the students, and Jake knows he should probably not distract her from them, but he really wants her to look at him again. “Especially because it clearly gets under your skin –I heard you couldn’t stop talking about me the other night.”

“Oh yeah –couldn’t stop complaining about how much of an asshole you are.”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“Damn.”

She stares at her phone for a little while, staring at the last message from her friend outside the Hard Deck. For the better part of fifteen minutes, she’s been debating if she’s going to give Jake back his sunglasses. That she definitely didn’t mean to steal but definitely didn’t actively give back either. He handed them to her, and he never asked for them back –though he definitely looked for them, she watched, it was funny –so mistakes happen.

At the time, it made sense –give her an excuse to see him again. Maybe apologize; maybe see him do that thing with the toothpick again…But now that she’s staring at the messages from Bremerton, realizing that she might have a tiny crush on someone nicknamed Hangman…she doesn’t want to go inside. She doesn’t want to risk getting her feelings hurt; it’s never really been in her wheelhouse to handle her own shit. There’s a reason she went into a field to help other people, after all.

Another text pops in while she tries to talk herself out of doing this.

Bob says don’t sleep with him unless you want to get hurt, but Bob doesn’t know that you’re the best at humbling assholes <3

That earns a laugh, boosting her confidence enough to get out of her little Honda Fit. It feels a little out of place at the Hard Deck –there’s a dumb amount of pick up trucks and somehow she just knows one of them belongs to Jake –but she tries to ignore that fact as she pulls open the door to the bar.

It’s early on a Friday, but there’s still plenty of people milling about. All in service uniforms, which makes her came-straight-from-school look feel just as out of place as her car. All staring at her like she’s encroached on a space that she is not invited to. She shifts between legs, wishing she had just gone home and taken off these stupid heels she wore today.

“Just can’t get enough of me, huh?”

She snaps her attention to the dart board, where Jake leans against the wall with two of his friends. Vaguely, she knows one of them as Javy, but she doesn’t recognize the other one. Jake does, in fact, have that damn toothpick in his mouth. Smirking like he did that first night they met –not like he did on Wednesday, when she thought maybe he isn’t so bad. But like he knows he’s the shit and is going to make it her problem.

Javy leans over and whispers something in Jake’s ear, and the blonde spins that stupid toothpick again, looking directly at her. She can just make out the words, and she knows they’re whispering about her being here, specifically looking for Jake, after verbally abusing him a week ago.

Six years of school and she never remembers the age old saying, “When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.” She should have known better than to think this guy is anything more than an asshole with a pretty face. Just because he wasn’t the worst while he was at work doesn’t mean he’s not the worst off base. The “I’m gonna catch that” smirk and the overconfidence that radiates off him should have been her first and only warning.

“Well, sweetheart?” He asks, stepping toward her as she gets closer. He even has the audacity to put his hand on her hip.

She steps away from him, rolling her eyes.

“I thought I’d bring you your sunglasses,” she says, but her tone is flat. The aviators sit between her fingers, waiting for him to take them.

The mask he wears slips a little, like he’s confused by her response, but it's back up just as fast. “Knew you must’ve taken them, honey. Bet you’ve been wearin’ too.”

“Aviators are a bit overrated,” she points out, looking up at him now.

He catches the double meaning, shaking his head as he reaches for his sunglasses. He slips them on, raising his brows suggestively. “I don’t know, sweetheart –don’t think you’d be here if they were.”

“You’re doing that thing again,” she comments, completely dismissing the flirting, motioning up and down towards him.

“And what thing would that be, beautiful?” He leans closer to her, and she knows he’s doing this because he thinks he has to put on a show for his airplane buddies.

“That thing where you overcompensate for your imposter syndrome by being an asshole.”

There’s silence for a beat. Two. They’re staring each other down, and even though Jake’s eyes are hidden behind the dark lenses of his glasses, she knows he’s looking at her with more than a little anger and even some hurt. But Javy and his friend break the silence, bursting out laughing at the misery of their friend. Jake yanks his glasses off, and she confirms that she was right:

He’s definitely pissed and he’s definitely hurt.

She did her own thing again.

“What is your problem?” He demands, pointing down at her.

“I…,” she tries to explain, but there’s nothing coming out of her mouth. How does she explain that she thought hey, maybe you don’t suck, Jake; Maybe I think I misjudged you; Maybe you don’t need to be a fucking peacock to get my attention?

She could just say that, she supposes, but the words still don’t form on her tongue. Jake is waiting; she can see his jaw clenched, barely holding back whatever insult he has on his tongue.

“I’m an asshole,” she blurts out. And that is…not exactly what she should have said, but it's what came out. And it’s not…wrong.

Jake is about to argue with her –because obviously he’s going to argue with whatever lame excuse she comes up with –but stops short, confused. “You –what?”

“I’m…an asshole,” she repeats, but she refuses to look at him. “That’s it. That’s my problem, okay?”

His brows furrow and he stares at her for a long time. Just staring, like he’s trying to make sense of what the hell she’s saying. Which is a fair reaction on his part, honestly.

“Can we –can we just go outside and talk?” She asks, finally meeting his gaze.

He hesitates a moment, glancing between her and his friends. But then he nods, motioning for her to lead the way out the back door.

She half wishes he hadn’t agreed because now she needs to actually use her words. Jake is trying to play it cool —be nonchalant about it all —but his mask of overconfidence has cracked entirely and she feels like, well, an asshole.

“I don’t get you,” he finally says, motioning to her.

She opens her mouth to say something —it was going to be mean, so she bites her tongue. “I…I don’t get me either, honestly.”

“This really isn’t funny,” he argues, frowning deeply now.

“I’m not…oh my god, I’m not joking,” she groans, running her hands over her face. “I don’t know how to tell you I’m sorry without somehow making an ass of myself, okay? Like, I felt bad last week for calling you out on your shit. You didn’t even do anything that bad except talk to your friends about finding someone to go home with. Which, like, Jesus. It’s a bar. It’s not that deep.”

Jake has the respect to at least cringe at his behavior, which upon reflection she knows wasn’t even that bad. “You heard all that?”

“You’re not exactly quiet, Jake,” she reminds him, leaning back against the wall. “I got annoyed that you thought, for some reason, I would be an easy target to take home. Like, do I look easy?”

There’s a quirk in his lips —like he wants to smile but he’s stopping himself. “No, no —you most certainly do not.”

“You’re trying so hard not to laugh at me,” she points out, half glaring at him. “You can’t say I don’t look easy then try not to laugh at the same time.”

“I’m not laughin’ at you,” he promises, putting his hands up in defense. “I’m just —you didn’t hear what we were sayin’ if you think we were talking about finding someone easy.”

“Excuse me?”

Jake leans against the side of the railing, putting his hands into his pockets. “Bob showed us a picture of you when he mentioned you’d be joinin’ us. I told him I’d get you to go out with me, made a shitty joke that he wouldn’t be the only one findin’ himself a teacher.”

“I’m not a teacher —,”

“Yeah, learned that when you started diagnosing me with behavioral disorders,” he cut her off, giving her a pointed look. “What you heard was Coyote talkin’ about not goin’ for someone who looked like she could kick my ass.”

She feels her face flush, eyeing him closely. “And yet you still did?”

“What is it you said last week?” He asks, pushing himself off the railing. It’s two strides and he’s in front of her. One hand presses against the wall above her head. Not caging her in, but close enough that she can smell his cologne. “That I think any attention is good attention? You hit the nail on the head there, honey.”

“At least you’re self aware,” she manages to get out, but she’s trying to regain any self control and dignity she has left. “I also said the person you are and the person you pretend to be are different. I was right.”

“Oh, yeah?” He asks, leaning down closer.

“I saw who you are on Wednesday,” she explains. With a shaking hand —well, she thinks she’s shaking, but if Jake notices, he doesn’t say it —she touches just below his rib cage. Just lightly, just barely. “When there’s not an audience or a threat to his ego, I saw him. When he was talking to my students. When he was talking about his sources of strength. I saw you. And I actually kind of liked him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what happened tonight?” His other hand has moved to her hip. Just like her touch on his chest, it’s just lightly there. Barrel.

“I told you,” she reminds him, looking up to meet his eyes. “You were acting out, trying to get attention from your buddies and from me, but I had already come in ready to give it freely. Didn’t even give me a chance.”

“I was just —,” he cuts himself off, pushing off the wall and away from her. Her drops back to her side. “Have I mentioned that you can read me like a goddamn book?”

“Is that good or bad?”

“No idea,” he admits with a heavy sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Why did you actually come out tonight?”

“I wanted to apologize,” she says, shrugging as she looks over at the beach. She grins and looks back up at him. “And return your glasses. I definitely took them by accident, but may have had them when you were looking for them too.”

“I damn well knew it,” he accuses, and he’s stepping into her space again. He’s grinning though, and it’s the same kind of grin he had on Wednesday. A little more shy than he probably would ever want to be told, but she likes it. “I don’t have an excuse today. I wanted to flirt with you. Thought after Wednesday, we were on the same page.”

“I was on the same page with the Jake I met on Wednesday,” she points out. “Not Hangman, though.”

He nods some, running a hand over his jaw. “I’ll be honest, you’re gonna be disappointed if you think I’m gonna change just because you’re pretty. You can read me like a book but there’s a lot between the lines you can’t erase.”

“Just be real with me,” she asks, and he looks down at her with questions in his eyes. “No, like actually be real —you don’t need to act all peacocky to get my attention. Believe me, you have it.”

That makes him smirk, and she reaches up to tug him down by the front of his shirt. There’s no fight from Jake as he puts his hands back on her hips. There’s a tension between them, and it’s hard to not fall into his gravitational pull. But as he leans down, she pulls back slightly with a playful smirk.

“Oh, no —I don’t kiss before the first date.”

Jake’s eyes narrow, but he’s returning the smirk as he squeezes her hips just a little too hard —in the best way. “I don’t remember askin’ you on a date.”

“You didn’t,” she teases, pulling away from him, walking back inside as she calls over her shoulder. “But you probably should.”

But he’s pulling her back, hand on her wrist as he brings her back into his hold. He leans them back against the wall with a grin. “Let me take you out, beautiful.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar.”

“I think you’re free tomorrow.”

“Would you look at that —I am.”

-------

Taglist: @theladybiers

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #top gun maverick #glen powell #glen powell x reader

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hedwig221b · 2 days ago

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Hey hey my lovely hedwig! I was wondering if you have any good bodyguard Derek fic recs for me to devour

Your recs are the best btw, top tier🏆

Aw, thank you! I present to you this feast

Where the Shadow Ends by Green

Derek goes undercover to Delphi to figure out what's wrong with the oracle. He doesn't mean to fall in love.

Strike Softly (Away From The Body) by qhuinn (tekla)

Derek is a bodyguard and Stiles his spoiled, resistant client.

Voice of Rage and Ruin by Qayin

Derek is hired as a bodyguard to this kid, Stiles. And the thing is, Stiles seems completely harmless, but everyone keeps telling Derek how he needs to be careful. Stiles is a nogitsune, a human possessed by a powerful deity of chaos and void, and not only does other people want him for his power, but he could potentially hurt others; and then it’s Derek’s job to protect those people — from his client.

Neither Here Nor There by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

"Oh!” He turned to Stiles. “Is he your new bodyguard?” Derek saw Stiles stiffen at that, wondering why, but before Stiles could open his mouth to insist that, why yes, Derek was his bodyguard like the brat he was, Derek spoke first. “I’m Mieczyslaw Stilinski’s bodyguard.” The confused look that crossed Scott’s face now was kind of annoying. Scott looked at Stiles, then back at Derek, and then at Stiles again. “I see…?”

just once by stilinskisparkles

"I’m your bodyguard!” “Yeah, I know, and I get that you’re worried I am somehow living under the illusion you are Kevin Costner and I’m Whitney Houston, but Derek?” Stiles grabs his tie before Derek can stop him, pulls him close enough to murmur in his ear, “I can’t sing.”

We Gotta Hide What We're Doin' by CharWright5

As a Bodyguard within the Stilinski Rodzina, Derek's one and only job is to watch over the Omega son—and only child—of the Family's Head, Stiles, a task that is easier said than done some nights. It's just good that the Alpha knows the best way to punish the little troublemaker when his bratty behavior threatens to expose a secret that could get the Bodyguard killed.

reGuardless by raisesomehale

The president had been to the point when he explained to Derek the rules of the job. Stiles was in the room while these rules were recited: Never take your eyes off of him in public. That’s how he liked to dodge his last bodyguards. No more than an arm's length apart. He’s more slippery than you’d think. Escort him to and from appearances. Intervene in any situation that might tarnish the Stilinski image… The list went on and on. As did the games of chicken Stiles initiated to test Derek with these rules.

I Would (And Did) Take A Bullet For You by luvsbitca

Derek Hale is Prince Stiles Stilinksi's bodyguard. Then he gets shot and things change between them.

Complicated Is An Understatement by haletostilinski

Stiles is the 17-year-old son of the POTUS, and Derek is his bodyguard. For the past few months they've been together in private, and only in the last few weeks did they take it all the way. And it isn't just sex between them, they're in love. Which makes their situation a whole lot more complicated.

The Darkness Inside by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

The sheriff watched him for a moment, then he sighed and turned slightly. He reached out to open a cabinet door beside him, and pulled out a shelf. It was on a track, so it rolled out of the cabinet fairly easily, and held a small CCTV. Derek frowned and inched his chair to the side a little bit so he could get a better angle. He was looking at a teenager, or someone at least young enough to be the same age as Scott. He was sitting on a bed in what looked to be a larger room, the area he was in surrounded by four glass walls, with his legs crossed and head tilted. He was also staring directly into the camera, as if he knew someone was watching. A creepy smile slowly slid onto the teen’s face, and he held up one hand, wiggling his fingers in a slow, eery wave. Derek felt his mouth run dry. He didn’t know who this kid was, but he didn’t like him. “Who is that?” he asked quietly. “That,” said the sheriff, “is my son.”

A Princely Knight by Dexterous_Sinistrous

He would stand by Stiles’ side, a constant shadow of protection until his death. A life for a life, one worth much more than an orphan turned thief turned royal guard could comprehend. In truth, Derek saw the one person he would gladly give his life for, because Stiles made this world better. ~*~ Or, Stiles is a prince and Derek is his knight.

[masterlist link]

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #stiles x derek #sterek fic #sterek fanfic #sterek fic rec #hedwig221b replies #derek x stiles #sterek fanfiction #sterek au #sterek ao3 #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fanfic #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf fic rec #teen wolf sterek #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf derek

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ghostgirl-22 · 20 hours ago

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i can't get the idea of patrick and art dry humping and getting off like that out of my head help

*Tashi voice* Does this help you anon??

CW: MDNI, NSFW

Summary: This is about when Patrick comes out as bisexual and Art, just so excited for him, becomes the most annoying “fake” gay friend ever.

—-

He’s finally certain after he sees Pirates of the Caribbean for the first time. Then the second time. Then he buys the dvd just to be really, really sure. Sitting in the dorm while Art’s away, jerking off imagining himself as Orlando Bloom, imagining himself as Kiera Knightly.

He’s so nervous about what Art will think but it turns out to be no big deal. Art brushes it off like “haha okay cool man, just don’t fall in love with me.”

Patrick is already in love with him…he probably always has been… but doesn’t want to freak Art out, so he just says, “shut up dude, you’re not even my type.”

They both laugh. Things deflate and mostly go back to normal.

Except for the fact that Art gets so, well… gay… for lack of a better phrase. He gets really flirty over the next few months. Suddenly he’s got his arms over Patrick’s shoulder all the time, hanging off of him, playing with his hair, making little stupid jokes amongst their teammates. “Don’t be mad at his serve guys, it’s actually good and I’m not just saying that because he kisses me tenderly before we go to sleep every night.” Art says, their teammates snickering as Patrick tosses a tennis ball at him.

After practice Art comes to him in their dorm room. “Hey man you looked a little stiff out there, you want a massage? Lemme give you a massage,” and he’s rubbing Patrick’s shoulders. It feels nice until Art says “You can get naked and I’ll bring out the baby oil for you,” he grins before Patrick laughs and tells him to fuck off.

One Saturday they’re at a match. It's still early spring. Patrick gets chilly easily but his sweatshirt is in the wash. Art’s kind of an ice queen so he’s not phased by it. “Come on dude, you can borrow my sweater,” he says as Patrick shivers. So Patrick’s walking around all day with Donaldson on the back of his sweatshirt.

“It’s funny, like I gave you my last name or something,” Art teases. Which doesn’t make Patrick feel anyway at all.

Art likes to point out “hot dudes” to Patrick, in the guise of trying to help him find a boyfriend. “Come on you gotta rip the band aid off. If you don’t get a boyfriend soon… you’re gonna have to take me.”

“Yeah? You wanna be my boyfriend?” Patrick smirks.

“Sure, I'll break your hymen,” Art snorts.

Again Patrick feels completely fine and normal.

They play fight a lot more too. Well, they start up again. They used to do it a lot when they were kids and there’s a sudden resurgence of childish wrestling matches. Art usually starts it, he’ll dumbly jump on top of Patrick and try to get him to smell his armpit before he gets in the shower or something stupid like that which usually leads to the two of them breathless on the floor or in one of their twin beds. One of them pinning the other. Patrick usually has to adjust himself so he doesn’t give anything away.

Except Art acts like it’s what he wants. “Bet you wanna kiss me so bad right now, dude,” he smirks.

“Yeah I do, come here,” Patrick says and Art will laugh like he’s not serious.

Or even worse he’ll whisper in Patrick’s ear, “god I’m so fucking hard right now.” And then fall over in a fit of giggles. Asshole.

Patrick’s learned none of it’s serious. He knows Art isn’t doing it to be malicious, even if it kinda sucks sometimes. He knows Art loves him (as a friend) and maybe this is Art’s way of acting like nothing is different. Or maybe it’s his radical acceptance of Patrick’s sexuality. Or maybe… or maybe…

Whenever Patrick has a girlfriend Art will joke around like, “Okay she’s your girlfriend but like…I’m still your boyfriend, right?” He says it when they're in the middle of the last round of Mario Kart, just before Patrick’s about to leave for his date.

“Yeah always, loser,” Patrick adds the last part, as he zooms past Art in the game.

“Okay so gimme a kiss before you go,” Art taps his cheek. He’s so stupid. And Patrick is too, because he does it.

It comes to a head one night when Patrick’s in a bad mood. He didn’t do well on an exam and there's a possibility he might be at risk for academic probation. Usually when he’s in a bad mood he gets kinda horny and right now he’s not really in the mood for teasing.

They’re studying and Art sighs before asking Patrick for another homoerotic favor. “Fuck… dude please, please i need your help… can you stretch me? My legs are so fucking sore from those lunges. I can’t even focus.”

Patrick does it, only to stop Art from making those soft, extremely distracting, moans of discomfort. He stretches Art out on the solid surface of their bedroom floor. It’s a special kind of hell listening to him grunt his satisfaction.

Patrick’s pressing down one of Art’s legs, while leaning over his face. He’s shirtless, blond curls fanned out, blue eyes shining with amusement. He starts pouting those soft pink lips making stupid kissy faces. Patrick is so horny and irritated that he just does it. A little peck on his lips.

“Seriously like the best fucking kiss I’ve ever had in my life.” Art grins.

“Stop testing me,” Patrick snaps.

“Testing you how, man?” Art grunts out, nonchalant as Patrick stretches him deeper.

”You know I’m bisexual.” If Art keeps this up— today of all days Patricks gonna lose it and show him exactly what bisexual means.

“Yeah of course I do. Remember you’re my boyfriend, you buy me dinner and stuff,” he laughs and when Patrick doesn’t join him Art reaches out and pats his arm. “Don’t worry dude I got your back, always.”

Patrick narrows his eyes. “Boyfriend Art, really?”

”what? You don’t want me?” Art teases.

“Yeah, I want you.” Patrick says plainly, backing off of the stretch.

Art laughs, dropping his leg to the floor.

“I’m so fucking serious.” Patrick says, keeping eye contact.

Art’s smile starts to settle and he shrugs. “Well of course you do. I’m too hot to resist.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and then crawls over him. Kissing him again but this time he means it. Mouth pressed against soft smiling lips, he slides his tongue along Art’s teeth. Art breathes in and makes the mistake of opening up, which lets Patrick slip his tongue inside, finding Art’s tongue and massaging it with his own.

Art has mostly stilled but as soon as Patrick starts to pull back ready with the excuses he feels Art’s tongue move, and suddenly he’s licking, tasting, sliding into Patrick’s mouth. He hums as he actively starts to kiss Patrick back. He moves his leg so both of his feet are flat on the floor and his knees are drawn up, Patrick slotting himself naturally between his thighs. Never breaking the kiss.

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but he does feel it when Art starts to grind, pressing his hips up, using Patrick’s thigh for friction. Letting Patrick to rut against his thigh. Patrick can feel him, he’s legitimately aroused and it makes Patrick dizzy. Both of them, moaning and breathing heavy into each other’s mouths, the kiss getting sloppy and wet.

They’re rubbing off on each other clothed, Art in basketball shorts Patrick in his sweatpants, grinding like horny little preteens on the floor of their dorm room. Art comes first, loudly… no longer kissing, just moaning and gasping against Patricks mouth. The hottest thing Patricks ever experienced, his first time doing it with a boy. He already knows he’s gonna jerk off to this memory for years to come. Patrick blows his load in his boxers like he's 14 or something, while Art’s still coming down, breathlessly against him.

”Oh fuck,” Art breathes, after they both manage to catch their breath. “I thought I wasn’t your type?”

Patrick huffs a laugh and rolls over to lie on his back next to Art on the floor. “I thought you were straight.”

Art rolls on his side and grins at him. “So did I. Guess we were both lying.”

#art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers #challengers fic #artrick #art x patrick

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magicalqueennightmare · 2 days ago

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Trapped

John Walker x Reader

You're afraid of tight spaces. John now knows why

Mention of being buried alive.

Your relationship with John was a bit complicated to say the least? In Yelena’s words “Are you two going to fight or make out? I seriously get mixed signals every time you talk” he was a pain in the ass half of the time and the other half he had you teetering on the edge of having actual feelings for him. It was confusing as hell.

You never actually hated John. Even when the entire world questioned him, you could honestly see both sides of the story. He’d done plenty of wrong but damn who hadn’t? Then he would do things like second guess you on something as simple as how much sugar you needed to put in your peach cobbler recipe and Alexei was all of a sudden having to take a frying pan out of your hand because you were about to swing it on the super soldier.

You were never sure where you stood with John, so when Bucky told you that you were headed out with John to clear a base you felt your stomach flip. Just focus on the mission and do your job.

John’s broad shoulders were easy to follow as the two of you cleared each hall. He peered around one corner and before you could follow he had gripped your shoulders and was pulling both of you backwards into a supply closet. Your eyes widened when he shoved you in first pulling the door silently closed behind himself. The closet was tiny, cement on three walls with a metal door and the six foot two super soldier wasn’t helping it feel any less tiny.

You could feel your chest start to tighten. No, you could not do this. Not now, not in front of John. He leaned down, his mouth close to your ear “This place is a lot less abandoned than we thought. We may have to wait for backup” you shook your head quickly “I don’t know if I can” he raised an eyebrow and that was when he must have noticed the look on your face “What’s wrong?”

The sound of boots passing by made you both fall silent but as soon as they passed he raised both eyebrows. You sighed “Will we have to wait here?” he nodded “We can’t risk going further or going out” “John I can’t stay in this room. It’s too damn small” the realization hit him and he nodded slowly “You’re claustrophobic”

“I’m sorry” you whispered. He shook his head “It’s ok” he brought his com up to his ear and you heard a quick, whispered conversation between him and Bucky before he said “Copy that”

“Honey, we gotta stay here” you nodded quickly “Ok, I’ll be fine” you knew your eyes were wide, your breathing a bit erratic. He stepped back closer to the door, giving you as much room as he could with how big he was and how small the room was “Look at me darlin” you let your eyes find his and he smiled slightly “Match my breathing before you hyperventilate”

You nodded, raising your shaking hands and he stepped closer, putting your hands over his heart. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on” you followed his instructions and felt your breathing even out. You kept your eyes glued to his sky blue ones. “I’m sorry you got the claustrophobic former assassin. I got buried alive once. Bad experience”

He nodded, looking down at the space between the two of you then at you. You nodded that he could step closer. “You’re ok, nothing wrong with it. I’m glad I know so I can help you next time” you smiled “Thank you John” he raised one hand, tracing your face “Bucky, Ava and Yelena will be here within half an hour”

“So we’re stuck in here until then?” you asked, feeling your heart flip. He nodded, his hand dropping. “At least we’ll have time to adjust you to being in a tight space and hopefully you feel halfway safe with me” a small smirk played on his face as he teased you.

You shrugged “You may annoy me at times but I always know I’m safe with you” he grinned broadly, looking damn proud of himself “You feel safe with me?” you rolled your eyes “Don’t get big headed about it. I’m currently trying to ignore how the walls feel like they’re shrinking”

He laughed quietly “They’re not, I promise. Want my shield to judge with?” you shook your head “No, I trust you on it” “So, does this mean you don’t hate me?” he asked and your eyes flew up to his “I have never hated you. Gotten highly annoyed? Yes. Thought you made bad choices? Hell yes. Hated you? No”

A soft smile slipped onto his face “Good to know” “So you don’t hate me?” you asked and he shook his head “I could never hate you” “Good to know” you replied and he winked at you “Who knew getting trapped could be a good thing?” “Who said it was a good thing?” you asked and he shrugged “You’re breathing normal now. That’s good. We know we don’t hate each other, that’s really good”

You nodded and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek “Yeah, it is”

A little while later your coms flared to life “Incoming” as the closet door opened and there stood Bucky and Ava. “Ready to go?” She asked and you nodded “Yes please” you stepped out the closet around John and Yelena shot you a smirk. You narrowed your eyes but she just grinned “Let’s get to evac so we can all get home”

You ended up falling asleep on John’s shoulder once you were all in the jet on the way back to the tower. Ok. maybe getting trapped had been a good thing after all.

#john walker x reader #john walker imagine #john walker fanfic #john walker x you #mcu john walker #john walker positive post #thunderbolts x you #thunderbolts x reader

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 24 hours ago

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The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 13

Source for pic

Imperfect 13

Word Count: 4753

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: After Monday's terrible cliffhanger, I thought you guys might need something to cheer you up before the weekend hits. This is not it. It won't cheer you up. I'm so sorry! Also, this is mostly a chapter with Killer's POV only. Would you look at that... I'm adding some extra notes at the end because, spoilers, so make sure to read them after you've read the chapter! Thank you!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

Killer sees it happen from afar, like the countdown to an impending explosion.

Once Kid sees you across the room, the shadows in his eyes grow. The girl who has been flirting with his friend all night hovers just beside him, smiling from time to time, but already with the look of someone who has struck out, since Kid’s barely paying her any attention.

And then his idiot friend decides to self-destruct.

When Kid wraps one hand around the girl’s waist, Killer instantly reads his intentions. The slow beeps of the countdown to impending doom resound in his head as everything around him flows in slow motion.

The horror on your face, the realisation, the denial, the begging.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

It’s then that Killer moves as fast as he can, avoiding flailing limbs and calls from familiar faces as he pushes through. He has one goal. And it’s you.

Just as Kid’s angling the girl’s face down, Killer places his calloused hand over your eyes, shielding you from what is about to happen. Even though deep down, he knows he wasn’t quick enough to stop your heart from shattering.

“You don’t gotta see this, love,” Killer whispers, his voice cracking, filled with pain and regret. He pulls you gently against his chest, cradling you in his arms as if you’re a wounded bird, carrying you outside to the yard.

He feels you break in his arms.

A small tremble, a shuddering breath, then a sob and a broken wail. When he finally removes his hand from your face, it’s already wet and glistening with tears. You look at Killer as if he holds the answers, even though you don’t voice the question.

Why?

That’s the answer your eyes seek. A question he doesn’t know how to answer. Kid pressed the self-destruct button, and you’re both casualties of it.

You shake your head, blinking away the tears and maybe trying to erase the bitter memory from your mind. Your lips part, and a strangled cry escapes before you press both hands against your mouth, stifling your pain, smothering it.

Your legs give, and you wobble, so Killer reaches out and grabs you again before your knees hit the ground, crushing you against his chest. He can feel every ounce of your agony in each of your shortened breaths. He can sense the grief in every hot tear that dampens his shirt.

You’re not just breaking apart. You’re shattering into irreparable pieces.

“He…” you manage to croak out, before a heart-ripping sob claws out of your throat.

Killer feels his own heart shatter at that sound. His throat tightens, and he finds himself trembling too, a pesky prickling behind his eyes. You look so frail and seem so lost.

“I know.” It even hurts to speak.

You cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you from scattering, broken, on the floor. Your nails dig into his shirt as you claw desperately, trying to hold on to a semblance of sanity.

Killer pulls you closer, tighter, one hand pressing against your nape, another on your upper back. His chin rests at the top of your head as you shake and tremble against him.

God, how he wants to hold you together.

That fucking idiot.

He had it all. And he fucked it up.

“Why…?” you finally ask after your trembling calms down, your voice hoarse from holding back sobs and tears.

Killer takes a beat before pulling back, cupping your cheeks so he can stare into your eyes. They seem less bright, cloaked in shadows and pain, and he doesn’t want to acknowledge how deeply that hurts.

“He’s an idiot, and he thinks it’s the only way to protect you.”

It’s the truth, but it’s the wrong words.

You break apart again, shoulders shaking, hands clasped against your mouth, chest heaving.

Killer pulls you against him once more. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can hold you together. Maybe like this, you won’t break too much, and he can still fix it. Fix you. Fix Kid. Fix everything.

“I’ll take you home now, okay?”

“No!” you protest, falling away from him. Your eyes widen, and you shake your head again. “No, not home, please… I…” You hug yourself, nails digging into your arms, squeezing, holding, trying to keep yourself from shattering. “I can’t face Shanks right now, please!”

Killer nods. He doesn’t need to know the whole story to make a safe deduction. Shanks has warned you about Kid, and Kid just proved your old man right.

Fucking idiot!

“Mine, then. We’ll take your car, I rode with Kid, is that okay?” You nod, and Killer waits for you to start walking. You don’t. You just stand there, hollow, empty, your hands hugging your arms as if the action alone can keep you from breaking. So he gently holds your hand and leads you to the street, searching for your car without asking you where it is.

His hand engulfs yours, and he feels you tremble. You’re still sobbing softly when he opens the car door, and you sit. There’s no use making conversation as he drives you to his house; he doubts you’d even be able to retain anything he says at this moment.

Kid fucked up real good this time. And by the looks of it, Killer’s not sure how he’s going to make it right. He’s been telling him for years that he needs therapy, he needs an outlet. He needs to feel worthy and guiltless. But Kid is as stubborn as a mule and just as much of an ass.

When you showed up, Killer immediately saw how good you were to his friend. How you made him laugh and be more at ease. He thought you could help him heal. But Kid doesn’t allow himself to heal. He offers no leeway to his own redemption or recovery.

And now, you’re caught in the crossfire.

The ride to his house is made in silence, a maddening, crushing silence. You sob once in a while, silently wiping a stray tear, muscles coiled tight in an effort to hold everything together. Killer tries to offer soothing words at first, but then he notices you’re barely there. Your heart was left in Kid’s hands, and then he tore your mind apart, too. There’s just a hollow shell of the bright, energetic city girl he’s come to know.

Killer parks in one of the slots in front of his apartment. He lives on a quiet street, about five blocks away from Kid’s and the garage. He kills the engine and sighs, letting the quiet of the night settle for a moment before getting out of the car.

When he opens your door, he extends his hand, shaking you softly. “Come on, love. We’re here.” You nod mechanically and let him guide you inside. He doesn’t remark on of how stiff your movements are, or how much your legs are trembling. He just holds you by the waist and gently guides you up the steps and to the second floor.

He opens the door and ushers you in. You’re still shivering, even though the weather outside is warm and the house is at a perfect temperature. Killer frowns and, without a word, goes to his dresser and fishes out one of his favourite blue sweaters. Once he reaches you again, he notices that you’ve taken off your shoes and placed them by the door, where you’ve hung your purse, too.

“Arms up,” he gently instructs, and you obey without a fuss. Eyes glazed over, soul very far away from his home. He helps you dress as if you’re made of glass, with slow, gentle tugs and soft taps. His sweatshirt looks big on your smaller body, and the pang he feels in his heart from seeing you in his clothes is more telling than he wants to admit.

So he doesn’t.

“Want some tea?” You shake your head at his proposition. “Water?” Another shake. Killer mouths a curse and gently takes your hand, leading you down the hall. “Bed, then.”

His room is tidy, much like everything else in his house. He doesn’t like disorder, and the neatness of his apartment helps keep his anxiety at bay. His therapist suggested organizing and cleaning as a way to cope with all his wandering thoughts, back when he first came back from the army.

It stuck. And it helps ground him.

So he pulls back the covers of his neatly made-up bed and helps you inside, fluffing his pillow before you lie down. He tucks you in as if you were a child and threads his fingers through a stray strand of hair. “Sleep, love. I’ll be on the couch if you need—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

You reach for him, fingers closing around his wrist, trembling and tight. “Stay… please!” Your voice comes out broken and lost, and when he makes eye contact, the brightness there is so dim and fragile, he’s scared to even breathe wrong and make it fully go away.

“I… fine. Yes, of course. I’ll stay.”

Killer takes off his boots and climbs in next to you, over the blankets and keeping as much distance from your body as he physically can. You ruin all of his proper thoughts by scooting closer and wrapping your arms around his torso, your face buried in his chest, fingers clinging to him as if he were about to disappear.

Killer’s breath hitches in his throat, his heart threatens to jump right out of his mouth. He lies still, steady as a rock - your rock.

Every tremble from your body is like a small dagger being plunged into his heart. Every near-silent sob you release is a twist of the blade. He lies there, awake, as you hold him so close that your warmth is transferred to him.

He has no idea how this happened, how he got here. How he started loving you.

Maybe it was when you laughed.

Maybe it was when you made Kid laugh.

Maybe it was always meant to happen, like a cruel twist of fate. To dangle happiness and love right in front of his nose, just to remind him that it’s not for him, that it never was, and that it never will be.

Because it doesn’t matter how or when it happened, he will never act on it. No matter how badly Kid fucked things up, you’re still his. And Killer would rather die than betray his brother.

That’s why he’ll lie there awake all night, like a man holding someone else’s future, knowing deep down he has no claim to it but still pretending that he does. Just for one night. One night only.

He’ll hold you, breathe you, love you. Carve you so deeply into his soul he’ll never have to think about it again.

And come morning, he’ll let you go. He’ll help fix whatever Kid broke, with duct tape and strings, with love and patience, and return you to where you belong.

Even if it kills him.

-*-

Nearly two hours later, he’s still awake.

He can’t sleep. Your presence is too overwhelming. You’re deeply asleep, but your body is still showing the signs of internal struggle. Every time you breathe, your chest trembles, a semblance of a sob still trapped between your lips. Your brows are scrunched, and your cheeks are wet and puffy from the tears.

He pulls you closer, watches your face carefully, memorising every trace and line. Close, like he never dared to be. He’s mourning a future that never even had the chance to bloom. You were never meant to be his. But maybe for tonight… he can pretend.

The peacefulness of the night is suddenly stirred by a low rumble in the distance, approaching fast. Killer knows that sound. It’s Kid’s bike.

With a muffled curse, he moves slowly out of the bed, positioning his pillow beneath your head and making sure you’re still asleep before he exits the room and closes the door. He’s already opening the door to his apartment when Kid’s fist rises in the air to bang on it.

He’s pissed drunk. Asshole.

“You fucking, irresponsible moron!” Killer swipes the bike’s keys away from Kid’s hand, pocketing them next. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Or someone else? Jesus fuck!”

Kid groans, his legs wobbling and eyes glassy and unfocused. He leans against the wall and slides down like a rain-soaked letter. Saggy and worn out.

“I fucked up, man…” he slurs, the words too heavy and real. “I fucked up.”

Killer nods defeatedly. At least he knows what he did. “Aye, brother. You fucked up real good this time.”

Kid’s head thumps softly against the wall, and he closes his eyes, regret pulling the corners of his lips into a grimace. “Didn’t even kiss that chick, didn’t want to. I just…” Kid sighs heavily, your name falling from his lips like a curse. “She told me she loved me and I… I needed her to… fuck!”

Killer closes his eyes in sorrow. It’s even worse than he thought, then. You told Kid you loved him, and he used that ammo against you.

“Go home, Kid. Use the walk to sober up, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Why am I so fucked up, Kill? I can’t be with her, but I don’t want her gone.” Kid buries his face in his hands, an inhuman growl escaping his lips in frustration. “I’m not what she needs!”

“You were always what she needed, idiot! It’s pushing her away that’s destroying everything!” Killer sighs and runs a hand through his face, trying to calm down. His best friend’s drunk. There’s no use in lecturing him right now. Tomorrow he’ll help him see reason. And he’ll lay all his anger on him too, because, fuck! Killer can still feel you falling apart in his arms.

It’s a feeling he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

Leaning down, he grips Kid’s biceps and pulls him up with a heavy grunt. Bastard’s heavy as fuck. “Go home. I’ll help you fix it tomorrow.”

Kid nods, throat working away something he wants to say but can’t, as usual. Bottling up all his emotions behind high-as-shit walls.

“Aye, tomorrow,” he slurs again and wobbles, about to turn around. Then his eyes drop, landing on your shoes, neatly placed by the door with your purse close by. He freezes, eyes narrowing and calculating.

When his fiery eyes land on Killer’s, Killer knows he’s got it all wrong. The drunken haze recedes a fraction, replaced by betrayal and rage.

“Ye fuckin’ son of a bitch!” Kid slams the wall with his hand, trying to keep himself steady and to let out some anger. “Ye were just waitin’, weren’t ya? Waitin’ on the sidelines, ready to swoop in and steal her away when I fucked up! Ye knew I was going to fuck up! It was always just a matter of—”

Killer doesn’t think, he just swings.

The punch lands hard on Kid’s jaw. He staggers back two steps, his hand gripping the stairs' railing to keep him steady. The blow wasn’t that strong. What stunned him was that Killer was the one to deliver it.

Killer, the friend who always sees reason; the calm to his storm; the steadiness in the wreck that is Kid’s life.

“Don’t you ever assume that about me again, Kid,” Killer whispers, his voice trembling with fury. “I would never do that to you, or her, for that matter. I respect you too much.” Kid just stares at him in disbelief. “Or at least I did.”

That lands as hard as the punch.

Kid faces the floor with shame in his eyes. He’s breathing hard, the unhealed cut on his lip bleeding again from Killer’s swing. But he doesn’t say anything else. He just nods.

“Go. Home,” Killer deadpans with finality. “Sober up, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Kid nods again, too dazed by the night's events to even speak up. He leaves, and Killer lets out a breath he’d been holding since the confrontation.

Then he closes the door softly, leaning his forehead against the wood and gripping the handle with such force, his knuckles turn white. Behind him, you’re still blissfully asleep, unaware of the storm that raged at his doorstep.

Unaware of the chasm splitting open between two brothers.

Both of whom would bleed and spill blood for you.

-*-

The night air is cold, but he barely feels it.

Not just because of the alcohol, but because he’s numb. ‘I love you, Kid. So much.’ He hears your words on repeat inside his mind, taunting him, making him regret every stupid decision he’s made.

“Run. Run. Run…” The chant of his ghosts is constant, and not even his drunken stupor seems to keep them away now.

He should’ve just accepted the love you were so willing to give. He should’ve held you and kissed you like he yearned to do. Instead, he ran and he broke you.

“Because you’re a fucking coward,” Heat taunts. He’s walking right beside him, dragging his feet.

Yes. He is a coward. You looked at him, full of love and hope, and he didn’t know what to do with it. His darkness is bigger than your light, and if he hadn’t pushed you away, there was always a chance it would swallow you whole and obliterate you.

“I’d say you did a pretty good job at that on your own,” Wire reasons. He’s dragging himself on the floor, somehow keeping pace with Kid’s own drunken, sloppy gait. “Why leave it up to chance when you can destroy things so easily? Why allow it to grow and bloom? You were always going to wreck it, weren’t you?”

Yes, he was. He’s not meant for anything good. He’s not worth loving. So why would he feed your hope, and his, just to crush it eventually?

“Nip it in the bud, right, Captain? Yeah, I get it,” says Bubblegum before popping his chewing gum right by Kid’s ear.

The rage he felt earlier is still simmering low, and he feels the need to hit something. He’s not mad at Killer, not anymore. Now that he’s had time to cool his thoughts, he knows Kill would never do what he accused him of.

Even if he deserved it.

Killer is the better man, anyway. He always was. That punch was justified as hell. He fucking deserved it.

“Yeah, you did!” Quincey mocks.

‘I respect you too much. Or at least I did.’ That’s what stings the most. That’s the shame eating away at his insides, gnawing slowly at his guts. He’s such a fucking idiot.

Finally, he reaches the garage. He climbs up the stairs in the back, the garage keys are on the bike’s keychain, so he’s looking at more time to sober up on the ascent. The effects of the alcohol must be wearing off, because he now feels the sting of Killer’s jab, as well as a dull ache in the hole in his chest.

Time to drink some more, I guess.

The Hellpit is out of the question tonight. Killer was right, he’s too damn drunk to drive. He’s not even concerned about his own safety at this point. But he would never forgive himself if he got someone else killed because of him.

Not again.

So after closing the door, the first thing he does is open one of the cabinets and pull out a bottle of scotch. He ignores Wire’s scowl as his dead friend shakes his head in reproval, and then Kid slumps down on the couch next to a smirking Heat. His eerie grin cut in half by what’s missing from his head.

They’re here to stay, then. Oh, goodie.

‘You were always what she needed, idiot! It’s pushing her away that’s destroying everything!’

Killer’s wise.

But what’s destroying everything is, and will always be, himself.

-*-

The day dawns with the sun half-hidden by low-hanging clouds. A ray of sunshine peeks through the curtains shyly, barely daring to wake you up, possibly sensing the turmoil within. Killer watches you stir from the doorway. He’s been up and about for a while, but didn’t have the heart to wake you.

You blink a few times, adjusting to the room, the light, and possibly to the strange void in your chest. With a jerk, you rise, eyes scanning the room before they land on him, and you calm down with a hard sigh.

“Morning,” Killer says, taking a slow step inside. You yawn and rub your eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. They look swollen and puffy, as do your cheeks.

“Morning…” you whisper back, a dry croak, empty of emotion. Killer’s heart clenches.

“The bathroom is down the hall, there’s coffee whenever you’re ready.” You nod, and he hesitates. You feel about to break apart again, and he represses the urge to hug you and try to hold the few pieces that remain together. “You good?”

You nod stiffly. Just one nod. And then your lips tremble and your eyes blink fast. You’re trying to hide the pain from him.

Goddamnit.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says before turning and leaving you alone to break.

After a few minutes, you emerge from the bathroom. Your eyes are red and puffy, but you’re not crying anymore. With stiff movements, you sit at the table. He cooked pancakes, eggs, and bacon, hoping against all hope that you’ll at least eat a little something.

You eye the plate and grimace, so he pushes the coffee mug your way instead.

“If you don’t want to eat, at least drink something, love. You need to get something in your stomach.”

He sees you struggle with the mug before you take a few sips. There’s even less of you behind your eyes than yesterday. And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do to get that spark back.

“I think I’ll head home, Kill,” you whisper after he finishes breakfast, and you sip half of the coffee in the mug. “Thank you for everything.”

He drove your car yesterday, so you don’t need him to drive you home. But there’s something in the stiffness of your movements, the hallowness behind your eyes that doesn’t sit right with him.

“Let me drive you, okay?”

“But you can’t come back on foot. It’s far and—”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll drive you.”

You sigh, and he realises you’d fight him on this if you weren’t so drained. Instead, you shrug and head towards the door to put on your shoes. You take off his sweater, despite his protests, and hand it to him before shaking your head and going back to his bedroom to pick up the phone you forgot.

Killer twists the soft fabric in his hands, hesitates, and then holds it against his nose, lowering the bandana just a smidge. His throat closes up, and his heart thrums in his chest. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It smells just like you.

He curses loudly this time before putting the bandana back in place and placing the sweater on the back of the couch just before you drag yourself to the door, ready to leave.

The ride home is as silent as it was before. Except for one small difference: no tears, this time. Maybe they all dried up.

Shanks is waiting on the porch, sitting in a rocking chair and staring at the car with a frown on his face. You take a deep, trembling breath before you step out of the car to face him, and Killer follows, not quite sure what his presence can do to calm Shanks, but still not letting you face his disappointment alone.

Except Shanks barely says a word.

You thank Killer again and head inside, stopping near your dad, shoulders hunched in a defensive position, head hung low. But he just rises, places his hand on the back of your neck, and kisses your temple softly.

“Head inside, Bug. Get some rest, okay?”

You stare at him for a few seconds, face hollow, eyes empty, and then nod, disappearing like a shadow.

Killer sighs and locks the car, heading up the steps to leave the key with Shanks. In the distance, the rumble of thunder announces a storm raging just like the one inside the older man. He might not have yelled or expressed how he already knew this was going to happen, but the way his brows are furrowed and his fist clenched tight tells Killer all he needs to know about what’s on his mind: rage, fury, retribution.

“What did he do? Did he hurt her?” Shanks’ question comes out in the form of a snarl, his eyes glinting with barely contained disdain.

Fuck. Killer doesn’t want to rat on his brother. But it’s not like he can keep something like this from your father. You’ll need all the support you can get to cheer up.

“It’s not that simple, he—”

“Did. He. Hurt. Her?” Shanks angles his body towards Killer, and even though the height difference is normally barely noticeable, Shanks looks down on him.

“Yes,” Killer admits, and Shanks groans. “But not physically. He thought he was protecting her… from himself. But ended up pushing her away too hard… too destructively.” Killer sighs while Shanks paces the porch like a caged animal with no outlet. “It’s a mess… he’s a mess.”

“He should be! I warned him, I— Jesus Christ. I told him to stay the hell away from her! I knew this was going to happen,” he snarls again, running a hand through his hair and pulling on the strands.

“I’m going to fix it, I—”

“You?” he interrupts. “Why the hell do you have to fix what he broke?”

Touché.

“I’m going to talk to him, help him, and—”

“No,” Shanks regains his composure with a deep breath. “He doesn’t get to fix this. He did the damage, now he backs the hell off and leaves her alone.”

This time, Killer sees the lightning before the thunder echoes. It’s not raining yet, but soon enough, the warm splatters of rain will be hitting the ground. His throat works over the right words to say, the ones that will calm Shanks down, but especially the ones that don’t sound like betrayal.

“I don’t think that’s for us to decide, Shanks.”

“The hell it isn’t! She’s still my daughter!”

“And she’s my friend. They both are,” he states firmly, his hand reaching out to press the car keys against Shanks’ palm. “But she’s the one who should decide whether or not she forgives him. Not me. Not you. Not Kid.”

Shanks pockets the keys and runs his hand through his hair again, pressing his lips together to hold something back. “Goddamn it,” he exhales. “I can’t have him come crawling back just to build her hopes up and tear her apart again.”

Shanks looks inside, where the shadows seem to have grown now that the day has turned darker.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid again, Shanks. I promise.” This promise is also a vow. To Shanks, but mostly to himself. There’s no way he’ll ever let his thick-skulled friend hurt you like that again.

Shanks scoffs, picking up the mug, ready to go inside. “You’re a good friend, Killer, to both of them. But don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Killer’s hands clench into fists as his gaze falls to the ground. Slowly, gentle patters of rain start pouring from the sky. Warm rain, like the sky itself is mourning the events. “I will keep it.”

Shanks hesitates, hand on the screen door, studying him, maybe even reading things in him Killer doesn’t want anybody to know about. That’s what it looks like, at least. The rain picks up, and Shanks moves his gaze up towards the sky with a heavy sigh.

“You headed to town?” Killer nods. He’s going to check in on Kid, still unsure about what he’s going to find and more determined than ever to fix things. “I’ll take you. I’m heading that way, anyway.��

“Thanks.”

The rain starts to fall steadily while Shanks heads inside for a jacket and his truck keys. At first, it’s just a steady, rhythmic pour, but it’s only a matter of time before it turns into a full raging storm.

Just like everything else around him.

End Notes: I just want to let you all know that even though we just learned about Killer's love for reader, this story will not turn into a love triangle. It was never planned that way, and it won't happen, so rest assured! Now let me know if I crushed some hearts with this, were you expecting this twist? Killer, my love! I'm so sorry, baby!

Liked this story? Like my writing? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi, please!

Taglist: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7 @igiulss

#one piece #eustass kid x reader #eustass kid #eustass captain kidd #eustass x reader #kid x reader #kid x you #you x kid #reader x kid #imperfect #the meet cute #modern day world au #reader insert

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tinyshyteacup · 1 day ago

Text

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath

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TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), tension, kidnapping, pregnancy issues (Maggie will be fine!), helplessness, character death.

Part 40

Dead Weight- Part 41

The morning air is crisp as Daryl adjusts his crossbow strap, checking his bolts one more time. The supply run to the apothecary should be straightforward—get in, grab whatever medical supplies they can find, get out.

Simple.

Pre-dawn darkness fills the attic room as Daryl moves carefully around the small space, gathering his gear with practiced silence. You're still curled up in the bed you share, one arm stretched across to his side of the mattress like you're searching for him even in sleep.

He pauses in pulling on his vest, watching the way you frown slightly and burrow deeper into his pillow, breathing in his scent. Something tight in his chest loosens at the sight—even unconscious, you reach for him.

Even in your dreams, you want him close.

Don't deserve 'er, he thinks, but even the voice in his head sounds less convinced than it used to, like the ghosts in his brain are starting to fall for you.

Your hand slides blindly across the sheets where he'd been lying, and you make a soft sound of distress when you find only empty space. Before he can think better of it, Daryl's sitting on the edge of the bed, taking your searching hand in his calloused fingers.

"Daryl?" you mumble, not quite awake but aware enough to squeeze his hand.

"'M'here," he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle his face into your hair next to your temple. "Gotta go on a run with the Doc and the others."

You shift slightly, trying to pull him back down to bed without fully waking up. "Stay," you whisper against the pillow. "Five more minutes."

He almost gives in.

Almost strips off his gear and crawls back under the covers, pulls you against his chest and forgets about medical supplies and responsibilities. The want hits him so hard it's almost physical—to wake up slow and easy with you in his arms, to have morning coffee together in the kitchen, to pretend for just a little while that the world outside these walls doesn't exist.

"Can't," he says softly, though his thumb traces across your knuckles. "Sun ain't up yet. You stay in bed, alright? Get s'more sleep."

You make another soft sound of protest, but you're already drifting back toward sleep, your grip on his hand loosening. He waits until your breathing evens out again before carefully extracting his fingers from yours.

"Be back 'fore you know it," he promises the quiet room, pressing one more gentle kiss to your temple before forcing himself to stand and shoulder his crossbow.

Should be back before she even knows I'm gone, he thinks, glancing back toward the house where you're probably still sleeping in the attic room you share. The thought of you curled up in bed, hair spread across the pillow, makes something warm settle in his chest.

"You ready?" Glen asks, shouldering his pack.

"Yeah." Daryl nods to Rosita and Denise. "Let's get this done."

The apothecary is a small building on the outskirts of a town they'd scouted weeks ago. It's been picked over, but Denise manages to find enough antibiotics and painkillers to make the trip worthwhile.

She's chattering nervously about proper storage temperatures and expiration dates.

The comparison hits him unexpectedly. Denise cares about people, puts herself at risk to help others, that reminds him of you. The way you'd stayed up all night when Carl was sick, the way you always insist on taking care of Lil' Asskicker even when you were exhausted yourself.

"We should head back," Glen says, loading the last of the supplies into their packs. "Don't want to be out here when it gets dark."

The walk back starts peacefully enough. Denise is still talking, now about some medical journal she'd found, and Rosita is actually engaging with her questions.

Glen's keeping watch, same as always, and Daryl finds his mind wandering to what you might be doing back home.

You and Maggie had gotten closer since Alexandria, bonding over shared experiences and the quiet understanding that came from loving the same group of people.

Always takin' care of everyone else.

That's when Denise stops walking.

"I want to say something," she announces, and there's something different in her voice. More determined. "To all of you."

She's looking at him, Glen and Rosita, and Daryl feels that familiar itch between his shoulder blades—the one that says something's about to go wrong.

"You're both good people," Denise continues. "And good people, they do good things, even when—"

The bullet takes her in the back of the head, punching through her left eye with a wet sound that makes Daryl's stomach drop.

She doesn't even have time to scream before she's falling forward, dead before she hits the ground.

"Drop your weapons!"

The voice comes from the treeline, and Daryl's already moving, crossbow raised, when he sees them. At least a dozen men with guns, all pointed at their group. His finger tightens on the trigger, but Glen's hand on his arm stops him.

"Daryl, don't. Too many of them."

"Well, well," one of the men says, stepping forward. He's got a cocky smile and the kind of swagger that Daryl's seen too many times before. "Look what we got here. You boys and the lady are gonna come with us."

"The hell we are," Daryl growls, but there are too many guns, and he knows it.

"Oh, I think you will. See, we've got orders to bring back anyone we find from Alexandria alive. Though I gotta say, losing the doc there is a real shame. She seemed nice."

The casual way he talks about Denise's death makes rage burn hot in Daryl's chest. Even Merle never talked like that.

"You son of a bitch—"

"Daryl." Glen's voice is sharp with warning. "Don't give them a reason."

But the man is already walking toward him, eyes fixed on the crossbow. "Now that's a nice piece. Mind if I take a look?"

Daryl snarls, but the guns are all trained on him now, and he knows if he fights, they might not make it home at all.

The man's smile widens as he reaches for the crossbow. "Thanks, friend. Always wanted one of these."

It's just a weapon, Daryl tries to tell himself as they strip it away from him. Just a damn crossbow, I'll get it back.

But it's not just a weapon, and he knows it. It's the first thing he grabbed when everything went to hell.

It's what's kept him alive, kept the people he cares about alive. It's as much a part of him as his own hands.

"Move," one of the Saviors barks, shoving him forward.

As they're marched deeper into the woods, Daryl can't stop thinking about you back in Alexandria. About how you'd looked at him that morning before he left, sleepy and soft in the early light.

Back in Alexandria, you're sitting on the porch with Maggie watching Enid carefully cut her hair. It's a quiet afternoon, the kind that still feels like a luxury after so many months of constant danger.

"Just a little shorter," Maggie instructs, running her fingers through the freshly cut strands. "Glen says it makes me look younger."

"Glen would think you're beautiful if you were bald, tarred and feathered" you tease, and Maggie laughs.

"That's probably true." She places a protective hand over her still-flat stomach. "Though I worry about what this little one's gonna do to my hair. Patricia's hair fell out in clumps."

"Every woman's different," Enid says, focusing on her cutting. "Besides, you've got good genes. You'll be fine."

You smile at their easy banter, but part of you is distracted, glancing toward the gate every few minutes. Daryl and the others should be back soon, and you always worry when he's out on runs, even the simple ones.

"He'll be fine," Maggie says quietly, following your gaze. "Daryl always comes back."

"I know. I just—"

Maggie's sharp intake of breath cuts you off. She's gone very still, one hand pressed to her side, her face suddenly pale.

"Maggie?" Enid drops the scissors, immediately concerned. "What is it?"

"I don't know," Maggie gasps, doubling over slightly. "It just... something's wrong. Something's really wrong."

The pain seems to intensify, and you can see panic starting to creep into her eyes.

Your own heart starts racing as you reach for her, offering what comfort you can.

"We need to get Denise," you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you remember she's not here.

She's out there somewhere with Daryl and the others, hopefully on their way back.

"The infirmary," Enid says quickly. "We can take her to the infirmary."

As you help Maggie to her feet, her face twisted with pain and fear, you can't shake the feeling that something terrible is happening.

That this perfect afternoon is about to shatter like glass.

The infirmary feels too small with all of you crowded inside, watching as Maggie grips the examination table, her knuckles white with pain. Without Denise here, none of you really know what to look for, but Carol's doing her best to check Maggie's vitals.

"The pain's getting worse," Maggie gasps, and you can see the fear in her eyes. "Something's really wrong."

"We need to get you to Hilltop," you say, making the decision that everyone's been dancing around.

"But what about—" Maggie starts to protest, probably thinking about Glen, about Daryl and the others who should have been back by now.

"Glen would want you to go," you interrupt gently. "He'd want you and the baby safe."

Rick appears in the doorway, having heard the commotion. His face goes grim when he sees Maggie's condition. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that we need to get her to Hilltop," Carol says, her voice steadier now that there's a plan. "Tonight."

"I'll get the RV ready," Rick nods. "Carol, you stay here with Judith. Everyone else, we leave in ten minutes."

Your heart clenches at the thought of leaving Alexandria when Daryl's still out there, but Maggie needs help now.

Carol catches your arm as you're heading out to gather supplies. "He'll be fine," she says quietly. "Daryl always finds his way back."

"I know, just let him know where we've gone, Glen too" you whisper, but your voice betrays your worry.

She nods.

Twnety minutes later, you're all loaded into the RV—Rick driving, Michonne beside him, while you sit with Maggie in the back, holding her hand as another wave of pain hits her.

Abraham, Sasha, Eugene, Carl, and Aaron fill the remaining seats, everyone tense and worried.

About five miles from Alexandria. A fallen tree blocks the road, odd because there hasn't been any storms steong enough. Rick has to reverse and find another route, adding precious time to the journey.

"We need to get us some aborists" Abraham jokes, but his hand rests on his weapon.

The second roadblock is more elaborate. Cars arranged in a deliberate pattern, with gaps that look like they might be passable but would require careful maneuvering.

Rick studies it for a long moment before backing up again.

"This is planned," Michonne says what everyone's thinking. "Someone's herding us."

"Who?" Carl asks, but no one has an answer.

You squeeze Maggie's hand as sweat gathers on her forehead. "We're gonna get you there," you promise, though you're not sure if you're trying to convince her or yourself.

The third roadblock is the most elaborate yet—a careful arrangement of vehicles and debris that forms a maze-like pattern. There are figures moving in the distance, but they're too far away to make out clearly.

"Someone's playing with us," Sasha says grimly.

Rick's jaw is tight as he puts the RV in reverse once again. "We'll find another way."

But as you watch the road behind you, you can't shake the feeling that there might not be another way.

That whoever's doing this has thought of everything, planned for every possible route.

Maggie's grip on your hand tightens as another wave of pain hits, and you can see the fear in her eyes growing stronger.

Time might be running out, and you're no closer to Hilltop than you were an hour ago.

"Rick," you call toward the front, your voice tight with worry. "We need to get through. Whatever this is, we need to get through it now."

"I know," he says, but his voice carries the weight of impossible choices. "I know."

As the RV continues its slow retreat from the third roadblock, you can't help but think about Daryl out there somewhere.

About Glen, who should be here holding Maggie's hand instead of you. About all the ways this shit could go wrong.

Please, you think desperately, not sure if you're praying to God or just hoping the universe might show some mercy.

Please let us all make it through this.

The fourth roadblock makes your stomach drop. It's not just cars and debris this time—there are walkers chained to the vehicles, a dozen or more of them straining against their bonds, their moans echoing through the night air.

Someone has turned the roadblock into a trap, using the dead as living barriers.

"Mother-dick," Abraham mutters from his seat, but his voice is steady.

Maggie whimpers beside you, and you feel your own panic rising. Sweat is beaded across her face now and she is so pale, you can see the fear in her eyes growing stronger with each passing minute.

"Hey," Abraham says, turning in his seat to look at Maggie. His voice is surprisingly gentle.

"Look at me, Maggie."

"Panicking ain't gonna help. We're gonna get you to that doctor, but you gotta stay calm for us. Can you do that?"

Something in his tone—authoritative but kind—seems to cut through Maggie's panic. She nods, taking a shaky breath.

"Good." Abraham looks at you next. "You too little lady. She needs you steady right now."

You nod, trying to swallow down your own fear. Abraham's right—falling apart won't help anyone.

Rick is already reversing the RV again, his jaw tight with frustration. "That's the fourth one. They're not just blocking us, they're—"

"If I may," Eugene starts from his seat near the back, adjusting his glasses. "I've been observing the pattern of these obstructions, and I believe I've identified the underlying strategy being employed by—"

"Not now, Eugene," Rick cuts him off, focused on navigating the RV backward.

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

Eugene looks frustrated but falls silent, and you can see him practically vibrating with the need to share whatever theory he's developed.

The fifth roadblock is even worse. More walkers, more elaborate arrangements, and this time there are fresh bodies among the dead—people who were probably traveling this same route recently. The sight makes your blood run cold.

"They're not just stopping people," Sasha observes grimly. "They're collecting them."

Maggie's grip on your hand tightens a wave of pain hits.

"We're gonna make it," you tell her, but your voice shakes slightly.

"Rick," Eugene tries again, raising his voice slightly. "I really think we should consider—"

"Eugene, please," Michonne interrupts, studying the roadblock ahead. "We need to focus."

Eugene's face flushes with frustration, but he bites his tongue.

As Rick begins another slow reverse, you catch sight of movement in the trees lining the road. Figures, staying just out of clear view, but definitely watching.

Waiting.

"Its like we're cattle," Aaron adds his frustration clear.

Eugene clears his throat loudly. "If you would all just listen for a moment, I believe I have a viable solution to our current predicament. You see, the mathematical probability of these roadblocks being randomly distributed is essentially zero, which means—"

"Eugene," Rick's voice is sharp with stress. "Can you get to the point?"

"They're expecting the RV," Eugene blurts out. "Whoever's doing this, they know we're coming this way, they know our vehicle, probably our route. But they're not expecting us to abandon the RV and go on foot."

The RV falls silent except for the rumble of the engine and Maggie's labored breathing.

"Go on," Rick says carefully.

Eugene straightens, finally having everyone's attention. "I propose you take Maggie through the woods on foot. It's rough terrain, but it's a direct route to Hilltop, and they can't have roadblocks in the forest. Meanwhile, I keep driving the RV, make it look like we're still trying to find alternate routes. Draw their attention away from your actual path."

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

"That's..." Abraham starts, then pauses. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"You'd be alone," Michonne points out. "If they catch you—"

"I'm expendable," Eugene says matter-of-factly. "Besides, I've gotten pretty good at the whole self-preservation thing. I can handle a few miles of driving in circles."

You look at Maggie, the idea of carrying her through the woods in her condition seems impossible, but staying on the roads is clearly not working.

"It could work," you say quietly. "If we move fast, stay quiet..."

"It's risky," Rick says, but you can see him considering it.

"Everything's risky now," Abraham points out. "Question is, which risk gives us the best chance of getting Maggie to that doctor."

As if on cue, Maggie doubles over and you can see the decision crystallizing in Rick's eyes. Time is running out, and conventional routes aren't working.

"Alright," Rick says finally. "Eugene, you sure about this?"

Eugene nods, his face set with determination. "I've been sure for the last ten minutes. Just took y'all a while to let me finish a sentence."

Despite everything, you almost smile at that.

Even in the middle of a crisis, Eugene's still Eugene.

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ronearoundblindly · 1 day ago

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A celebration prompt!! 🥳

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Curtis Everett + there’s only one bed AU 👀 Emphasis on the AU because Snowpiercer is depressing AF 🤣❤️

womp womp, this got 🌶️🌶️🌶️ but perhaps in a tamer way than you think?? whatever happened, i want it. let's leave it at that.

regional political candidate!curtis x staffer!reader

Warnings for smut (act surprised, I dare you), dry-humping, woah-nessie sexual tension, realistic concerns about stains lol, and my knowing the poli-ladder only from watching West Wing, sorry. MINORS DNI. Youngins, you can find plenty to read on my Light Masterlist, but not this! WC 1608

It's a simple mistake.

When Pete called to book for your group of four people (because Mr. Everett is running a very small campaign to keep it very personal for this rural tour), the older woman who owns the tiny B&B heard "a family of four" and held only two rooms. The old, converted mansion doesn't have connecting suites or a basement full of cots to request. There's naught but a high-backed chair in the corner other than the single queen-sized bed against the other wall, and considering you heard Tommy exclaim, "two twins, you gotta be kidding me," no better options exist.

There's three grown men and you. That's it. So either two six-footers struggle--you know what? This isn't your fault, it's just one night, and the hour is too late already.

You don't care anymore.

If Mr. Everett says nothing, you won't say anything. Better to suck it up now instead of ruin the rotation of who bunks with whom. Your boss and candidate is professional enough under all sorts of pressure. It will be fine.

He lets you use the bathroom first, and you immediately get into your comfy (but ample coverage) pajamas, hydrate, wash, moisturize, and brush quickly. No need to make a whole show of being the only woman. Believe it, they know.

"All yours," you announce, reorganizing your bag to have tomorrow's necessities up top.

He simply grunts while flipping through the factory info for the morning meet-and-greet.

As casually as you can, you setup on the farther side of the bed so as not to block him from his suitcase and review the schedule on your phone, resetting your alarm for the right time based on driving distance to the first stop. You get lost in the whole process for a while then look up to see Mr. Everett throwing a blanket over himself in the chair as if he's going to sleep right there, sitting up.

"Sir, you can't do that."

"Why not? I'm tired and I'm here and it's cushioned," he grumbles, purposefully being inarticulate because you've mentioned more than once that he mumbles when answering 'stupid questions.' "We've had a long enough day, you should call me 'Curtis' or I'll make you ride in the backseat."

"Curtis, then," you respond, "if you sleep in that chair, you will look more like shit than you already do. I will put concealer on you. Do not test me."

He gives you the stink eye, contemplating his options, and eventually tosses the blanket off to slide onto the mattress beside you.

It creaks fiercely. You and Curtis make faces at the sounds but don't say anything more about it. He tucks an arm under his head, stretching out with his feet completely off the bed, and after another minute or so, you click off the bedside lamp and turn over to fall fast asleep, the bunched up quilt in between you as a barrier, and the slightly wonky fan above you sounding like a distant warp engine.

You don't know what actually woke you. You didn't startle from a dream, didn't have a feeling of fallen, or feel any movement around you. You're not too hot or too cold. You're just right and...weighted down...but not?

You yawn and blink to focus, stiffening when you realize the weight is Curtis's arm across your waist and your own leg is tossed over his hip. Your boss's head is pressed into your chest, the buzzed hairs prickling through the fabric of your pajama top.

The quilt you probably each thought the other was is wadded near your feet, precariously ready to fall off the bed entirely.

He must not have been in this position for long because the arm he's laying on (your arm) isn't numb yet. Your other arm is draped over his on you, hand hanging off the edge of his tricep.

It's very...comfortable.

You've never really seen Curtis's arms. He always wears button-downs and at least 3/4 sleeve shirts, but tonight, his t-shirt is loose and stretched out, rolled up by tossing, turning, and gravity. He's not tan--he's never tan--but it's so dark in the room that his pale skin only slightly differs from the charcoal of the clothes and near-black of his hair. You can see enough though.

Even with his body relaxed, the muscles of his arm are thick, prominent, pushing veins to the surface like a road map to victory for you to study--

Nope. NO! Bad brain!

You need to find a way to untangle yourself from your boss without embarrassing yourself, or him, or your inner horny gremlin now enjoying the slight, involuntary clench of his fingers in the small of your back. The sudden tickle of that makes you jerk forward, grabbing the arm already in your hand for stability.

Shit.

So much for subtlety.

Curtis rouses, inhaling deeply where his nose is practically lodged between your breasts, and begins to straighten out, lifting his head slowly. The move is not enough to knock your leg off of him. In fact, his shuffling places his top knee directly in the middle of your thighs.

The gravelly way he says your name, sleepy, hopeful, questioning, calling...it's so sexy, it stops you in your tracks.

His lashes flutter against your chin as his beard drags over your arm, and Curtis looks up at you.

The dark obscures any nuance you could discern from his expression, leaving your breath to catch like a caged animal desperate to be free. Your heart hums in anticipation while you wait for an apology, or a scolding, or disgust, anything but what you want, what he actually does next.

His hips roll forward, elongating his spine so his lips can reach yours. The kiss is tender and heated.

Stunned, your reactions--though excited--seem jumpy in comparison to the assured and casual way Curtis devours you, so slowly, so confident, but you're never held down or shut up. Each time he closes what few gaps remain between you, there's a pause, a chance for you to voice some concern, to halt him.

Curtis doesn't trap you; he cradles you.

Without words, you know he's wanted this, but you don't know for how long. The most you know of his personal life is women don't come and go like a revolving door. He's not a fuck-and-fuck-off type, but in your wildest--most suppressed--dreams, you never imagined he'd be so intense and devoted from the first kiss.

You're both still clothed, for christ's sake.

Unrushed, the hand at your back goes from teasing the strip of skin exposed above your waistband to tugging you up his leg. Higher and higher you rock, bit by bit so that the creaky springs don't give away what's happening in the dark.

He feels so wonderful, and he's sure to make you feel him everywhere, the only words he offers whispered against your swollen lips warn that you're moaning, gasping too loudly.

"Be good."

You run your hands over the soft bristle of his hair and nod, ghosting a 'yes, sir' before grinding into the bulge he's perfectly positioned, hips maneuvered to seat perfectly between yours, both arms encircling you perfectly.

So fucking perfect in that intense, quiet, dark way.

The rippling buzz of the ceiling fan drowns out the pleased rumble from Curtis's chest, but the vibrations seep from his skin to yours.

You're climbing high, wet enough for your bottoms to stick in place while the bulbous head of his cock grows distinct through damp fabric.

He holds you, grips your ass to keep you exactly where you need to be, muttering "come on, come on" in a demanding, wrecked tone more devastating than any fantasy you've ever had. He peppers your neck and jaw with kisses because the quick little movements keep your lips from aligning. Concentrating on staying silent delays the inevitable, but not for long.

Though you want that praise, those phrases that could wash you slowly back down to Earth, you still relish his touch, those broad shoulders you hang onto, those large hands bracing you during impact. He's everywhere.

Curtis steadily relaxes as your own breathing settles.

A lone groan precedes his "I--I'll be right back," and just like that you're left alone in the bed, straining to hear after the bathroom door shuts.

Worry sets in.

Have you crossed a line? Well, more of a line or one you didn't know about?

You roll over to your other side, watching the shadowy leaves and swaying branches through the window, bathed in dim moonlight, until there's a flush and a literal washing sound behind you. Your whole body dips when he climbs back in.

Curtis has brought the quilt back up, lays it over you both, and curls around you.

The renewed warmth makes you keen, a whimper of peaceful pleasure escaping you, louder than all the rest that was said and done.

He props himself up, leaning to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"I will do--" his beard grazes the shell of your ear "--anything you ask of me. Always have," he breathes, "always will."

Curtis tucks in behind you again, weighty arm lacing beneath yours, deflating the worry filling your chest.

"But let's go to sleep now," he grumbles, "and make sure tomorrow there's a king...that doesn't shriek like a banshee."

"Condoms, too," you add before your eyes shut and your brain realizes.

That pleased rumble still gets drowned out by the fan, but you feel it anyway.

Because he's everywhere, and you're his everything.

[Main Masterlist; Sleepover Masterlist]

A/N: I'm fine. I can live without him. I'm fine. ::dies::

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#lexi's 2-4-6-8 sleepover #ro answers #curtis everett fanfiction #curtis everett x reader #curtis everett x female reader #curtis everett x you #curtis everett smut #curtis everett fluff

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