#some of them I hadn’t thought of in years

[niccolites]

sentinel species - i. canary

victorian, zombie apocalypse au, kyle garrick x fem!reader. read on ao3 here

You have a half-rotted candle, but you leave it in your bedroom so that you are unseen as you creep across the landing towards the stairs.

It is a week before the world ends; you sit on your parent’s stairs and listen to them reject your betrothal. 

This is your third courting season, which has had more success than the first two so far. A few gentlemen have shown interest in you, and your mother has had her hands full managing expectations and courtships on your behalf.

One man shines far above the rest, a distant relative of the Duke, Mr Evans. Distant enough that you don’t think anyone else is aware of the relation, but your mother reminds you every tea time, as if to keep you aware of the benefits that lie down the road of this specific courtship.

This is not the man being discussed in the drawing room of your home, for once.

You recognise the voice in your living room, as he asks to formally court you, as he has every intention to be your husband.

Mr Kyle Garrick is the very picture of a gentleman. Kind and attentive, you remember when he had taken notice of you on your first courting season. Your mother had tried to catch the attention of some of the men, to get them to sign their name on your dance card, but there had been no biters. Left alone for a moment, the picture of pathetic, and Mr Garrick had been there. He led you in a waltz and complimented your dress, your hair, how sweetly you spoke. You had nervously pulled most of your hair out of its updo, but it felt rude to contradict his compliments.

He had been enlisted, you remember, and you hadn’t seen him since that first courting season. You did see his older sister sometimes. You remember asking about him a few times, feeling some kind of obligation towards the man who had been kind to you when he didn’t have to be.

And here he is, back in your living room, speaking with your parents about your nuptials.

You listen to him, outlining his intentions for you. He has saved up his money from his service, and he is prepared to buy a home for the two of you, and start a life together.

You cannot comprehend it, certain that he must have mistaken you for someone else. He must think that there is another girl up here. The hush of his voice, drifting up to meet you. You want to catch it in your palm, cradle it there like a newborn lamb.

He had been kind to you, but you didn’t know each other. Hadn’t seen each other in years at this point, not that you would know with how certain his voice sounds. Vowing to be a dutiful husband to you. Your name spilling out, thudding up the stairs to reach your ears. Any doubt has fled, but has left behind the certainty of insecurity in its wake.

You didn’t know when he had gotten back, some moonsick dream that he came straight here from the train. You shake it off, the thought just a little bit too fanciful.

You know that your mother is going to decline, moments before she starts to. You hear her excuse this given your attachment to the Duke’s cousin - your attachment being that he is taking you for a walk tomorrow - but you know this isn’t the real reason. Mr Garrick may be a decorated officer, a kind enough man. But he barely has any standing in society. His father was a boxer, and you know that his entire family fit into a small house despite the fact that they are not a small family.

Your mother has high sights set for you, and you do not think she has any intention of lowering them. Even if that requires not consulting you in the matter of your future and who you will be spending it with. Your father had passed a few years ago now, and you knew that your mother needed to match you with someone that could sustain the two of you. Your home wasn’t your own, legally owned by some cousin of your father’s, who hadn’t taken an interest, yet.

You shift on the stairs, bare feet on wood, as you listen to the beginning of a protest from Mr Garrick before he swallows it down and thanks your mother for her time.

It’s dark upstairs, you have only found your way to the steps with familiarity. You can see the door of the drawing room open further as Mr Garrick picks up his hat and makes to leave. At the front door, he turns his head, and you swear he can see you. He can’t, you know he can’t, it’s pitch black up here. Your candle is abandoned on your dresser, the white of your nightgown is drowned in the darkness of the landing.

He hesitates for a moment, gaze darting all around you as if to find you before he exhales and turns to leave.

A week later, you can see Mr Garrick on the opposite wall to you, and you think about the defeated slump of his shoulders that night. You think you may be flattering yourself, but you think it’s still there, hidden under the shoulder of his coat. It’s likely improper for him to initiate conversation with you, beyond the level of politeness if you were to bump into each other.

Your fingers twitch underneath your gloves, feel the stitching of the seam scratch against your skin. Mr Evans is somewhere around here, and you know that you will have to put a face on, spin around for a few dances with him. Ask him about his travels around Europe, even though you surely have heard all of the stories already.

For now, you are happy to lean against the far wall and flutter your fan as if to sweep everyone else away. Your mother is speaking with a few of the other mothers, so you only have a few moments to slouch before you are caught and reprimanded.

The band starts playing, and there is a spin of skirts as the first dance starts up. You’ll likely get in trouble for dodging Mr Evans, given he had you booked for the first dance. However, you could always plead that you had attempted to find him, and the two of you had always just missed each other.

You suppose there is nothing terrible about Mr Evans, he is a perfectly polite, even kind man. He is just not interesting, and your mother had to ask most of the questions once when he had come over for tea. Something that had gotten you into trouble later that night.

You can see the mop of blonde hair that could be Mr Evans and you stand up straight, starting an idle, if quick, stroll around the opposite side of the room. There’s a door to the patio off to the side, and you duck through the door and inhale a lungful of fresh air.

It’s quiet out here, the music following you out but it’s caught in the open space, drifting up into the sky, insignificant. It’s the late evening, and the sky burns red, the sun catching on the edge of the landscape, flaming the distant fields.

This is the Oakwood estate, and they usually host the best parties of the season. A large mansion, white and pristine, surrounded by flattened grass. Perfect for playing cricket on, if one wishes. And they often did.

You smooth your hand over the wood of the railing, white paint giving the effect of marble. On the underside, you chip away at it to expose the brown wood. Out of sight, a pathetic rebellion but you take what you can get.

You know that in a few minutes you will have to return to the dance, find Mr Evans and do your usual verbal dance. Apologise for missing him, let him take him for a dance. Perhaps ask him his day was, if he lets you get a word in. You know that this is your lot in life, the idea of truly rebelling and shaming your parents is enough to curtail you, just before you can get too many ideas.

Not that it doesn’t leave you bitter, but you’ve gotten used to chewing on your words. There is a sickly feeling at the back of your throat, and it has just gotten more poisonous over the years. You’re too young to be so bitter, so you resolve to give yourself another minute of fresh air before you return to reality.

At the forest line, you can see a man in a suit shifting, and you squint, trying to make out the shape of him. A dot, with arms and legs, sprinting from what must be a mile away. You stare, unsure of what you are seeing. Inappropriate, you think, to approach this party on foot rather than via carriage, but you couldn’t see who it was to surely throw any judgement.

A call of your name behind you has you spinning around. Mr Garrick stands in the doorway, slowly shutting the door behind him as he takes you in. “Hello,” he greets, bowing his head to you slightly.

“Mr Garrick,” you start, giving an aborted attempt at a curtsy. You falter, unsure as to whether to bring up the proposal that you saw the previous night. You decide not to, settling on something more polite. “How are you?”

Mr Garrick smiles at you, impossibly handsome. You are struck for a moment, about someone so beautiful, wondering for a moment if you have imagined the entire scene from the prior night had even happened at all. “I am well, thank you,” he replies, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s broad in the shoulders, a faint strain in the fabric of his coat that draws your eye for a moment. “Just wondering why you were out here instead of inside.”

You shuffle, unladylike, for a moment. You turn back to the railing, facing the open field again. Easier, you think, to speak directly to the sun if faced a little away from it. “I just needed a moment, it’s a little close in there.” You hadn’t spoken much, before he left, but at the burr of his voice, you slip into memory. Pulled forward before you stop yourself, remembering how easily he pulls conversation from you, a loose string that unravels.

He hums, steps to the railing himself. There is a gap of space between you, the amount that is appropriate, but you still glance behind you uneasily. He had left the door open behind him, the door slanted at an angle so the sounds inside are slightly muffled, but still present. It cuts through the space between you, the constant reminder of the rules of your lives behind you. “I understand the feeling, myself,” Mr Garrick confesses, forearms braced on the railing. His head is tilted towards you, eyes dark and pretty.

“Yes?” you ask, blinking at him in surprise. You hadn’t seen Mr Garrick at many dances like this, granted given he had been so recently away, but for a man whose back was so unbent, you didn’t imagine he was someone to be intimidated in a crowd.

Mr Garrick hums again, giving you a small smile. It’s affectionate, in a way that has you flushing. “Indeed. It’s strange, in France, my garrison had 3-score more men than there are in that ballroom, and yet it felt easier to move through.” He gives you a self-deprecating smile. “I must sound very silly.”

“Not at all,” you rush to say, rocking forward before reeling yourself back in. He watches you for a moment, an amused uptick on the corner of his mouth. Your fingers flex beneath the cotton of your gloves. Count the stitches that rub against your skin. “It’s nice to find companionship in an isolating feeling,” you add, shy at how forward your words sound.

He doesn’t move for a moment, eyes darting around your face. Your name comes out of his mouth, soft, like it’s still sitting on his tongue. You turn towards the field again, see the figure of that man in the distance. He’s closer now, more than a dot now, the faint image of a person.

“I should find my mother,” you say, wanting to hunch in yourself, but forcing yourself to turn back to the doors. Light filters out, caught in the dark of outside and disappearing, swallowed up.

Mr Garrick takes a step closer to you and you inhale, feel the catch of it on your ribcage. You forget how much taller he is than you, until he is this close. The light from inside catches on one side of his face, relieving it into clarity. There is the faintest scar in his eyebrow, a slight blemish in his otherwise perfect face. His hand, bare, slides across the railing, thumb where you think you have picked at the paint.

“Mr Garrick,” you start, eyes caught on his hand, before darting back to his face. 

“I believe I asked you to call me Kyle, once,” he says, giving you an amused smile.

You don’t frown but it’s a close thing. “I don’t think that would be - appropriate,” you manage. The same response you had given him back then as well, you think.

He frowns instead, and you feel guilt curdle like lukewarm tea in your belly. You shuffle, taking note of how he leans back. You want him back in your space, want the heat of his attention.

“I’m sorry,” you add, desperate for him to not look sad again. You think about his face, searching in the dark of your stairway. It’s impossible to reconcile that he had proposed to spend his life with you. And you cannot even extend the kindness of his name towards him. “Kyle,” you add, before you can stop yourself.

His head turns back to your, full lips tilting in a soft smile. Your name exhales again, catches in the air around you and warms you. His hand flexes and he reaches up, a flicker of uncertainty on his face that lingers for a moment before it dissipates. His hand drops. You imagine how it would have felt against your skin. You’re certain that he boxes just like his father, you wonder if his hand would be calloused against your skin, or if it would be soft and deliberate.

Another voice calls out your name, and it ruptures through the slight breeze around you. Once again, you are reminded of the propriety of your situation, and you take a step back, even though you hadn’t been doing anything wrong. You recognise the voice, the uptilt at the end. Mr Evans, and you didn’t want to find out if he reported to your mother that he couldn’t find you.

“I should go,” you murmur, shuffling uncertainly for a moment before you turn around. Mr Garrick doesn’t try to stop you, which makes you feel rotten.

You turn your head just before you step back inside. A painting in candlelight that throws Mr Garrick’s face into real life, like he has stepped out of a painting. The furrow of his brow and the slightest downturn of his full mouth. The stranger out in the field, closer now, the swing of his arm as he runs. You bow your head and turn around.

-

Mr Evans is the dullest man that you have ever met. You try not to think too uncharitably about him, but as he spins you around again and reminisces about another business man who owes him some money, you wonder if it would be better if you were to fall and hit your head. Or maybe if he did. Nothing too serious, but enough blood to scare off any further attempt at conversation.

He isn’t terrible to look at, a strong jawline, his smooth blonde hair. Charming enough that your mother coos at everything he says. It didn’t have the same effect on you, unfortunately.

“Your mother is a very handsome lady,” Mr Evans informs you, something that has you blinking to focus. Your palm pressed against his as you step away and then step back into him. “She has graciously invited me over for afternoon tea with yourselves tomorrow.”

You give him a stiff smile. You had been there when it had been arranged. “Yes, our cook makes the best pastries, and my mother does enjoy letting people experience them.”

“I look forward to it,” Mr Evans tells you. You smile again and let him turn you.

The smooth slide of the violin soothes through the hall, catching on the floor and bouncing back up. You let it wash over you, until individual voices quieten, smoothing together into a mistakable blur that you cannot distinguish.

It is hot in here, a heat that catches in your throat, crawls like a bug over your skin. You imagine walking back out to the veranda, wondering if Mr Garrick is still out there. It’s cool out there, you are parched for the bite of wind in your lungs.

You decide to give yourself one more dance, and then you will go out there again. A reward, for doing your duty.

The bow of the violin screeches, a horrid twang that has you flinching, the entire room stuttering. There is a crash outside, something wooden snapping.

You turn, stumbling in your slippers as everyone looks towards the balcony. You cannot see at first, trying to peek over everyone’s shoulders. Pushing yourself onto your toes, very unladylike, before there is another smash and then someone is shrieking.

What once was a still crowd that you were a part of seems to turn on you, a tidal wave that breathes in before it suffocates you. Everyone scrambles, and you get shoved back, momentarily affronted before the screaming gets worse, more and more voices joining the chorus.

Your foot gets trampled on and you whimper, shoved back until your back hits a wall. Pulled along for a few moments, before the crowd starts to thin and you can see the moment of clarity by the large windows. 

There is a man on the floor, Mr Casings, you think. It is like your mind cannot make sense of the scene before you. There is another man, knelt over Mr Casings, and there is the red of his guts over the floor, red caught in the broken doorway. Thick and malleable looking, you watch as a stranger rifles through the torso of another man and guides his hands to his mouth.

There is a catch in your mind, the click of a door stuck in a jam. The moment before you saw this and now, your mind is syrupy slow, half still trying to remember your next dance move. You cannot make sense of what you are seeing, so you feel stuck in the run up to it, half parsing through recent memory to try and decipher it.

There is the rumble of a keening noise and it takes a tickle in your throat for you to realise that it is coming from you. You lift a hand to your mouth, try to suffocate it.

The creature kneeling over Mr Casings must hear you, its head yanks up in your direction. You think it may have once been a man, but anything human must be gone from it, leaving behind pallid skin, gore in its mouth as it makes a groaning, snapping noise at you.

Quicker than you think it should, it darts up and starts to charge at you, leaving you crying out as you start to sob, scrambling as you try to get away.

You think about lying on the ground like Mr Casings, the useless silk of your dress ripped open until the warmth kept within you went cold in the open air.

You hear the snap of teeth and you scream, an animal sound tearing out of your throat before there is a grunt and another thud.

You’ve hit the wall again, and you can’t stop yourself from looking. Whatever was charging at you is pinned to the ground, and you sob as you watch Mr Garrick grab the creature by its head and smash it into the floor.

You flinch with each thud, unable to look away. Watch as it continues to buck and twitch until it finally stills, blood on the floor where its head used to be. Where before you had felt slow, five steps behind what was happening before you, now you feel stuck, finally caught up. Door no longer caught on a jam, now thrown open, hinges loose and rattling.

You can’t look away from the image of Mr Garrick, sitting on the back of this man-shaped creature that now had a blood splatter for a brain.

Your name comes out hushed, barely able to comprehend that Mr Garrick is crouched in front of you. “Can you hear me?” he asks, and you blink at him, uncomprehending. “We have to go, alrigh’?”

You don’t move, eyes still stuck over his shoulders, the gush of blood. You can see it seeping in through the gaps of the floorboards. Mr Garrick’s head lowers before he murmurs that he’s got you, and then you feel yourself getting lifted up.

Slung over his shoulder, you have enough presence of mind to cling to his back before he takes off. Sound filters through the front of the hall, screaming and yelling. Mr Garrick darts off to the left, towards the balcony with Mr Casings.

Mr Garrick neatly steps over the carnage, shoes grinding in the broken glass. You whimper as you catch sight of his empty eyes staring upwards. Mr Garrick shushes you, smooths a hand over the back of your thigh even as he doesn’t falter.

Outside now, the cool air hits your face. The sun is still setting, the sky red and you squeeze your eyes shut at the colour. The death that you’ve seen in the hall is closed off, and if you don’t breathe in too deeply, then you won’t taste the bitter tang of blood, and maybe it’s all gone.

Mr Garrick curses sharply and you get pulled forward until you're on your feet, and tugged into his chest. He yanks you into the wall and steps in front of you, shushing you again before you can make a sound. Not that you were going to, shaking and clinging to the lapels of his jacket. You peek over the broad of his shoulder, and see why you have both stopped.

Gravel is getting kicked up from under the feet of guests as they run out from the estate. Others are running towards them, across the field and you choke on your breath when they collide. It must be more of those creatures, some type of sickness. You didn’t understand, they had the silhouette of men, but you hear the yowling when they brought a woman down and tore into her.

“Christ,” Mr Garrick mutters, cradling you in his front. “Shit, we need to get a horse.”

The stables were around the front, even though you are several feet away, you imagine you could smell the blood being spilled from here. You whimper again, shaking. “My mother,” you manage, unable to find the words for what you really want to say. My mother must be with that group of people, and we can hear them all dying. There aren't words designed to sit in the mouth like that.

Mr Garrick considers you, mouth pressed in a tight line. “Alright, wait here, do not come out unless I come back, ok?” You nod, but when he steps away, you find your hands still fisted in the lapels of his coat, like you cannot let go. He steps back, smooths his hand over your wrist, just beneath your glove. You jolt at the feeling of his bare skin, some old propriety from a lifetime ago are enough to startle you into relinquishing your grip. “I’ll be right back, keep hidden,” he tells you, pushing you further into the slight alcove.

And then he’s gone. You stare out across the grass. They play cricket out here in the summer. You remember, suddenly, the man running out in the field, wondering if that was the man that killed Mr Casings. His blood stains the edge of your dress, guilty. You want to cry, feel like a sick animal out in this open air.

Your father had a hunting dog once, and you remember how it had looked when he put it down. Mad, he’d called it, saliva foaming in its jowls. Wild eyes that had looked around, uncomprehending and yet piercing. You inhale, shaking, wonder if you look the same.

You refuse to make a sound though, lean against the brick behind you. Shake as you listen to screaming and growling that travel through the open field to reach you. You fist your hands in the skirts of your dress, try to breathe steadily. You don’t know what you will do if Mr Garrick doesn’t come back. You hope he comes back with a carriage, your mother inside to pull you inside. What you wouldn’t give to be scolded for crying and ruining the delicate rouge that she had spent precious time delicately smoothing on your cheeks.

Time is elongated and unbearable until it returns to you with a crack at the sound of a horse. You peek out, and you make out Mr Garrick astride what must be a horse detached from a carriage. No saddle, but reins around its face.

It’s only Mr Garrick who thuds down in front of you, who gathers you up and ushers you towards the horse. “My mother, where is -” you start, pliant beneath the ushering of Mr Garricks hands.

“I couldn’t see her, there’s a chance she got away, like we have to, right now,” he tells you, his voice strained as he steadies the horse, looking over your shoulder.

“I don’t -” you say, but Mr Garrick has had enough talking, and lifts you onto the horse, side straddle, before smoothly pulling himself up behind you.

He kicks the horse into motion, and you set off, quick enough that you still don’t understand.

You feel half your mind is still back on the balcony, trying to decide if you were going to go back inside. You look over Mr Garrick’s shoulder, and imagine you can see her, staring out at you. Seeing you but not understanding.

The band between the two of you pulls until it snaps. You jolt, a wounded noise high in your throat, but hidden in Mr Garrick’s broad chest.

Your father had shot your sick dog, barrel of the gun against the back of its head. Mr Garrick’s hand on the back of your skull, fingers in your hair, holding you steady. Right there, the press of his last finger on the give at the start of your neck. Saliva pools in your mouth, but you swallow it down and choke on it.

[cherrylibby]

Chasing the Storms

The Oklahoma sky was bruised with the colors of an oncoming storm—deep violets and angry grays swirling above the horizon. Tyler barely noticed. His heart was pounding harder than it had on any chase as he stood on your front porch, waiting for you to slam the door in his face.

But you didn’t.

You stood there, eyes burning with something between fury and heartbreak, your arms crossed like a shield against him. The years hadn’t dulled your fire—if anything, they’d made it sharper. And damn, if that didn’t hurt just as much as it made him miss you.

"You got some nerve showing up here, Tyler," you said, voice tight.

He nodded once. "Yeah. I do."

A bitter smirk pulled at your lips, but there was no humor in it. "What do you want?"

Tyler exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. "I need your help. There’s a storm system coming, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. We’ve got a solid team, the tech, but…" He hesitated. "No one tracks storms like you."

You scoffed, stepping back like he’d just insulted you. "Unbelievable. You disappear for years—no calls, no letters, not a damn word—and now you show up at my door because you need something? Do you even hear yourself?"

He flinched. He deserved that.

"It’s not just about the storm," he tried, but you weren’t having it.

"Oh, really? Then what is it about, Tyler?" Your voice cracked on his name, and that nearly broke him. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you only come back when it’s convenient for you."

His jaw tightened. "You told me you were done."

"You left!"

"You made me leave!" The words exploded out of him, sharp and desperate, cutting through the space between you. "You quit chasing, you shut down, and you looked at me like I was the worst thing that ever happened to you. I didn’t know how to fix that!"

You shook your head, eyes glistening, but you refused to let a tear fall. "You didn’t even try," you whispered.

Silence.

The wind picked up around you, rustling the old wind chimes hanging from the porch. The storm was rolling in fast now, but the one brewing between you and Tyler was worse.

"You think it was easy for me to walk away?" he asked, voice lower now, strained. "You think I wanted to leave you?" He took a step closer, and to his relief, you didn’t move away. "Every damn day, I thought about coming back. About calling you. But what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, sorry for nearly getting you killed—wanna chase another storm?’" He let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. "I left because I thought you’d be better off without me."

You swallowed hard, arms tightening around yourself like you were holding yourself together. "That wasn’t your choice to make."

Tyler ran a hand over his face. "I know." He let out a breath, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. "I know."

A long pause.

Then, softer—more vulnerable than he’d ever sounded—he said, "I never stopped loving you."

Your breath caught.

For a second, you looked away, blinking fast, but then you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with that same defiance he’d always loved about you. "Then why did you leave me to love you alone?"

That shattered him.

His hand came up, hesitating just for a second before he cupped your cheek. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch, just the slightest bit, and that was all he needed.

Before you could say another word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful, wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate and raw, full of everything left unsaid over the years. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and when your fingers tangled in his hair, he groaned into the kiss.

You tasted like the past and everything he’d ever wanted in the future.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads resting together, he whispered, "Come with me."

You exhaled shakily. "Tyler—"

"Not just for the storms. For us." His grip on you tightened like he was terrified of letting go again. "I screwed up. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve fought harder. But I’m here now, and if you tell me to leave, I’ll go. But I swear to God, I don’t want to run anymore. I just want you."

You stared at him, torn between every scar he’d left on your heart and the undeniable truth that you still loved him.

Outside, thunder rumbled, shaking the sky.

You sighed. Then, finally, finally, you muttered, "Damn it, Tyler."

He grinned. "I’ll take that as a yes."

You rolled your eyes, but when you pulled him down for another kiss, he knew he was finally home.

[capseycartwright]

let this night invade my lungs (you’re all i want to breathe)

Buck was not in love with his straight best friend. He wanted that on record. Buck was not going to be the miserable queer cliché, falling in love with a straight boy who didn’t want him back. He was not doing that.

buck finally unpacks, calls eddie and has a few realisations - mostly in that order.

post 8x11 coda.

ao3 link

Logically, Buck knew that unpacking was the right thing to do – he’d signed a lease and given up the loft, moved all of his things into the former Diaz house on South Bedford Street. As wrong as it felt to be replacing Eddie’s furniture with his own, he couldn’t live on his sister’s couch forever, could he?

(Maddie would let him, probably – but he was thirty-three years old, and so eventually he had to face reality. A reality he’d created for himself. That was the hard part – he’d done this to himself when he agreed to take over Eddie’s lease.)

Hanging his own artwork where Eddie’s own had been up until a few weeks previously had felt like accepting it was over, that Eddie and Christopher were in Texas – but as he had unpacked, more and more, it didn’t feel quite as bad as he’d built it up to be in his head. The house was still filled with memories of Eddie, and Chris, even if it was Buck’s couch that sat in the living room now, tan leather a stark contract to the dark fabric of Eddie’s couch, the one that was in Texas now. The kitchen was still the place where Buck had really learned to love cooking, not just do it for function, anymore, but for the love of sharing food with his family. He’d cooked and baked so many things in Eddie’s kitchen over the years, the joy of that still lingered.

Eddie had even left his stupid frog soap dispenser behind, grinning as he’d bestowed the small plastic animal to Buck, making him promise he’d keep Mr Ribbit (named by a nine-year-old Christopher) safe in their absence. Most of Eddie and Christopher’s physical presence in the house was gone, but the memories remained, and Buck was trying to let that be enough. It had to be enough, or he was going to lose his mind entirely.

He was – well, he was coping. Buck wouldn’t lie and say he was coping well, but he was coping, just about, learning to live with his best friend in another state, 900 miles away instead of a twenty-minute drive. It was hard, to accept that Eddie just wasn’t around all the time anymore, after seven years of practically living in each other’s pockets. He thought he was coping extraordinarily well, given the circumstances – though Chimney, and Ravi, would probably say otherwise.

Kicking off his sneakers – not setting them neatly at the door, but leaving them loose on the living room floor, his own quiet act of rebellion in a house where Eddie had stacked their shoes with military precision – Buck settled on the couch, a bowl of dinner tucked in the crook of his elbow. It wasn’t his best work – stir fry, made with ingredients he’d grabbed in a rushed trip to the grocery store, the food left behind in the aftermath of the whole Tommy situation going in the bin. He could hear the lecture he’d get from Bobby about food waste, if he knew, but when Buck had tried to eat some of the eggs after Tommy had slammed out of the house, they had tasted dry, and gritty. It was mostly because of his emotional state, but also because Tommy was a notorious underseasoner of his eggs.

Probably a point against Buck’s ex, if he was being entirely honest about it.

The house was quiet, as Buck started to eat, the usual noise and chatter of the Diaz household happening in Texas now, instead of California. He had to get used to it, get used to the quiet, was the thing – Buck could turn the TV on, and drown out the silence, but that felt counterproductive. As much as he hated to admit it, Maddie was right – he needed to learn how to be alone again.

Buck hadn’t been alone in a long time, because of Eddie – he hadn’t realised that until he was watching Eddie’s U-Haul drive away.

read the rest on ao3

[timetopanic34]

In all honesty I think Bucky had a wide range of feelings that he never had time to properly deal with or talk about with Steve.

I actually envision that in the future a few years into Bucky’s recovery after the Winter Soldier, that for the first time he and Steve really discuss all the feelings about it.

On the one hand Bucky was angry because he wanted Steve safe and home. But if he hadn’t become Cap chances are Bucky and the Howlies would have died or at the very least Bucky would have been taken by Hydra sooner.

So one day when Bucky thinks about pre-serum Steve getting the notice that Bucky was either KIA or MIA and then had to live his life without Bucky and it traumatises him to think about it. Because while he might not say it out loud, Steve will; “I wouldn’t have lasted much longer if that had happened, Buck, and you know it.”

On the one hand Steve is well and pain free. As someone who is disabled and in pain myself I can just imagine the utter relief of my loved ones if I was suddenly healthy, fit and could take on anything I wanted to. But on the other hand Bucky knew that pre serum Steve was amazing and didn’t need to be “fixed.”

That’s just the first thoughts that come to mind. Ultimately without the serum Steve and Bucky would never get to have a HEA and I think ultimately that is the acceptance Bucky comes too. Even seventy odd years as the soldier were worth it to get a few decades (or more) living happily with the love of his life.

I understand OP was just throwing out some fluffy thoughts and I love them cause yes twink to buff in a heartbeat must have been bloody surreal!

But I think a lot about this on a serious level so wanted to share.

Do yall think Bucky was mad as hell that the twink he left safely at home magically appeared on the eastern front not a twink anymore

[graysonfics]

the apple pie life is something you’d never admit to the winchesters that you desperately crave. you were born into hunting, and you’re damn good at it, but part of you longs for the white picket fence and doting husband. the husband in your dreams is always dean, but you’d also never admit that. especially because he has the apple pie life you dream of with someone who isn’t you.

you don’t know why you’re on lisa’s doorstep right now. you can’t bring yourself to knock on the door because you know dean will be on the other side, and you haven’t seen him since that horrible night he left you. you cried yourself to sleep with no sam to comfort you.

you shake off the memory and knock on the door. with a hammering heart, you wait. eventually the door opens and you’re met with familiar green eyes that knock the wind out of your chest.

“(y/n)?” dean looks surprised. “what are you doing here?”

“i’m sorry to bother you,” you cough in an attempt to clear the nervousness from your tone. “i need to talk to you.”

dean nods, opening the door wider for you without a second thought. you follow him into the house he’s made a home for lisa and her son. there’s photos of them lining the walls that lead to the kitchen, dean smiling brightly in each and every one of them. you’re scared you’re going to puke.

“sit down,” he pulls out a chair at the kitchen table for you. “i’ll get you some water.”

dean busies himself with grabbing a glass from the cabinet and you try not to look around the kitchen. you imagine the life he has with lisa here, the family dinners around a real table instead of chinese takeout on motel room beds.

“it’s good to see you,” he says, sitting across from you. you can’t tell if he’s lying. “i tried to call—“

“you didn’t,” you smile sadly. “but it’s okay.”

“it isn’t. we both lost him.”

your throat tightens at the reminder of sam trapped in lucifer’s cage. you carefully think about your next words.

“about that…”

dean sits up, “what is it?”

“sam’s back,” you tell him and dean’s face softens. “he’s been back for about a year. before you get mad, he asked me not to tell you. he knew you’d leave lisa and ben behind if you found out and he wanted you to have a chance at happiness, dean.”

“where is he?” dean’s tone is calm but you can see the fury in his eyes.

“he’s fine.” you reassure him.

“(y/n)—“

“he’s fine,” you promise. “i just… i needed to tell you. he doesn’t know i’m here. he asked me not to come. and i… i wanted to see you.”

you swallow the lump in your throat and take a sip of water to distract yourself from saying too much. from telling him how much you hate him for leaving you, how you wish he would just come home.

dean’s about to say something when the front door opens. you hear lisa talking to ben and you stand up from the table in a rush, almost knocking over the glass of water.

“(y/n),” she sounds surprised as she enters the kitchen, her smile faltering. “hi.”

“hi, lisa,” you give her a small wave. “sorry for the intrusion. i needed dean’s advice on some… stuff.”

lisa nods, but she’s looking at dean over your shoulder and you know they’re going to talk about this once you leave.

“anyway, i should probably get going. thanks for having me,” you force a smile. “lovely to see you again, lisa.”

“you too.”

dean follows you to the front door and you avoid his eye as you go to leave. he grabs you by the wrist gently and you turn to look at him.

“sweetheart, i—“

“i’m happy for you,” you can feel the tears beginning to well in your eyes as your voice lowers to a whisper. “you deserve this so much, dean.”

“i’ll come with you.” he offers.

“i know you don’t want to,” you respond. “give him time, he’ll come and see you. i’m so happy you got out. i just wish you hadn’t left me behind.”

“(y/n)—“ he says, but you’re already out the door.

[doodle-pops]

Dating Someone Younger Than Them

☾ Characters: Maedhros, Fingon, Turgon, Finarfin, Beleg, Gwindor

☾ A/N: Been wanting to write a version for the Silm after I did one for Bleach. It was just perfect for our elves considering they’re ancient lol.

☾ Synopsis: When their mortal love calls them ‘old man’ and other ancient terms of endearment.

Masterlist | Navigation

︶꒦꒷Maedhros꒷꒦︶

➽ The first time you called him an old man, he just gave you a long, unimpressed stare, as if weighing whether it was even worth his time to respond. Then he sighed, rubbing his temples. “I have lived through the ruin of kingdoms, the fall of civilisations, and the wrath of Morgoth himself, and yet this is what finally tests my patience.”

➽ It became a game after that. You would drop an ‘old man’ comment in the middle of a conversation, and he would try to act as if he hadn’t heard it. The twitch in his jaw always gave him away.

➽ He never fully humours it, but he doesn’t ignore it either. If you push too far, he’ll turn it around with some impossibly poetic insult about your youth. “For one so new to this world, you have a remarkable talent for being insufferable.”

➽ If you ever say it in front of his brothers or anyone else, he will immediately deny you. “This is slander. I am not old.” Then he turns to the unfortunate bystander. “Do I look old?” If they hesitate for even a second, he’s going to be even more annoyed.

➽ He could handle the name-calling when it was just the two of you, but when you casually threw out a “Move faster, ancient one” in front of Elrond, Maedhros genuinely looked like he wanted to walk into a volcano all over again.

➽ When he’s deep in thought or strategising, you like to sit beside him and start listing the benefits of being old. “Wisdom, experience, a nice slow pace—” “I am not slow.” “Your reflexes might not be what they used to be.” “You’re welcome to test that theory, though I doubt you’d survive the lesson.”

➽ He tries to get back at you by calling you ‘child,’ but it never has the same sting because it’s factually correct. “Oh, what’s that, grandpa? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your joints creaking.” He looks like he’s regretting every life decision that led him to this moment.

➽ One day you asked him if he needed a walking stick, just to see his reaction. He didn’t even blink. “Perhaps I do. I can use it to beat you with.”

➽ He refuses to admit it, but he finds your antics mildly entertaining. It’s a welcome distraction from the heavy burden he always carries. If he didn’t enjoy your company, he wouldn’t tolerate you at all.

➽ There was one occasion when you woke up with a sore back from sleeping in an awkward position. The second you so much as winced, he was on you like a vulture. “What’s this? Ailing already? I thought only old men suffered from such things.”

➽ He once caught you whispering to one of the horses about “taking extra care of the old man,” and you have never known true fear until you turned and saw the way he was watching you from the doorway.

︶꒦꒷Fingon꒷꒦︶

➽ He takes it with absolute grace. The first time you called him an old man, he just burst out laughing. “Oh, is that how you see me? I’ll have you know, I am in my prime!”

➽ If anything, he started playing into it more than you did. You accused him of being old, so he leaned fully into it. He started dramatically pretending to mishear you like some ancient relic. “What was that?” he would say, cupping a hand to his ear. “Speak up, my hearing isn’t what it used to be!”

➽ If you say it in public, he just rolls with it. If someone asks how old he is, he’ll sigh wistfully. “I lost count after the first thousand years. But it is a heavy burden to be so ancient.” He then promptly challenges someone to a footrace just to prove he’s still in perfect shape.

➽ The first time you called him ‘old man’ in front of Turgon, the sheer look of delight on his brother’s face was enough to make Fingon immediately declare, “Okay. I will not stand for this slander around my siblings.”

➽ He does this annoying thing where if you ever complain about something even remotely difficult, he pats your head and says, “Ah, you young folk. So fragile, so untested by time.” It makes you want to fight him.

➽ You once jokingly suggested getting him a cane, and he immediately turned it into a whole thing. “Ah, a cane! Lovely! Now I can whack you each time you refuse to be nice to your old man.” You realised too late that you had given him an actual idea.

➽ When introducing him to new people, you would say things like, “This is Fingon. He’s about ten thousand years old. Probably met a few dinosaurs in his youth.”

➽ “There were no dinosaurs,” he said one day, rubbing his temples. “You don’t know that,” you shot back. “You’re old enough that you might’ve forgotten.” He had to physically restrain himself from throwing something.

➽ You tried to call him ‘grandfather’ once, just to mess with him, and he whacked you with the cane before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder. “Disrespectful children get carried off into the mountains, did you know?” He had you hanging there for a good five minutes before he let you down.

➽ He does have moments where he flips it on you. If you ever struggle with something, he’ll just fold his arms and shake his head. “Tsk, tsk. You youngsters, no stamina at all.” Then he walks off whistling, leaving you to yell after him.

➽ He keeps an actual tally of how many times you’ve called him old. Every time you say it, he smirks and says, “Ah, that’s another one. I believe we’re at…oh, at least a hundred now, and it’s only been a day.”

➽ Despite everything, he wouldn’t have it any other way. If anyone else had dared to mock him like this, he would have thrown hands. But you? You made eternity a little less lonely.

︶꒦꒷Turgon꒷꒦︶

➽ He is absolutely scandalised the first time you call him an old man. He stares at you as if you’ve just insulted his entire lineage. “Old? Old?” You’ve broken his brain.

➽ He cannot believe you would say such a thing to him. “I am in my prime!” He spends the next five minutes going over how elves don’t age like mortals. You nod along, taking none of it seriously.

➽ If you ever say it in court or around his people, he’ll pretend he didn’t hear you. If someone else reacts, he immediately dismisses it. “Do not humour them. They are young and foolish.”

➽ He’s far too serious about it. If you keep teasing him, he will launch into a lecture about the differences between elves and mortals, as if he genuinely thinks you might not understand. “Age, as you perceive it, does not apply to me in the same manner—” “Yes, yes, that’s what all old people say.” He looks like he wants to strangle you.

➽ You tried to give him a ‘wise old sage’ persona once, asking for ‘the wisdom of the ancients.’ He was not amused. “If you wish for my wisdom, then cease your foolishness.”

➽ He does get his revenge, though. If you ever ask for his help with anything, he tilts his head and says, “Ah, but I am an old man. Surely you would not ask such a burden of me?” Then he watches as you regret everything.

➽ He tries to turn it on you by calling you ‘child’ but ends up making himself sound even older. “You are but a mere infant in the grand scheme of things.” “Alright, grandfather.” He clenches his fists.

➽ You’ve tried to get others in on it, but most of his people are too respectful to join. Idril, however, betrayed him once by smirking and saying, “Well, you are older than the moon.” He was horrified.

➽ Still, you were insufferable about it when the mood was light. The time he hesitated for just a second before kneeling and you went, “Careful, old man, don’t throw out your back,” had him seriously considering revenge.

➽ You once dramatically gasped and pointed to a grey hair (it wasn’t grey, it was just the light hitting his hair in a certain way). He immediately went to check a mirror. You laughed for five minutes.

➽ If you ever try to help him stand up as if he’s frail, he will walk away without acknowledging you. But if you trip, he’s the first to say, “Ah, how clumsy youth can be.” You hate that he’s learning.

︶꒦꒷Finarfin꒷꒦︶

➽ He takes it with the patience of someone who has raised multiple hot-headed children and lived through millennia of nonsense. The first time you called him an old man, he just gave you a very calm look, folded his hands, and said, “Ah, so this is how we’re speaking to our elders now.”

➽ Every time he started waxing poetic about the past, you’d lean in and whisper, “Tell me, old man, what was it like when the world was flat?” just to watch his expression twitch.

➽ He tries to be above it, but the more you push, the more you can see that tiny flicker of exasperation in his eyes. “I do not feel old,” he tells you one day after you make some comment about him needing rest. “Then why do you sigh like a man who has carried the weight of time itself?” He does not respond with an answer.

➽ If you ever say it in front of others, especially his courtiers, he just offers a serene smile and responds in that terrifyingly diplomatic tone: “Yes, I am indeed quite old, and with that comes the wisdom to know when to ignore a foolish remark.”

➽ You sometimes get him gifts with ‘Number 1 Grandfather’ written on it, which makes him mentally age. “Got this for you while I was at the art shop. They had this as a giveaway gift. Thought of you,” you say with a brilliant smile. He secretly uses that item when you’re not looking.

➽ He won’t openly challenge you, but he gets his revenge in subtle ways. If you ever need his help, he pauses for a long moment and hums as if in deep thought. “Ah, but you just said I was an old man…surely, you would not burden me further?” He only helps once you’ve suffered enough.

➽ You tried to make it worse by referring to him as ‘grandfather,’ thinking you’d finally get a real reaction. He only smiled and said, “Ah, then I expect you to act with the respect due to one’s grandsire.” You lost that round instantly.

➽ If you ever ask if he remembers something from thousands of years ago, he gives you an almost pitying look. “My dear, I was there when the Two Trees shone in all their glory. This event you speak of? It is recent history to me.” You can’t even argue.

➽ He once overheard you talking to a servant about how he was probably the type to grunt when sitting down. The next time he lowered himself into a chair, he made a point of doing it completely silently while staring directly at you.

➽ You once got overly confident and teased him about ‘his old man hands’ when he reached for something. He just slowly raised his eyebrows and then gestured for you to hand him a sword. “If you wish to test them, we may spar.” You swiftly remembered that he was, in fact, a Noldorin warrior.

➽ When he catches you struggling with something, like carrying too many things at once, he doesn’t say a word. He just watches, waiting for the inevitable. When you drop something, he finally hums. “Ah, youth. So full of energy, yet so lacking in foresight.”

︶꒦꒷Beleg꒷꒦︶

➽ The first time you called him an old man, he just stared at you for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Old? Me? My dear, I can still outrun and outfight you before breakfast.” And he proves it, too.

➽ He is the absolute worst about it because he finds it hilarious. If you bring it up, he immediately goes into an exaggerated act of being ancient. “Ah, my weary bones, my tired limbs! The years have been so cruel to me!” He says this while effortlessly stringing his bow.

➽ If you ever suggest that he needs rest due to his ‘age,’ he takes it as a personal challenge. “Oh? Do I seem tired to you?” And then he drags you on a full-day hunt through the wilds, moving like an unstoppable force while you suffer.

➽ He gets back at you by constantly referring to himself as a ‘wise elder’ and you as an ‘inexperienced youth.’ If you struggle with something, he leans against a tree and sighs. “Ah, I remember my younger days, when I too was reckless and foolish.

➽ Sometimes, it backfires like when you’re hunting together and request that he assist or carry you. “You would not make such a request of your elderly? I am but a fragile old man—weary are my bones. You, my dear, should carry me instead.”

➽ You tried to get Túrin in on it once, but the clueless man actually believed you and started treating Beleg with exaggerated concern. Beleg had to sit him down and explain that no, he was not, in fact, on the brink of death.

➽ He once let you tie a ‘wise old sage’ beard onto his face just for fun. He wore it for exactly ten minutes before it got in the way of shooting an arrow.

➽ His patience was legendary, but you had a way of testing it in ways no one else could. Like when he was lost in thought, you would ruin the moment by poking his cheek and saying, “Careful, old man, if you frown any harder, your wrinkles might become permanent.”

➽ If you ever call him old in front of other elves, he leans into it. “Yes, indeed, I am ancient,” he says dramatically. “I have seen centuries of battle, and yet I still find myself suffering through this torment.” He gestures at you with exaggerated despair.

➽ He once saw you rubbing your shoulder after a long day and immediately smirked. “Oh, what’s this? Are you aching? How terrible! I thought only old men suffered such things.” He enjoys payback too much.

➽ You tried to call him ‘fossil’ once, thinking you could win the game. He immediately scooped you up and ran at full speed through the trees until you begged for mercy.

➽ He never lets you forget that, compared to him, you are essentially a newborn. “I remember when you were not even a thought in the world,” he tells you cheerfully.” Meanwhile, I was already legendary.” You groan.

︶꒦꒷Gwindor (Pre-Angbang)꒷꒦︶

➽ He reacts like you’ve just struck him with an arrow the first time you say it. “Old? Old?” He looks personally betrayed.

➽ He immediately tries to defend himself. “I am hardly old! If anything, I am in the prime of my years!” You nod solemnly. “Yes, denial is common among the elderly.” He groans.

➽ He actually gets concerned the first time you say it. “Do I look old?” He immediately checks his reflection. If you don’t reassure him, he starts overthinking it.

➽ When he realises you’re just teasing him, he starts throwing it back at you in the most dramatic ways. If you ever complain about anything, he sighs. “Ah, such struggles of youth. You will understand in time.”

➽ He’s the type to get flustered if you say it in public. If someone overhears and laughs, he immediately tries to explain himself. “This is slander! I am not old!”

➽ He tried to retaliate once by calling you ‘youngling’ in the most patronising tone possible, but you just blinked at him and went, “So you admit it. You’re old. Practically dust. Thank you for your honesty.” He has never attempted it again.

➽ You once left a walking stick outside his tent as a joke. He picked it up, twirled it in his hands, and then used it to trip you. “Ah, it seems this old man still has some skill.” You regretted everything.

➽ He doesn’t take it too seriously, but there is one thing that gets to him: the reminder that time moves differently for you. “One day, you will be gone, and I will remain,” he says quietly one night. You feel a little bad, but then he sighs dramatically. “Then again, perhaps by then, I will be an old man.” He always finds a way to joke about it.

➽ He once caught you massaging your hands after writing for too long and immediately smirked. “Oh? Are your hands aching? Perhaps you, too, are ageing faster than you thought?” You wanted to throw something at him.

➽ If you ever try to claim he’s losing his edge, he challenges you to a duel on the spot. He fights with all the skill of a seasoned warrior and does not go easy on you. By the end of it, you’re the one exhausted, and he just grins. “It seems this old man still has some strength left.”

➽ He gets extra petty about it. If you ever ask him to carry something for you, he makes a show of pretending to struggle. “Oh, my weak, ancient limbs! Alas, I can barely hold such weight!” Then he immediately lifts it with ease.

➽ You tried to ‘help’ him up once when he was sitting on the ground. He just raised an eyebrow and yanked you down instead. “If I must suffer, so must you.”

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[astrids-blog333]

All Eyes on Us

Ex!Lando Norris x Actress!Reader x Aaron Taylor Johnson

Summary: After a public and messy breakup with Lando Norris you attend the Oscars. You are seated next to the charming Aaron Taylor Johnson, fully aware of the paparazzi’s presence, but you no longer care.

Warnings: 16+ SUGGESTIVE content, mild angst with a happy ending, neglect, alcohol consumption, breakup (very public), media scrutiny, language, jealousy, she's an icon.

A/N: I combined two requests for this, one was for Lando where he was basically an idiot, and one was a very generic one for Aaron Taylor Johnson. Lando is basically the bad guy here (sorry Lando ily). Divider by @strangergraphics-archive

Also, please request guys 🫶

WC: 1.6k

Fame is utterly exhausting. Not the kind that comes with long hours on set or press tours across continents, that kind of fame you’ve mastered by now.

No, it’s the kind that finds its way into your personal life, the kind that controls your life, the kind that makes your relationship feel like a spectacle instead of something real.

You and Lando had been together for nearly three years, give or take. A golden couple, they called you. Hollywood’s sweetheart and Formula 1’s rising star. To the world, it was perfect. Behind closed doors? Maybe not so much.

You tried to tell him and explain how distant he’d become, how everything started feeling like a badly executed PR stunt rather than a real, loving, relationship.

Lando never wanted to hear it.

He’d always just brush it off, tell you that you were overthinking, that he was just very busy, that of course he loved you, but still, he was busy.

When you finally ended things, it wasn’t because of some grand betrayal or explosive fight, there was no cheating or crying. It was just a conversation that turned into an argument, that turned into silence, that turned into the realization that this wasn’t love anymore, it had become a simple habit.

He hadn’t wanted to let go. Maybe you hadn’t either. But you did, you had to.

And of course the world, the press, everyone had plenty to say about it.

The whole situation became a circus. Headlines and articles analysed every piece of your relationship, fans took sides, and social media exploded with ridiculous speculation.

Some called you heartless for leaving him, others accused him of neglecting you. In every interview, and every public appearance, someone asked you about Lando.

Two weeks later, the Oscars came, and of course you were going.

The minute you step onto the red carpet you can feel the cameras eating you alive. You know exactly what they’re looking for, any hint of heartbreak, some sign that you’re still reeling and hurting after Lando.

Well, too bad for them.

As you step into the grand ballroom, scanning the room for your seat, a staff member gestures you in the right direction. Your eyes follow their directions, only to land on none other than Aaron Taylor-Johnson, already seated beside your spot.

“You look like you were expecting someone else,” Aaron muses as you take your seat beside him.

You smirk, turning to face him. “No complaints. Just surprised.”

He leans back, studying you with that easy, knowing gaze. “Better me than, I don’t know, an ex?”

You smirk, “Much better.”

The chemistry is instant and so effortless. He flirts shamelessly, and you don’t stop him. Why would you? It feels good to be seen, to feel properly appreciated for the first time in months.

And when your name is called for Best Actress, Aaron is the first to stand, clapping as if he already knew you’d win.

The walk to the stage is a blur. The speech, too. But when you glance back at your seat and catch Aaron watching you, his chin resting on his hand, that unmistakable glint in his eye, you decide to have a little fun, to adlib, just a little.

“…And finally, to everyone who thought I’d be too distracted by my, admittedly, hectic personal life to focus on my career,” you say, letting the pause hang. “Guess you were wrong.”

The audience erupts in laughter and applause. You struggle to suppress your grin as you return to your seat.

Aaron, waiting for you, shakes his head with a slow clap. “Now, that was a moment.”

But the night isn’t over yet, because you and Aaron are presenting an award together.

When you arrive on stage, Aaron adjusts the mic, glancing at you before addressing the audience. “It’s always a pleasure standing beside such incredible talent.” He pauses, his gaze lingering. “Some of us know how to appreciate a winner.”

The room reacts instantly, people letting out cheers, and murmurs, some people simply laughing.

You shoot him a look, playing along. “And some of us know how to share the spotlight.”

“Or steal it entirely,” he counters, voice dripping with amusement. “Not that I mind.”

“Right." You shoot him a knowing look. "Tonight, we are here to celebrate the best of the best.”

Aaron stills beside you, then suddenly turns his attention back to the audience, mischief in his eyes.

“And of course, we know how important it is to celebrate talent, don’t we?” He glances at you before continuing. “Because, you know, nothing’s worse than when hard work and brilliance go underappreciated.”

Someone in the audience gasps, catching onto the implication. Your lips twitch, but you school your expression into something innocent.

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree, nodding. “It’s almost tragic, really.” You pause, then add, “Though, to be fair, some people just don’t recognize a good thing until it’s already gone.”

A mix of gasps, laughter, and scattered applause fills the room. Aaron bites down on a grin.

“Brutal,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “And here I was, thinking I’d be the one causing trouble up here.”

You smirk. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

The moment stretches, cameras flash, capturing every smirk, every glance, every touch that lingers just a second too long. This was definitely going viral.

Finally, Aaron clears his throat, shaking his head as if pulling himself back to reality. “Right. The award.”

“Yes,” you agree, dragging your attention back to the envelope in your hands. “Before we get ourselves in trouble.”

“Bit late for that,” he mutters, winking at the camera.

The audience laughs as you open the envelope, reading out the winner’s name. But as the applause swells around you, Aaron leans in once more, his breath warm against your ear.

“Reckon we just became everyone’s new favourite scandal?”

You glance at him, deliberately brushing your fingers against his. “Oh, absolutely.”

Hours later, you step out of the afterparty, Aaron’s suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The night air is crisp, but his arm is warm beneath your fingers as you hold onto him.

The moment the paparazzi spot you together, flashes explode like fireworks.

You know what they’ll say. What they’ll assume.

But who cares? Let them.

Aaron seems completely unbothered, tilting his head down toward you as you walk toward the waiting car. “We could give them something real to talk about,” he teases.

You smirk. “Oh? And what do you suggest?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tugs you a little closer, manoeuvring his arm to wrap around your waist.

By the time you wake up the next morning, sunlight spilling through unfamiliar windows, your phone is vibrating, nonstop.

Aaron stirs beside you, groaning. “Either someone’s dying, or the internet’s having a meltdown. Your phone has been going off for the past 10 minutes.”

You grab your phone, unlocking it to see headline after headline.

"From Heartbreak to Headlines: Actress Moves On in Style

Fast Love? Ex-Girlfriend of F1 Driver Steals the Spotlight with British Heartthrob

New Power Couple? Fans Obsess Over Their Sizzling On-Stage Banter

Is This the Rebound of the Year? Hollywood’s Newest Rumored Couple Has Everyone Talking"

And they keep coming, you giggle, scrolling through the endless speculation. “Well, they wasted no time.”

Aaron shifts closer, peering at the screen over your shoulder. “Damn. They could’ve at least picked better photos.”

You giggle, resting against him as you read through the absurd theories. But before you can enjoy it too much, your phone rings.

Lando.

The name flashes across the screen, and for a moment, you hesitate.

Aaron notices. “You gonna answer that?”

You inhale, then exhale. “Might as well.”

The second you pick up, Lando’s voice is sharp. “Are you serious?”

You sigh. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “You and—him? Really?”

Aaron, still beside you, smirks and mouths, Him? pointing at himself dramatically.

You press your lips together, suppressing a laugh. “Lando, why do you care?”

“Because—” He hesitates. “Because it’s been two weeks. And now you’re all over the news, acting like...like none of it meant anything.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. I was done before we even broke up, and you know it.”

Lando exhales sharply, silent for a moment.

Then, Aaron leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “Want me to take this?” he whispers.

You grin. “Be my guest.”

Before Lando can argue, Aaron takes the phone from your hand. “Alright, mate,” he says smoothly, his voice all lazy amusement. “Let’s not do this, yeah?”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Aaron grinned, completely unbothered. “Not at all. But you know, if you called just to shout at her, I’d suggest finding something better to do with your time. We’re a little busy.” He winks at you.

Your jaw dropped as you smacked his arm, but he just winked at you, entirely enjoying himself.

Lando swore under his breath before hanging up.

Aaron tosses the phone onto the bed, smirking. “Well, that was fun.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.” He wraps an arm around you.

“Yeah, but you love it.” He grins, "Now, I have a really great idea of what we could be doing instead of thinking about Lando."

"What's that?"

He shifts, suddenly on top of you, running his hands down your sides.

"Well..."

[kitteningotham]

Honestly I would love this book and I have thoughts to share. Cutting here because this is basically an Edward character analysis and some of you guys who want DC won’t want to scroll past this

One of Edward’s key traits is his masochism. Argue with the wall— the books only go the way they do is because he continually keeps himself in pain.

Is this because he feels as though he is existing in Carlisle’s shadow, a man who has learnt to deny his thirst and disregard human blood entirely? A man who he will never live up to. Literally will never live up to (especially since my guy isn’t alive lol) because it’s one of Carlisle’s theoretical ‘gifts’ that he carried his compassion and inability to hurt others over with him. He has a built in silence mode for blood that Edward will never have, no matter how hard he tries.

So Edward constantly keeps himself in painful situations— keeping around other people all the time even though it feels as though their thoughts are being blasted into his brain, for one— and staying nearby Bella is one of them. I get that he tries to avoid it at first, because we see him trying to convince the receptionist that he needs to move Biology groups. But he could have just dropped Bio entirely, or stayed in Alaska for a year even. Instead, he decides to power through it, disregarding the pain Bella puts him in and comparing himself to Carlisle THE WHOLE DAMN TIME.

For that matter, no one in the family would have cared if he had just killed her. Emmet killed his singers, he tells Edward. No one casts him out for it or kicks him out of the family. But Edward doesn’t kill Bella anyway, compartmentalising desperately to get through it, and once again spending the whole time putting Carlisle as the angel on his shoulder.

So to rewrite it as this post suggests, you would have to rewrite this part of Edward, perhaps for the better. That’s what fandom’s about, of course. Changing one element of the story and theorising as to how it would play out. But my point is that my guy Edward Cullen is a self-proclaimed masochist (‘what a sick, masochistic lion’) although only in jest, and this is a trait I wish was explored more in fandom. Which would be cool to see in this kind of rewrite: Edward has to overcome the Carlisle-idolising, pain-enjoying part of himself in order to… not put himself through a lot of agony? (If you hadn’t guessed, I agree with hoa5’s point that New Moon erasing Bella’s temptation for Edward is stupid and unsatisfying.)

I have a few theories other than the ones in this post as to why Edward doesn’t kill Bella, by the way.(Edward hadn’t mated, maybe he thinks the others would cast him out because he isn’t fundamentally attached to them like Emmet is to Rosalie. Also maybe because of his religion {which could also have been a key motivator for only killing bad people when on his own} which we see more in New Moon than any of the other books with the whole ‘vampires don’t go to heaven’ debate.

Thanks for reading! Have a nice day :) <33

I don’t think we talk enough about how painful it is for Edward to be around Bella, and how that is never factored into his decisions around her. Like he worries about killing her and all but it’s just a given that he’s gonna ignore the feeling of swallowing burning coals? Before I had my tonsils taken out 5 years ago I constantly got strep, and guys I’ll be honest I can’t imagine choosing to feel that way to chat up a rando.

Twilight as written by tumblr user hoahoahoahoahoa has Edward thinking “yes she seems interesting but not worth the sore throat idk :/“. He transfers to the next school district over from Forks. Bella gets squished by Tyler’s van. End book

[muiitoloko]

Hey 👋 I need to say I LOVE your works. I became obsessed with them I leave kudos on ao3 and like in there too. You deserve all kudos

May i do a request? Last day I watched Galaxy Quest again and remeber why I love Alexander. Can you make a Alexander Dane x reader fic? it can be any plot . I just need this man

Title: Until You Remember

Summary: One night, you go to sleep as yourself. The next morning, you wake up in a stranger’s arms with a wedding ring and five missing years.

Pairing: Alex Dane × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Sex Implicit

Author's Notes: Thank you for your request 🫶 I hope you enjoy this.

Also read on Ao3

The bed was soft. Too soft. The kind of soft that felt like sleeping on a cloud, wrapped in layers of silk and warmth. It was a far cry from your own bed—firm, familiar, nothing like this. Something was wrong.

Your eyelids fluttered open, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling above you. The room was dimly lit, the golden glow of early morning slipping through the sheer curtains. You turned your head slightly, taking in the elegant bedroom—high ceilings, expensive furnishings, a city skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Panic flickered at the edges of your still-foggy mind.

Where the hell were you?

You shifted, intending to sit up, only to feel a warm, heavy arm draped over your waist. A deep, even breath ghosted across the back of your neck, making your body go rigid. Someone was in bed with you. Someone large, strong, their bare skin pressing against yours.

You turned your head, looking at the man beside you. He was handsome—tall, lean, with dark hair falling slightly over his forehead and a hooked nose that gave him a regal, almost severe air. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that you had no idea who he was.

Your pulse pounded as you shoved the man’s arm off your waist and scrambled out of bed, your body moving on instinct. The moment your feet touched the plush carpet, you realized how wrong everything felt. Your muscles ached, a deep soreness lingering in places you couldn’t quite place, and your head throbbed like you were waking from the kind of hangover that suggested terrible decisions had been made.

The penthouse was massive—elegant, sprawling, a level of wealth you had only seen in magazines or overheard in whispered conversations about the world’s elite. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking city skyline, the golden hues of early morning casting a soft glow over everything. Whoever this man was, he was filthy rich. That much was obvious.

You scanned the room frantically, looking for your clothes. Nothing. Not a single sign of the outfit you had worn the night before—if you had even been wearing one. The thought sent a fresh wave of panic surging through you. Had you been drugged? Kidnapped? What the hell had happened?

The bed creaked behind you, and you froze, your heart slamming against your ribs. The man hadn’t moved yet, still lost in whatever deep sleep allowed him to have a stranger in his bed without a care in the world. You needed to get out of here. Now.

Your gaze landed on a massive walk-in closet, the door slightly ajar. Clothes. At least if you could find something to wear, you wouldn’t have to run out of here naked. You pushed the door open and stepped inside, inhaling the crisp, expensive scent of cologne, cedarwood, and something faintly musky. The closet was as extravagant as the bedroom, filled with tailored suits, silk shirts, and neatly arranged shoes.

But then your eyes landed on something that made your blood run cold. Women’s clothes.

Not just one or two forgotten pieces left behind by some previous lover—no, there were dozens of garments. Dresses, blouses, skirts, even an entire section of designer handbags and shoes. You swallowed hard, a sick feeling twisting in your gut.

Oh, God. Was he married? Was this some rich asshole’s secret affair penthouse? Were you the other woman?

Your breath came faster, panic clawing at your throat. You turned sharply, your fingers brushing against your thigh, and that’s when you felt it. Something cold.

You looked down.

No.

No, no, no.

A wedding ring.

On your finger.

Your chest tightened, a ringing noise filling your ears as you stared at the band of gold wrapped snugly around your finger. It was beautiful—expensive, tasteful, something that screamed wealth and commitment. And you had no idea where it had come from.

You staggered back, your entire body trembling. This wasn’t just a mistake. This wasn’t just waking up in some stranger’s bed after a drunken night out. This was something else.

The bed rustled behind you, and before you could even attempt to remove the ring, a voice—deep, groggy, undeniably British—broke through the silence.

“Darling, what on earth are you doing?”

You stiffened. Slowly, cautiously, you turned to face the man in the bed.

He had shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his sharp hazel eyes watching you with a mixture of mild curiosity and amusement. His dark hair was tousled from sleep, his bare chest partially exposed beneath the silk sheets. But none of that was what sent your mind into a tailspin.

It was his face.

You knew that face. The realization hit you like a freight train. Doctor Lazarus.

No. Not Doctor Lazarus. Alexander Dane.

Your mind reeled, trying to reconcile the image of the grumpy, Shakespearean-trained actor from Galaxy Quest with the reality of this very real man lying in bed, looking at you like you were the one acting strangely.

Alex let out a tired sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Come back to bed, [Your Name],” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. “It’s far too early.”

You blinked at him, confusion twisting in your gut. He had said your name. Your actual name. Not some generic endearment, not a drunken guess—your real, full name, spoken with the ease of a man who had said it a thousand times before.

Your throat tightened. “How… how do you know my name?”

Alex’s brow arched slightly, amusement flickering in his sharp hazel eyes. He let out a low chuckle, stretching his long limbs against the bed. “Darling, what kind of question is that?” His voice was still thick with sleep, that deep baritone laced with amusement. “Wouldn’t I know my own wife’s name?”

Wife.

The word hit you like a hammer to the chest. Your breath caught, your fingers twitching at your sides. “What?” The question came out barely above a whisper, but Alex heard it. His smirk deepened as he sat up properly, the sheets slipping lower to reveal more of his bare chest, lean and pale, a few faint scars marking his otherwise smooth skin.

Alex's smirk faltered just slightly, but his amusement didn’t fade entirely. He exhaled a slow sigh, stretching his long limbs before sitting up properly, the silk sheets pooling around his waist. “Good Lord, it’s far too early for this level of melodrama.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair, then fixed you with a playfully suspicious look. “Did you hit your head last night? Have you finally gone mad?”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your throat was dry, your mind blank.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come now. This isn’t one of your little games, is it?” His smirk returned as he moved, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I must say, it’s rather convincing. The wide-eyed horror, the breathless confusion…” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “But you forget, my dear—I am an actor. I know when someone is faking.”

Alex stretched with a satisfied groan, his long limbs extending in a way that was both effortless and utterly unbothered, as though waking up naked in front of you was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it was.

For you, however, it was a different story entirely.

Your eyes widened as he stood, every inch of his tall, lean frame laid bare before you. Pale skin, scattered with faint freckles, the sharp lines of his body accentuated by the dim morning light. He was a masterpiece of confidence, utterly at ease in his nudity, and when he turned to face you, that sharp smirk playing on his lips, your entire body heated.

"You look divine in the morning, my love," he murmured, his deep baritone thick with amusement as his hazel eyes roamed over you. "Marked by my kisses… just as you should be."

Your breath caught. You followed his gaze down, your stomach twisting as you finally noticed the evidence—dark bruises blooming along your collarbone, your breasts, your hips, the unmistakable imprint of his mouth and hands. Your skin burned with the implication, with the realization that this wasn’t just a one-time mistake. No, this was routine. Habit.

This was marriage.

Your pulse pounded as you scrambled for the nearest cover, yanking the silk sheets up over your chest, shying away from his approach. Alex chuckled, clearly enjoying your sudden shyness, his long fingers reaching out to tease the edge of the fabric.

“Now, now,” he chided, tilting his head as his hooked nose scrunched in playful amusement. “Don’t be coy with me, darling. It’s a bit late for modesty, don’t you think?”

Your grip on the sheets tightened. This wasn’t playful. This wasn’t some morning-after teasing between lovers. You were horrified—genuinely horrified—and Alex’s smirk faltered slightly as he finally took in your expression.

His amusement drained away, replaced by something far more serious.

"You’re actually frightened," he muttered, his brows knitting together as he studied your face. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing your cheek, but you flinched, and his hand hovered uncertainly before falling away. His eyes darkened, his voice lowering. "What’s wrong?"

You swallowed hard, pressing yourself deeper into the pillows, struggling to force words past the lump in your throat. "I—I don’t know where I am," you finally admitted, your voice trembling. "I don’t know how I got here. I don’t… I don’t remember any of this."

His frown deepened. "What do you mean, ‘any of this’?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing. "I don’t remember last night. Or yesterday. Or anything before that." You exhaled sharply, your fingers twisting into the sheets. "I don’t even remember being with you."

Silence.

It stretched thick and suffocating between you, the weight of your words settling over Alex like a heavy fog. His gaze searched yours, looking for any sign of deception, for any trace of the playful mischief he had assumed this was. But there was nothing. Just raw, unfiltered fear.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, his fingers dragging through his dark hair as he turned away, pacing for a brief moment before pivoting sharply to face you again. "You truly don’t remember."

It wasn’t a question.

You shook your head, your throat tightening. "No."

His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but no words came. Instead, he inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself, to wrap his mind around what you had just said.

And then, with an almost eerie calmness, he moved.

You watched as he walked to the far side of the room, where a sleek, polished dresser sat beneath an enormous gilded mirror. He pulled open the top drawer, rummaging through its contents before extracting a simple wooden picture frame.

When he turned back to you, his expression was unreadable. He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps, his bare feet soundless against the plush carpet. Then, without a word, he held out the frame.

You hesitated.

Alex’s hazel eyes bore into you, filled with an intensity that made your stomach twist. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached for the frame, your fingers brushing against his as you took it from his grasp. Your pulse pounded as you lowered your gaze.

The breath left your lungs. It was a wedding photo.

Not just any wedding photo—your wedding photo.

You stared at the image, your hands trembling. There you were, standing beside Alex, dressed in a gown of ivory silk, your hand resting against his chest as he gazed at you with the kind of adoration you had only ever seen in fairy tales. His arm was wrapped protectively around your waist, his hooked nose slightly scrunched as he smirked at you, his dark hair neatly styled, his tailored suit immaculate.

And you… you were smiling. Not just smiling—you looked in love.

Deeply, madly, unquestionably in love.

Your chest constricted. Your stomach twisted. "No," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Alex’s gaze never wavered. "Yes."

Your breath came faster, shallower. "No," you repeated, your fingers tightening around the frame. "This… this isn’t real. I would remember. I would—"

Your voice broke.

Panic clawed at your throat. The picture was clear, undeniable, irrefutable proof of something you had no memory of. Your fingers trembled as you clutched the photo, your pulse hammering in your ears. The image before you—your wedding photo, the undeniable proof of a life you couldn’t remember—felt like a cruel joke. Your lips parted, your throat dry, the words barely forming past the suffocating panic that coiled in your chest.

“How long?” The question came out as a whisper, a desperate plea for an answer that would somehow make this all make sense.

Alex’s hazel eyes darkened, something flickering beneath their sharp intensity—hesitation, concern, something else. His hooked nose scrunched slightly as he exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair before answering, his baritone voice quieter now, carefully measured.

“Five years.”

The photo slipped from your grasp, landing with a soft thud against the plush carpet. Five years. The weight of the words crushed you, pressing into your ribs, stealing the breath from your lungs. Five years. Not days. Not weeks. Not even months. Five whole years of your life had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a stranger standing in front of you, looking at you like he had just lost something vital.

Your hands shot up to your face, pressing against your temples as if you could somehow force the memories back, as if you could piece together the gaping hole in your mind through sheer will. But there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no distant echoes of a love story, no sense of belonging in the extravagant penthouse that was supposedly yours.

Panic clawed at your throat, rising like bile. “Five years?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “How—how can I forget five years?”

Alex knelt beside you, his long fingers hesitating before resting gently on your wrist. His touch was warm, steady, but it sent another wave of panic crashing through you. “Darling, breathe,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, like he was speaking to a frightened animal. “We’ll figure this out.”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, the pressure behind them unbearable. “What happened?” The words tumbled out, raw, desperate. “What did I do last night? What did we do? Did I fall? Did I hit my head? Did I—?”

Alex cut you off with a quiet, deliberate shake of his head. “No,” he said, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place—concern, confusion, something deeper. “Nothing like that. We had dinner.”

You blinked at him, your pulse still erratic, your stomach churning. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his fingers tightening slightly around your wrist, anchoring you. “We went to our favorite restaurant. You had the duck, I had the steak. We shared a bottle of wine—Château Margaux, your favorite.” He paused, studying your face carefully, as if waiting for the memories to return. When they didn’t, his expression turned more serious. “You may have had a few drinks, but nothing excessive. You weren’t drunk.”

Your breathing grew shallower, faster. “And then?”

Alex exhaled, his grip on you firm but gentle. “We came home. We talked for a while—about the gala next week, about your new art collection.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “You were perfectly fine, love. You went to bed next to me. Just like you always do.”

Your fingers curled into fists, the panic morphing into something sharper, more frenzied. “Then why?” you demanded, your voice rising. “Why don’t I remember? If nothing happened, if I was fine, then why did I wake up not knowing anything?”

Alex’s lips parted slightly, but for the first time since this conversation began, he had no immediate answer.

His silence was the worst part.

Because it meant he didn’t know.

And if he didn’t know, then what the hell had happened to you?

Your chest tightened, your head throbbing, your body teetering on the edge of something raw and uncontainable. “Five years,” you repeated, the words barely holding their shape. “I’ve lost five years.”

Alex reached for you then, his hands cradling your face, his touch firm but not forceful, grounding. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice no longer just soft but steady, unyielding. “We will figure this out. I will figure this out. You’re not alone in this.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t even know you.”

Something flickered in his gaze—hurt, sharp and fleeting, before it was buried beneath that same unshakable determination. “Then I’ll make you remember,” he said simply. “But first, I’m calling the doctor.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your body trembling as the weight of everything settled over you like a suffocating blanket. You should have argued. Should have resisted. But what choice did you have?

You had lost five years.

And Alex Dane—the man you supposedly loved, the man you had married, the man who was looking at you now like he would burn the world down if it meant getting you back—was the only person who could help you find them.

[dreamingofep]

His First Bite: A Sinned Awakening Story 🩸

An AU Elvis fic

(Vampire!Elvis x reader)

Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: It's 1959 and Elvis has just been bitten. He doesn't know how to navigate his new life but a night on the town changed it all.

TW: Harem warning, mentions of blood/gore, SMUT, oral, dirty dirty feelings

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.5k

A/n: Well here it is... a dirty extra chapter I had locked in the vault for a year.🫣 When I started writing this, I totally chickened out and could not write such scenario but Vampire!E has been living in my head lately...begging to be let out.😏 I touched a bit on this scene in part 9 when I wanted to show more background of vampire!E and show why he is the way he is. Its just filth and couldn't post it til now so please enjoy this bad boy 😈🩸

♱

Paris 1959

The hungry pit in his stomach was relentless. Nothing could satiate him. Everything he ended up eating would be wasted a few moments later when he puked it up. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. It must have been whatever was left over from his illness. At least he was off for the next few days and didn’t have to think about anything Army-related. Some of the guys convinced him to go to Paris for a few days. 

It couldn’t be a bad idea, he hadn’t gotten out of Germany since he first arrived. He needed a break from Army life and the incessant pressure that they put on him in here. As much as he wanted to focus on what he was doing here, he couldn’t help but think of home. He missed his old life and the love that he had from his fans. He constantly worried if they would tolerate him and his music when he got out of here. He knew things could be over tomorrow and the next best thing would come along, making him lost and forgotten. He missed being on stage and engaging with the people who loved him so much. 

He straightened his suit as he stepped out of the car. He looks up at the old building with big sparkling letters “Moulin Rouge.” It was a well-known nightclub here in Paris. It was said the girls were divine and they were just the thing to make him distracted with how awful he’s been feeling. He just wanted someone’s attention. Make all this noise in his head disappear. With not being able to eat right, he also constantly heard this pounding in his head. It was relentless and he couldn’t drown it out. Every noise was too loud for him and it was driving him up the wall. Maybe he just needed a distraction and it would all go away. 

The club was told he was coming. They sectioned off a table in the front for him and a few other army buddies to sit at. They served them champagne and anything else they wanted. He wasn’t interested in any food tonight, he wanted to watch the girls on stage and drown in their presence. This nightclub should have been called what it really was; a strip tease club.

The girls started to come out would dance to whatever song the band was playing. Slowly, their clothes would come off piece by piece revealing their perfect bodies. The place erupted with cheers and whistles when there was nothing else left to the imagination. Every girl had a different routine and drove everyone in there insane. Even Elvis. He hadn’t been with a woman in a long time and the slightest thing was making his cock hard. It pressed hotly down his thigh and he did everything in his power to not palm it through his pants. He did everything to try and ignore it but these girls were making him think horrible things. 

Toward the end of the night, he was becoming restless and the pounding in his head was worsening. He was starving but no food would help. He didn’t know what was happening but he might have to see a doctor if this carried on for much longer. Elvis stood up and leaned down to one of the guys, “Get the girls up to my room.”

“Which one?”

He thought for a moment and couldn’t decide.

“All of them.”

They were staying in the hotel next door and he figured it would be easy to sneak them upstairs. He was on the top floor and no one was bothering him thankfully. He took off his jacket and went to the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. Something was lacking in his eyes. There was no spark in him. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was but he could see there was something wrong with him. He blamed it on his illness. Whatever he had nearly killed him. 

He heard footsteps coming to the door and the loudest thumping in his ears. He couldn’t figure out what it was but it was taking over his senses. He walked to the door and tried to gather himself before letting them in. The door opened and a dozen girls, either in their costumes or thin robes stood before him. 

“Please, come in,” he says warmly. They each walked in one by one and that thumping sound only increased. They all looked at him with lust, not believing they were in the same room with him and wanted to tear him apart. Some of them made themselves comfortable and sat on the bed or in a chair but all eyes were on him.

“You all were lovely tonight, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he says low. He takes a sharp breath in before speaking again and he can distinctly smell all of their perfume. Some wore a floral type and some wore something more natural. It was so strange to him to be able to pick up on all these scents and then something else hits him like a truck. He smelled something so sweet, so delicious, his mouth watered at the thought of it. He couldn’t figure out what it was but they all smelled the same way and he wanted them closer to him to find out what it was and lick it off of them. 

There was an empty chair behind him by the window and he sat down, spreading his legs out before him. He could hear them all take a sharp breath as they looked at him. He didn’t know how to get them closer other than inviting them to him. There was one girl with big blue eyes and red lipstick who didn’t stop looking at him from the moment she walked in. She was really beautiful and there was something about her he liked. 

“Come here,” he says gently with a smile. 

She happily walks over and steps to the side of him, wearing a sly smile. He takes her hand in his and squeezes it. 

“What’s your name darlin’?”

“Claire.”

“Oh, I love that name… you were so mesmerizing up there,” he coos as he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her onto his lap. That warm, sweet scent flooded his senses once again and his whole body responded to it. It was a hunger and a lust that burned through him. He had trouble breathing with her this close. 

She sighs into his touch and plays with his shirt. 

“Thank you, we were happy you could make it. We heard you were in Europe and wondered if we’d ever get a kiss from the one and only,” she teased. 

“Is that what they’re saying about me?”

“I don’t know about everyone else, but us girls were quite interested,” she quips. 

He looked down at her lips and they were plump and inviting. His eyes continued to trail down her chest and the robe that she wore was practically see-through. Her hard nipples poked through and he couldn’t help but want to suck on them. She was warm in his lap, radiating with need with every second that went by. He places his hand on her face and takes another deep breath in. God that smell was electrifying. He needed that wherever he went. 

“All of you can kiss me for as long as you want,” he hums as he presses his lips to hers. 

They were soft and full and she let out a soft moan when his lips crashed into hers. She looks up at him dazed and shocked at how good it was. She went in for another kiss and wrapped her arms around his neck. Another wave of her scent came hurling at Elvis and he groaned because of it. The way he was acting was strange even to himself. He had never been like this with any woman. 

Another girl walked to him and waited for her kiss. The girl in his lap didn’t get up as one by one, every girl in that room got kisses from him. They all groaned when they felt his lips on theirs, pure ecstasy pouring into them. It made his cock hard just the way they were reacting to him. He didn’t have to do much and these girls were dying for attention from him. 

The girl in his lap started to unbutton his shirt and slip her hand across his chest. Her skin was so soft and the pounding sound he heard in his head only got worse. He pulled her in closer and started to kiss her more feverishly. She loved it and let her robe fall off her shoulders. He slipped his hand along her waist and his mouth moved down her face. He covered her face in warm wet kisses and moved down to her neck. That pounding sound became crystal clear when his fingers touched the side of her neck where he could see her pulse. His hand slid down to the top of her breast and the sound he heard matched the feeling of her heart pounding away under his hand. 

I can hear their hearts… how is that possible…

Everything in him was telling him to put his mouth on those spots. He needed to feel it against his skin. His hand squeezes her breast and he brings her nipple to his mouth. He sucks and squeezes her, making her make this soft moan that makes his cock harder. He felt someone at his legs, rubbing their hands up and down his calves and their breathing ragged. 

Someone pulled his hand off of the girl and brought it to their own breast, making him squeeze her too. 

"Please touch me," she cries.

He pauses and looks at these women fawning over him. They were all so desperate for him and the sounds of their heartbeats nearly drove him mad. He had to focus on one at a time. 

His mouth was back on her nipples and sucked and teased them till they were red and swollen. He moved up her collarbone to her neck and groaned when he felt her galloping heart race against his lips. His mouth sucked on her neck harder and he felt this overwhelming power surge through him. She trembled against him and held onto him tighter.

The girl at his feet slowly started to slither her hands up his thighs and palm his length through his pants. He groans deeply and quickly looks down at her. It felt so good, he hadn’t had anyone touch him like this in so long. He watches her hands try to unbutton his pants and reach into them to pull his cock out. She looked up at him with innocent eyes and slowly pumped him in her hand. God, he could fuck her all night with the way she looked at him. He nodded his head at her to keep going and she happily obliged.

That mouthwatering scent continued to swirl in his head and almost became too distracting. He began to feel overwhelmed if he didn’t get what his body was craving. He started to breathe heavier as the girls around him took turns kissing on him. They kissed any part of him that they could get their hands on. It drove him wild and he started to kiss them more feverishly and nip at any exposed skin he could get his mouth on. They responded with moans and sighs from his touch and it made him feel intoxicated. A buzzing high started to take over and he wanted more from them. This hunger inside him couldn’t be suppressed.

He returned his attention to the girl on his lap and grabbed the back of her head forcefully.

“Touch me,” he commanded.

She takes a sharp breath in before reaching down and jerking his cock slowly, groaning when she feels the size of him. His eyes roll back and buries his face in her neck. That sweet smell was the best from there and he feels like he’s in a frenzy. He can’t control how much he wants to stay there and bask himself in her scent. 

He sucks and nips at her neck harder, feeling a pool of warmth reside under her skin. His jaw has this sharp pain that takes over his mouth but he tries to ignore it. He found it harder to breathe and all he could think about was wanting to nip at her neck a little harder… like that would be so satisfying for him and help this hunger inside him.

He lets that dark voice win and sinks his teeth into her neck. She screams out in pain but her blood pools in his mouth quickly and once his tongue tastes that perfect nectar, he’s unglued. It was the best-tasting thing he’s ever had in his mouth. It was rich and sweet and made the hunger inside him come more alive. He held onto her body tighter and started to suck harder and gulp mouthfuls of her pooling blood. He was in heaven. She scratched at this chest and continued to cry out in pain.

The other girls started to see the blood dripping from her neck and became frightened. They all quickly stepped away and gasped in horror. Elvis took his teeth out of her and felt so good but the moment he opened his eyes and saw what he had done, he was mortified. The girl’s face was scared beyond belief and scrambled to get off of him. She covered her neck and winced in pain. He didn’t know what he had done. He bit someone and he liked it far too much.

He stands up from the chair and begins to panic.

“Darlin’ I-I-I, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you-,” the stammers and they all cry out terrified and turn their faces away from him, like his very appearance is the most horrifying thing they’ve ever seen. The bathroom was directly to his right and he could see crystal clear, even from here, these bloodthirsty red eyes. He didn’t understand what was happening. In long strides, he rushed to get a closer look at himself. His eyes were terrifying and blood was smeared all over his mouth. 

“Oh my God,” he says shakily.

When he opens his mouth, he can see the razor-sharp fangs that descend from his normal incisors. He truly was terrifying and couldn’t understand what was happening.

He was a vampire.

That was the only thing he knew for sure. The hunger he’s had these last few days wasn’t for food but for blood. And that incessant pounding in his head wasn’t a headache, it was everyone’s heartbeat he could hear, calling out to him like a siren. It was fuzzy, but he remembers that night the army captain came to his bedside and promised to give him a gift, something to guarantee him making it out of Germany alive. He couldn’t believe it. He felt deceived and fearful. He didn’t know what this meant for his future. 

He heard the girls murmuring in the other room and he realized he needed to do something about them. He walks back into the bedroom and they all tremble looking at him. He felt helpless and just wanted them to forget what they’d seen.

“I’m sorry.. p-please forgive me,” he pleads. They all hold their breath and look away from him.

He takes another step forward and begs for them to listen.

“Please! I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please forget what you’ve seen!” He pleads.

They all look at him and the fear washes away from their faces. They look at him with awe again and want to get closer to him. Elvis was relieved and breathed normally again.

He could make them forget whatever he needed them to. They wouldn’t remember how his eyes were monstrous and bloodthirsty. 

He had power.

His throat felt tight and that hunger he had earlier came back with a vengeance. He tried to calm himself so he wouldn’t scare them again was difficult but he had to try. He looked at them all in the eyes and licked his lips before speaking.

“Do you trust me?”

They nod their heads at them and look at him like they want to take a bite out of him.

“Good don’t be afraid of my eyes or my teeth, I’ll be gentle,” he breathes, “Do you want me?”

They nod their heads and whimper at the question. That made him feel disastrously weak and pull his shirt off his body and pulled his pants down. He got on the bed and sat up with the pillows behind his back, his legs spread and his cock at full attention.

“I want you too… I’ll try to please you all night, if that’s what you want.” He wasn’t sure how he was going to do that, there were a lot of them and only one of him but he just wanted them close. He wanted to bask in their scent and fuck them til the sun came up. 

One of the brunettes came forward first and got between his legs, looking at his cock with anticipation. 

“Come closer,” he begged, “Get on top of me.”

He could hear how her heart pounded against her ribcage at the request. God, he couldn’t get enough of it and it excited him in the worst of ways. 

She straddles his hips and presses her wet cunt to his shaft. They both groan when they feel how needy they are. He pulls her close and starts to suck on her neck. She groans at the sensation and grinds herself against his length. He felt the bed shift in weight and more of the girls wanted to get closer to him, hoping they would get an ounce of his attention. Elvis had never felt so deprived of human touch but this searing thirst in his throat made it so much worse. His hands squeeze onto her hips and gently lifts her up and sinks her down on his aching cock. She squeezed tightly around him, not prepared for the size of his length. He momentarily lifts his head from her neck and looks her in the eyes, encouraging her to move. She groans helplessly and slowly bobs up and down on him. He curses how good her pussy feels. So warm and tight around him.

He looks to the right of him and another girl is trembling watching Elvis please the girl on top of him. He motions her to come closer to him with a flick of his finger. She kneels on the side of him and rubs his chest. He guides his fingers under her dress and to his pleasure, she’s wearing nothing underneath it and is soaking wet. He rubs his fingers back and forth through her folds until they are covered in her arousal. He then pushes two of his fingers at her entrance and slowly thrusts them in and out of her. She holds onto him tightly, overwhelmed with the feeling of him inside her, and cries out his name. Just watching these girl’s faces get off because of him made him want to cum.

Another girl to his left started to kiss on him and beg for his attention. He pulled her close and sucked on her breasts, making her groan prolifically. He couldn’t get enough of them. He had never done something like this but it had never felt so right. He began to thrust his hips harder into the girl on top of him and he could feel her walls flutter after every move he made. The hunger washed over him again and he wanted to make this beautiful girl cum all over him while he sunk his teeth into her neck.

He pulled her close and wasted no time. His hips drove into her, making her cry out his name and he sucked on where he wanted to take a bite. He felt this overwhelming instinct come over him and he gently sunk his teeth into her neck. She cried out but didn’t stop moving on him. He let the blood pool into his mouth before greedily sucking it out of her. It was the best feeling he could have imagined. He felt satisfied beyond belief. The sound of groans filled the room as some of them watched him make these girls come undone. His fingers still pumped in and out of the other girl and he could tell she was about to finish. She was grinding herself on his fingers begging for release.

He groans into the girl’s neck when he feels her walls pulse around him and squeeze his cock. He had to take his teeth out of her neck to make sure didn’t bite any harder as she rode him through her orgasm.

“That’s it baby, keep cumming. You feel so good,” he growls. She keeps her eyes closed and nods her head, grinding herself at the base of his cock. He turns his head to the side and watches the other girl cum on his finger, squeezing them for dear life. She drips down his knuckles and he nearly loses it at just the sight.

The girl on top of him slumps onto his chest, gasping for breath. Elvis takes the opportunity to lick the remaining blood that was leaking from her neck and give a satisfied groan.

“Please forget I bit you, I’m sorry for the pain,” he whispers in her ear. She hums in agreement and slowly gets off of him. He then slowly took his fingers out of the girl next to him who was also just as spent. He wanted a taste though. He wanted to see if a certain person’s blood tasted any different from another. He pulled her in and took a bite into her neck and reveled in the sweet taste of her blood. It all tasted good to him and he couldn’t waste a drop. 

After he was done feeding from her, the girls stared at him waiting to hear what he wanted next. He looked down at his hard cock that was begging for release. Another girl came forward, her heart racing uncontrollably when she looked at him. She crawled in between his legs and he stopped her from coming any further. He leaned over and caressed her face when he looked at her.

“Make me cum, please. I want you to use your mouth,” he instructs.

She whimpers at his instructions and takes his hard length in her hand, pumping it a few times before licking the tip of him. God, it felt good. He closed his eyes and enjoyed how her tongue worshipped him.

He wanted more blood, it clouded his whole mind. He didn’t know how to stop. This was all so new to him.  So he pulled the next girl in and attacked her breasts with kisses and nipping them softly. Her sweet moans only egged him to go further. He picked her up easily and had her straddle his face. He grabbed her by the hips and pushed her glistening cunt to his mouth. He eats her out in a fervor and enjoys the taste of her. Moans filled the whole room as he felt his release coming. He bucked his hips into the girl’s mouth and had her take more of him. She happily obliges and he hits the back of her throat, making his hips buck into her again and releasing his hot cum into her mouth. He groans heavily against the girl on top of him and makes her come undone too. 

They were all overcome with ecstasy and pleasure radiating through them. He gently lifted the girl off of him and took a bite into her breast, relishing in the sound of her galloping heartbeat so close to him. One by one, he tasted every single girl’s blood that night, barely able to get enough but he felt so much better. That hunger that he was dealing with the last few weeks subsided tremendously. It was well into the early morning that he discovered he didn’t grow tired. He had been trying to close his eyes while at the army base but never felt like he got an ounce of sleep. Now he knows why… vampires don’t sleep.

He also discovered not too late into the evening, he didn’t need rest from any activity. He was able to keep his cock hard all night even after finishing. He had never felt such pleasure like this and kept his promise of pleasing every girl in that room, some of them multiple times. By the time the sun was up, everyone was asleep well into the afternoon. Elvis had girls on top of him peacefully sleeping and not scared to death that a vampire fed from them all night long. He checked their necks and the spots his fangs pierced into their necks had completely healed. Some of them had slight bruises on their necks from his sucking a bit too hard but nothing too telling it was a vampire that did it. 

He manages to slip out of the bed and take a shower. He looked at his reflection and thankfully his eyes went back to their normal blue shade. His face was a smeared bloody mess and had to wash it off. He didn’t want the reminder that he was now a monster. A monster who craved blood so much he couldn’t function otherwise. The cool water felt good on his skin and he took his time there. There was so much he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything more about vampires other than what folktales have said for generations. All he knew was he craved blood and that made all the rest of his senses calm down. Everything felt so overwhelming if he didn’t have his teeth buried in someone’s neck. 

Elvis put on new clothes and the shrill sound of the phone rang in his ears. He tried to cover his ears with his hands but it was no use, everything was so loud to him. He quickly emerges from the bathroom and angrily picks up the receiver.

“What!?” He growls annoyed.

“Mr. Presley, This is Mr. Leonard, the owner of the Moulin Rouge. You need to get the girls back here for the first show of the evening,” he says sternly and very annoyed.

��Sure,” Elvis snaps and hangs up immediately.

The sound of a knock on the door ticks him off more and he quickly opens the door.

“What?” He snarls before looking to see who it is. It was one of his guys standing there, surprised by his tone of voice. 

“Hey… the owner isn’t very happy you took all of the girls last night…” he says carefully. He looks past Elvis’ shoulder and sees his bed full of naked women and more of them sleeping on the floor.

“What the hell happened last night?” He asks wide-eyed.

Elvis can’t help but chuckle softly, “you wouldn’t believe me even if I tried explaining,” he says slyly.

“But I can tell you this, I’ve never been better.”

*

*

*

Tagging:

@neptuneismysister @velvetelvis @ccab @presleyenterprise @theresalwaysep

@sillybookmarks @dkayfixates

@ellie-24 @rktismylife-blog.

@myradiaz @tacozebra051

@18lkpeters @flwrs4aust @emma181873

@austinswhitewolf@eliseinmemphis

@everythingelvispresley @chasingwildflowers

@dontwanttoputanything. @ohjustpeachy-

@elvisalltheway101@austinsmutler@kingdomforapony.

@generoustreemystic @claire-elvisgirl

@ashtag6887 @burnthheparaphilia @richardslady121

@jaqueline19997

@returntopresley. @iloveelvis @rjmartin11@that-hotdog

@louisejgy86 @misspresley @cattcb @annapresley8

@arrolyn1114_@raginginkedslut @epthedream69

@mh777

@50sexyshadestashionista

@oldhOllywOod @hooked-on-elvis @livelovedilfs

@sloppiest-of-jos @thisis-theway @gatheraheart @aphroditebabygirl @faeolwen @eapep @ladelinee

@iloveelvisss @ccab @buglass @its2amlol @peaceloveelvis

@theycametoconquertheearth53 @iloveelvis2 @rollerink @atleastpleasetelephone

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Your Enemy’s Lover (Hannibal)

Description: Hannibal is dating Jack’s adoptive daughter and really gets off on it.

Warning: Smut

Word Count: 993

Request:Can we please have a Hannibal one-shot, where Hannibal is in love with somebody,who‘s like a daughter to Jack and he totally gets off on it. That he (an enemy of Jack) has the heart of somebody who‘s so precious to him?

Hannibal nearly smirked at the thought of what he was doing or what he's been doing. Nothing has come close to getting him off quite like this and it was really getting him off. Jack was a good friend at one point, a great friend even and he worked with him many times. Jack had an adoptive daughter that he’s been raising since she was 14 and that was 10 years ago. Hannibal hadn’t met her until recently and it seemed that Jack wasn’t a fan of the fact that Hannibal and her knew each other and knew each other well. It was innocent at first, purely interest in each other but after everything happened and Jack realized who Hannibal truly was, Hannibal took it to a whole new level. He managed to get her in bed on many occasions and made sure she was satisfied and didn’t want to leave. The stories he heard about how pissed Jack was about it, got him off.

“What do you think?” He snapped back from the thoughts he was having and turned his head. There she stood in blood red lingerie that he had got her and she looked beautiful. He wasn’t even sure if it was her beauty or the thought of who he was fucking that did it for him. Maybe both? He gave her a smile and patted the bed. She obliged and got in the bed next to him. He ran a hand through her hair as she gazed up at him with lustful eyes, she was wet and so ready for him.

“How did he take it?” He asked. She sighed and rolled her eyes, the last thing she wanted to talk about was Jack. She leaned up to kiss him, “You know he kills the mood.” She mumbles against his lips. Jack was furious more than ever, Y/N was moving in with Hannibal. Hannibal loved the idea of Jack being so furious that he had to offer it. He pushed her down on the bed and got on top of her, deepening the kiss. His hands are already roaming her perfect body.

Her hands were running down his back and back up. His back was so smooth and perfect for her fingers to run over, there wasn’t much about him that wasn’t perfect. He pulled away from the kiss to move to her neck. He loved leaving hickies for Jack to see. She was never good at hiding them. One, two, three hickies placed on her neck, his tongue licked over them. His hands moved under the babydoll she was wearing to touch her skin, his hands making her shiver in delight.

“Hannibal.” She mumbled against his lips as he cupped her boobs. His large hands around them as he pushed apart her legs to be in between them. She sighed as his fingers toyed with her nipples, making her squirm. Her hands now gripping his back. His hands moved down towards her panties that were getting wet, she gasped quietly as she felt him pull them down some to get to her pussy.

She shaved everything and still felt so hot. His finger ran up her slit and she gripped his back, tight. “You’re so wet.” He told her and pulled his finger up to his mouth to suck the juices off. She nearly came watching him do that. He moved his finger back down there and rubbed her clit, causing her to let out a loud moan. He adored the pretty sounds she would make with her mouth near his ear.

She loved the feeling of his fingers on any part of her body, especially her pussy. He watched her pretty face try to hide how much pleasure she was in, “Don’t hide from me. Show me how good I make you feel.” Her hips moved to meet with his finger and he let her for a while. His eyes never left her face as she whined and moaned for him. “You’re gonna make me cum, Hannibal.” She warned him and he sped up his movements.

That was the goal, he thought as her breathing picked up. Her pussy pulsed under him and gushed as she came, holding back a scream. She was shaking and whining as she rode out her high. She didn’t open her eyes until she came back down from her high, Hannibal licking and sucking his finger. “You never fail me.” She whispered and he smirked, taking off his boxers. Her eyes widened at the feeling of his hard dick against her.

She would never get used to his size. He didn’t waste any time and entered her. He held back a loud moan as he pushed inside of her, his eyes closed and his face in her neck. Her nails dug into his back and he groaned. He let her adjust to him before he gave a thrust. She cried out his name and he took that as a  sign to keep moving. As his hips thrusted into her, they both made noises of pleasure so loud that if Hannibal had neighbors they would hear. “I have a secret.” He said and she was so lost in pleasure that she couldn’t even question him.

“I love the fact that I get to fuck you every night, knowing that he hates it.” He growled and her eyes opened. She let out a loud moan as she felt him cum after saying that. He kept thrusting until he pumped her full of cum, her second orgasm still pending. He pulled out of her and before she could say anything his finger was inside of her, “I plan to keep you full of my cum and breed you.” Her eyes rolled as he hit her g spot over and over again. When she had came and Hannibal was already asleep next to her she stared at the ceiling with wide eyes, what has she done?

[atlasthegreatest]

A Different Kind of Warm / Kazuha Nakamura x Gender Neutral! Reader

Kazuha has never thought much about love. Having spent most of her life focused on ballet, emotions like love always felt distant—something she understood in theory but never personally experienced. However, lately, she’s begun to notice something strange whenever she’s around her group member— Y/n Kwon.

Warnings: None. 6th member of Le Sserafim! Reader.

Word count: 2436

Kazuha had never thought much about love.

She had spent most of her life in ballet studios, surrounded by mirrors and the sound of pointe shoes gliding across the floor. Love had always been something distant, something she had seen in movies or heard about from her friends but never experienced herself.

And yet, lately, whenever she was around Y/n, something felt… different.

It started with small things—like how she always seemed to look for them first whenever the group gathered, or how she’d catch herself smiling for no reason whenever they spoke. She liked being around all the members, of course, but with Y/n, there was something else.

Something she didn’t quite understand.

—-———————-

One afternoon, the six of them had a rare day off and decided to go to a small café near the dorm. It was a cozy place, tucked away in a quiet alley, with warm lights and the scent of freshly baked pastries filling the air.

Kazuha sat across from Y/n, stirring her iced tea absentmindedly as she listened to the others talk. Or at least, she tried to listen.

Y/n was next to Chaewon, laughing softly at something she said, and for some reason, Kazuha’s chest felt a little tight.

She frowned. That was strange.

“Zuha?” Y/n’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She blinked, realizing they were looking at her. “You okay?”

“I—” She hesitated, unsure of what to say. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Y/n tilted their head, studying her with that gentle expression that always made her stomach feel light. “Don’t overthink too much,” they teased lightly, nudging her foot under the table. “You do that a lot.”

Kazuha felt her face grow warm.

Did she? She hadn’t realized.

Before she could reply, the conversation shifted, and Y/n turned their attention back to Chaewon. Kazuha let out a small breath, pressing her straw against the ice in her drink.

She needed to figure out what this feeling was.

That night, back at the dorm, Kazuha found herself lying awake, staring at the ceiling.

Her bed was warm, but she felt restless. Every time she closed her eyes, memories of the day replayed in her mind—the way Y/n had laughed, the way their eyes softened when they looked at her, the way their foot had brushed against hers under the table.

She turned over, hugging her pillow.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about romance before. She had just never felt it.

But now…

A realization crept in slowly, like the first bloom of spring.

Maybe, just maybe—this was what love felt like.

And that thought was both terrifying and exciting at the same time.

————————-

Kazuha had always been good at controlling her emotions. Years of ballet training had taught her discipline, composure, and grace—how to keep a steady expression even when her muscles ached, how to push through exhaustion without showing weakness.

But this? This was something else entirely.

She wasn’t used to the way her heart stuttered whenever Y/n looked at her, or how a simple touch—a brush of their hand against hers, a playful nudge—could send warmth rushing up her spine. It was overwhelming, unfamiliar, and completely out of her control.

And yet, she didn’t hate it.

The next morning, the six members of Le Sserafim had dance practice, and Kazuha did her best to focus. She really did.

But every time she caught Y/n’s reflection in the mirror, her rhythm faltered just a little. It was ridiculous. She had spent years perfecting her technique, yet now, one glance from them was enough to throw her off balance.

“Zuha, you okay?” Yunjin asked, raising an eyebrow as she stretched next to her. “You seem distracted.”

Kazuha quickly shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Y/n, who had been taking a sip of water nearby, turned to her with a small smile. “If you need a break, don’t push yourself too hard.”

There it was again—that warmth, that strange tightness in her chest.

Kazuha forced herself to nod, but the truth was, she wasn’t tired at all. She just needed to stop feeling so much.

———————-

That evening, after a long practice, Kazuha found herself sitting next to Y/n on the dorm’s couch. The other members were in their rooms, leaving just the two of them in the dimly lit living room, the only sound being the faint hum of the air conditioner.

Y/n was scrolling through their phone, absentmindedly leaning back against the cushions, while Kazuha sat stiffly beside them, her hands clasped together in her lap.

She wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what.

Instead, Y/n spoke first. “You seemed a little off today.”

Kazuha hesitated. “Did I?”

Y/n turned to her, resting their chin on their palm as they studied her. “Yeah. You’ve been spacing out a lot lately.” A teasing smile tugged at their lips. “Are you falling in love or something?”

Her heart stopped.

For a moment, she could only stare at them, her mind blank.

Y/n had said it so casually, without knowing how those words sent her world spinning. Was she falling in love?

The thought had crossed her mind before, but hearing it spoken out loud—especially by Y/n—made it feel more real, more undeniable.

Kazuha swallowed, looking away. “I don’t know.”

Y/n blinked. “Wait… are you serious?”

The ballerina could feel their eyes on her, searching for an answer, but she kept staring at her hands. “I’ve never—” She exhaled softly. “I don’t know what love feels like.”

There was a pause, then a chuckle. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

Kazuha felt her face heat up instantly.

Before she could respond, Y/n reached out, gently poking her cheek. “Don’t stress too much about it,” they said lightly. “You’ll figure it out when the time is right.”

And just like that, they went back to scrolling on their phone, as if they hadn’t just left Kazuha questioning everything she thought she knew.

The ballerina sat there in silence, feeling her heart race in a way it never had before.

Maybe she was falling in love.

And maybe—just maybe—it was with Y/n.

————————

Kazuha wasn’t sure when things started to change.

It wasn’t anything obvious—there were no grand confessions, no heart-fluttering movie-like moments. But something about the way Y/n treated her had become… different.

And she wasn’t sure if it was real or if she was just imagining it.

It started with the small things.

Like how Y/n always made sure to sit next to her whenever they could, whether it was during car rides, team meetings, or even casual late-night gatherings in the dorm.

Or how they started bringing her favorite snacks, passing them to her without a word—just a knowing glance like they had memorized every little thing she liked.

Or how, during practice, Y/n would always be the one to adjust her mic, their fingers grazing the back of her neck in a way that sent shivers down her spine.

It was subtle, but Kazuha noticed.

And the worst part? She didn’t know what it meant.

————————

One evening, after a long day of schedules, Y/n and Kazuha were the last ones in the practice room.

The other members had already left, but Y/n had stayed behind to practice a little longer, and Kazuha—despite her exhaustion—hadn’t wanted to leave them alone.

Now, they sat side by side on the floor, backs resting against the mirror as they both caught their breath. The only light in the room came from the soft glow of the ceiling panels, casting long shadows against the walls.

Y/n glanced at her, a small smile playing at their lips. “Tired?”

Kazuha nodded, exhaling softly. “A little.”

Without a word, Y/n reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Kazuha froze.

It was such a simple gesture, but the way their fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary—like they were committing the feeling to memory—made her heart stutter in her chest.

The ballerina turned to Y/n, but they were already looking away, stretching their arms as if nothing had happened.

Kazuha swallowed. Was that on purpose?

She wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Later that night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she replayed the moment over and over again in her mind.

She wasn’t imagining it, was she?

The way Y/n looked at her—the way they touched her, even in the smallest ways—it wasn’t the same as before.

Y/n was treating her differently.

And that terrified her.

Because if they really were showing feelings for her…

Then she had no choice but to admit that she had feelings for them, too.

———————-

Kazuha wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending that nothing was happening.

The way Y/n had been acting lately—subtle but unmistakable—was starting to unravel her carefully maintained composure. And the worst part? No one else seemed to notice.

Only her.

Or maybe… only she was affected by it.

It happened again the next day.

The group had gathered in the company lounge for a short break between schedules, sprawled across the couches as they waited for their next meeting. The air was filled with quiet chatter, the sound of snack wrappers crinkling and fingers scrolling through phones.

Kazuha had just sat down with a drink when Y/n wordlessly handed her a small packet of dried mangoes—her favorite.

She blinked, looking up at them in surprise. “Oh… thank you.”

Y/n shrugged. “I saw them at the store earlier and figured you’d like them.”

That was it. No teasing, no playful remarks—just a simple, thoughtful gesture.

But the way their fingers brushed against hers as she took the packet made her breath hitch.

The ballerina forced herself to look away, hoping no one else had noticed the way her grip on the plastic tightened just slightly.

No one did.

Except them.

Kazuha could feel Y/n’s gaze lingering on her for a moment before they turned back to their phone, acting as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened.

And it was happening more and more.

————————

Later that evening, Kazuha found herself standing in the dorm’s kitchen, mindlessly stirring a cup of tea as she tried to calm the racing thoughts in her head.

She needed to stop overthinking this.

Maybe they were just being nice. Maybe she was reading too much into things.

Or maybe… maybe they knew what they were doing.

“Zuha.”

The ballerina nearly dropped her spoon.

Y/n stood in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused glint in their eyes. “You okay? You’ve been spacing out a lot lately.”

She swallowed. “I—yeah. Just tired.”

Y/n hummed, stepping closer until they were leaning against the counter beside her. “You sure?”

Y/n’s voice was softer now, quieter.

Kazuha gripped her cup a little tighter.

This close, she could pick up on the little details she had been trying so hard to ignore—the way Y/n’s voice always seemed a little warmer when they spoke to her, the way their shoulder brushed against hers even though there was enough space between them, the way their eyes held something she couldn’t quite name.

She wasn’t imagining this.

But she didn’t know how to respond.

So she did what she always did when she was overwhelmed—she stayed silent.

Y/n, let the moment between them for a few seconds before exhaling softly, a small, knowing smile tugging at their lips.

“Alright,” they murmured, pushing off the counter. “Let me know when you figure it out.”

And with that, Y/n walked away, leaving Kazuha gripping her cup like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her heart was pounding.

She knew what they meant.

Y/n was waiting for her.

And for the first time in her life… she wanted to stop running from what she was feeling.

Bonus Chapter:

Kazuha had always prided herself on her ability to stay calm.

On stage, in interviews, even during the most exhausting practices—she had learned to keep her emotions in check. It was part of who she was.

But with Y/n, she was starting to realize that some things couldn’t be controlled.

It was a quiet evening in the dorm, and for once, there were no schedules, no deadlines—just a rare moment of peace. The other members were in their rooms, leaving only Y/n and Kazuha in the living room.

Y/n sat on the floor in front of the couch, scrolling through their phone, while Kazuha stretched beside them, her legs folded neatly beneath her.

It was comfortable. Easy.

But then, without looking up from their phone, Y/n reached over and absentmindedly grabbed her hand.

Kazuha froze.

Y/n didn’t lace their fingers with hers or make any obvious move—they just held it, their thumb lightly tracing small, slow circles against her skin. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like they had done it a hundred times before.

Like they weren’t even thinking about it.

But she was.

The ballerina was thinking about it so much that her heartbeat felt deafening in her ears.

Y/n didn’t say anything. They didn’t tease her or acknowledge it in any way. Y/n just kept scrolling through their phone, fingers still loosely wrapped around hers, as if holding her hand was second nature to them.

And that was the moment it clicked.

This wasn’t new for them.

Y/n had been showing her their feelings in all the little things—the quiet gestures, the subtle touches, the way they always seemed to be there, waiting for her to catch up.

And Kazuha… Kazuha had been too slow to understand.

The ballerina swallowed, staring at their intertwined hands. She should have pulled away. She should have said something.

But instead, for the first time, she let herself feel it.

The warmth. The quiet certainty. The realization that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t something that came with a grand declaration—it was something that had been growing between them all along.

She squeezed their hand.

Y/n didn’t react right away, but the ballerina felt the way their fingers tensed slightly before they finally looked up at her.

And this time, Kazuha didn’t look away.

She held their gaze, her heart racing but her grip steady, a silent answer in the way she didn’t let go.

Y/n’s lips parted slightly as if they wanted to say something, but then they just smiled—soft, knowing, patient.

Like they had been waiting for this moment all along.

And Kazuha, for the first time in her life, wasn’t afraid of what came next.

[crumblekitten]

I’ll show you every version of yourself tonight

Luke castellan x fem!reader

words: 1.8k

AO3 link!

warnings: almost kissing, Luke is crushing HARD, set before the events of the lightning thief

what’s on the ratio?: mirrorball by Taylor swift

Late into the night, Luke sat alone by the campfire, his eyes fixed on the flames that danced before him. Camp Half-Blood lay quiet, its cabins and tents shrouded in darkness, but Luke felt no comfort in the stillness.

The familiar warmth of the fire couldn’t touch the chill creeping through him, nor could it silence the voice of Kronos whispering deep in his mind. The Titan's influence had grown stronger, twisting Luke’s thoughts like tendrils winding around his heart. Kronos promised change, retribution, and a chance to reshape the world that had failed Luke time and time again. He remembered the promises he’d made to himself, the anger that burned hot against the Gods and the camp that felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The desire to betray it all simmered within him, almost a relief after the years of resentment. And yet, an ache persisted. Luke’s thoughts drifted to Annabeth and Thalia. He could still hear their laughter in his mind, feel the shared hope that had once driven them to protect each other at any cost. Together, they’d vowed to build something better, to be family to one another in ways their parents had never been. Those promises weren’t so easy to turn his back on. The memories made him feel heavier, anchoring him to something he couldn’t shake, and for a fleeting moment, he hated it. He hated how much he cared. The fire snapped, and Luke watched as a stray ember floated into the night sky before disappearing into the shadows. He clenched his fists, knowing that in the end, he might only have himself. Luke barely noticed the faint crunch of footsteps behind him, his gaze still locked on the fire.

“Luke?” Luke turned abruptly at the sound of his name. His eyes lit up with surprise, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Y/n” he murmured her name fondly. It was a name that held a special place in his heart, the sound of it evoking a complex mix of emotions. He hadn’t expected to see her. “What are you doing here?” “You okay? Travis and Connor said that you didn’t come back to the Hermes cabin after lights out” Luke tried to appear nonchalant, forcing a lopsided smile.

“Ah, you know those Stoll brothers. They need to stop being so nosy. I’m fine, just enjoying the night air.” You see through Luke’s mask of emotion, and you slide onto the seat next to him “whatever’s bothering you…you should talk about it” Luke raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing his face. He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Is that a suggestion or a direct order?” He couldn’t help but tease her, his tone slightly sarcastic. “Can’t help people who don’t want to change, I’m here to talk about it and if not I’m still here”

Luke paused for a moment, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. He was used to keeping his worries hidden, to being the one others leaned on, not the other way around. Slowly, he turned back to face her, his expression softening. “It’s just…the camp, the Gods, it all feels so suffocating sometimes. I…I don’t belong here.” Luke admitted, his tone tinged with bitterness. “But I made a promise…promises, actually, to people who’ve become like family to me. And I can’t just abandon them.” “Do you think they would understand if you wanted to leave camp?” Luke let out a heavy sigh, conflicted emotions playing across his face. “I don’t know. Some might understand but others won’t, and they’ll blame me for betraying them. They don’t see how much the camp sucks the life out of me.” He ran a hand through his hair, gazing into the fire. “I’ve always been told that as a son of Hermes, I have to obey the rules, stay in line, but that’s not me. I can’t keep up the act for much longer.”

“Do you think that if you didn’t make those promises you would have left a long time ago?” Luke hesitated, considering the question carefully. “Maybe,” he finally admitted. “I’ve always had this restlessness in me, something pushing me to break free from the mold everyone wants me to fit into. The promises I made… they grounded me, gave me something to hang onto during the tougher times. But they’re also chains keeping me here when I just want to break free.” Luke sighed, the weight of his words sinking in. “If it wasn’t for those promises, I probably would’ve ditched camp ages ago.” You find yourself wanting to reach for his hand but you hold yourself back, you had a crush on Luke for years, and now probably wasn’t a good time to act on those feelings “what would you do if you left camp?” He shook his head, letting out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d find some other way to survive. Start over. It can’t be worse than this constant tug of war between my loyalty to the camp and my restless spirit.” He glanced over at her, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “But then I wouldn’t be with my friends, with my…” He trailed off, the words remaining unsaid. Luke’s gaze focused back on the crackling fire, his expression distant. “You really think they’d understand if I left?” “I think annabeth would, she might want you here but you’ve been here since you were 14, you deserve the chance to find freedom. She knows that much”

Luke absorbed her words, a flicker of hope sparking within him. “You’re right. Maybe Annabeth would understand.” He paused thoughtfully. “But it’s not just her I worry about. What about you?.. What would you think if I left?” His gaze held hers, a mixture of sincerity and an underlying longing that he tried to suppress. “I would miss you. But like I said you deserve a chance to find that freedom” Your voice is saddened but decided to give a truthful answer, Luke’s eyes remained fixed on yours, searching for any hint of doubt. After a moment, he broke the silence, his voice unusually earnest. “You’ve always understood me better than most. I value your opinion. And… I’d miss you too, if I left. I’m not sure what it is about you, but I’ve always felt like you see the real me. I don’t have to pretend around you.” His words hung in the air, filling the space between them. Your gaze turns to the fire. cheeks red from the cold winter air, it may have also been caused from the blush slowly dusting your face.

Luke’s eyes remained on you, taking in the way your cheeks flushed and your gaze returned to the fire. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair back behind your ear, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. “Your cheek feels like ice,” he said softly, concern etching his features. Without thinking, he took your hand in his own, the warmth of his touch offering a quiet comfort. In that instant, the boundaries between you seemed to blur as he leaned a little closer. As Luke leaned closer, the weight of everything he held within seemed to vanish. The world around you faded away as their eyes locked. “Do you think… maybe I have something to stick around for here?” His words were a whisper, a confession that held both a hopeful question and an unspoken promise. The flickering firelight cast a golden glow on your faces, making him appear even more handsome as his expression softened. Luke’s thumb gently traced small circles against the back of your hand, the motion a quiet, tender reassurance. He held your gaze steadily, searching for any sign of hesitation or rejection in your eyes. “I’m sure you could find it” you stare into his eyes you body heating up at the closeness.

“Maybe I already have.” Luke replied, his voice barely a whisper as the space between you continued to close. Every breath felt like a silent promise, a shared secret. He reached out, his fingertips gently brushing against your cheek, tracing a path from her temple to the curve of your jaw. His touch was gentle yet deliberate, like a painter committing every detail to memory. Time seemed to slow as your faces were just inches apart, the silence filled only by the rapid beating of their hearts. His eyes held hers captive, the firelight reflecting in his gaze making them appear molten and intense. “We should go back to the cabins” You pull back from Luke slightly Luke blinked, the world slowly coming back into focus around him. “Right. It’s late.” he agreed, his voice barely audible. He released your hand, the warmth he’d felt lingering as if imprinted on his skin. He stood up, offering his hand to help you up as well. “You should have worn a jacket or something. You’re freezing.” “I’ll be okay” Luke wrapped his own jacket around her shoulders firmly. “Here, take this,” he insisted, his eyes gentle yet determined. “No arguments. I can’t have you catching a cold.”

*

As you walked together, the jacket draped gently around your shoulders, Luke’s eyes briefly flickered to your hand. The impulse to reach out and hold it was strong, but he resisted, unsure of where the night would take them. In the quiet of the camp, your footsteps were the only sound. He wondered if you felt the same connection he did, or if it was just his own wishful thinking. The moment between you had been real, he was sure of it. “Do you ever wonder…what could’ve been?” he asked, his tone soft but filled with unspoken longing. “I don’t think about it that often” “I think about it more than I’d like to admit,” Luke mused quietly. He turned to you, noticing the way the moonlight played across your features, making you even more beautiful. “Why didn’t we ever…?” He left the question hanging in the air, his gaze filled with curiosity and a touch of regret. There had always been a connection between you, an unspoken understanding that made Luke’s heart yearn. “Ever what?” Luke let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know. Get together? I mean, we’ve always been so close.” He paused, his gaze locked on yours. “You understand me better than most, probably better than anyone here. I just… it feels like we might have missed our chance.” His words were tinged with a mixture of emotions, uncertainty and longing. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt a deep connection to you that he could never quite shake. “You never asked.” You smile at him before walking up to the door of your cabin and walking inside.

Luke watched you disappear into the cabin, the moonlight casting a faint glow over his features. He stood there for a moment, the weight of uncertainty settling heavily on his shoulders.

“Maybe I should’ve,” he murmured under his breath before making his way back to the Hermes cabin, the question of ‘what if’ lingering in the air like an unanswered prayer.

“I know they said the end is near But I'm still on my tallest tiptoes Spinning in my highest heels, love Shining just for you” -Taylor swift

[deezee112]

The good ending : Not Ready to Be a Parent

The worst ending 27 | Special ending

Yandere!Twisted Wonderland x GN!Reader

A/N : Everyone! I never thought we’d make it to this ending. Thank you all so much for following along until now I really appreciate it!

Right now, I’m planning a special episode ( which explores what would happen if we didn’t die ) for all the characters!

I’m also working on the storyline for Season 2. It shouldn’t take too long, but the special ending will probably be much longer than usual. This chapter might be a bit short, but I think it turned out really well!

Tags :

@iris-arcadia @yuu-twisted

If you want me to tag you please tell me.

English is not my first language.

You stared at the doll, now seated upright on your couch, its unsettlingly realistic features illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through your apartment’s curtains. It was a child almost somewhere between eight and twelve years old, with smooth skin, delicate features, and glassy eyes that seemed far too lifelike.

Your fingers drummed against your arm as you stood there, watching it. The clothes it wore were plain, just a simple shirt and pants, but they somehow made it seem even more human. Like a real child sitting there, waiting for you to say something.

You exhaled sharply. “ What the hell am I supposed to do with you? ”

Of course, the doll didn’t answer.

You turned away and headed for the kitchen, needing coffee before you could deal with this mess. The rich, bitter scent filled the air as you poured yourself a cup, taking a slow sip while trying to think logically. Crowley had given you next to no instructions beyond take care of it, as if that were a simple task.

Feed it. Talk to it. Treat it like a real child.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “ Right. Because raising a kid is so easy. ”

The longer you stood there, the more your mind started running through the realities of what Crowley was asking of you. Raising a child even an artificial one meant responsibility. And responsibility meant time, effort, and most importantly…money.

You glanced at the doll again, still sitting motionless on your couch.

“ Alright.. ” you muttered, walking over and sitting across from it. “ Let’s break this down. ”

You weren’t exactly wealthy. Your job covered your rent, bills, and food, but it wasn’t like you had stacks of cash lying around for extra mouths to feed especially not ones that came with unknown costs.

Would this thing need clothes? Medical care? Did it get sick? Did it grow?

You frowned, rubbing your temple. “ God, this is a nightmare. ”

You’d never even considered having kids before. Not because you hated them, but because they were expensive, time consuming, and required more patience than you had. And now you were being expected to raise this?

Your gaze drifted toward the grocery list stuck to your fridge, the numbers scribbled on the side reminding you of how carefully you already had to budget. If you took this thing in, that list would get longer. Food, water, maybe even extra furniture.

And what about emergencies? What if something happened to it? Could it get injured? Would you be responsible for repairs, doctor visits whatever it required?

You sighed, resting your forehead against your hand.

“ I think I should return it. ”

The words slipped out before you could fully process them, but once they were spoken, they made sense. The longer you thought about it, the more you realized just how unprepared you were for something like this.

Crowley could pretend this was some simple task, but it wasn’t. Raising a child even an artificial one wasn’t just about giving them food and shelter. It was about being ready to take care of someone else’s life, to be responsible for their well being.

And you weren’t ready.

Not financially. Not emotionally. Not in any way that mattered.

You let out a slow breath and looked at the doll again. It hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted, but something about its presence still weighed on you.

Maybe, if things were different if you had more time, more money, more experience you might have considered it. But this wasn’t some stray animal you could feed for a few weeks and then decide if you wanted to keep. It was a child.

And children deserved more than someone who took them in on a whim.

Decision made, you grabbed your phone and texted Crowley.

" We need to talk. "

It only took him a few minutes to respond.

" Ah, wonderful! How is the little one doing? "

You exhaled sharply, already irritated. He always had this way of dodging real conversations.

" Come pick it up. I’m not the right person for this. "

This time, there was a long pause before a reply came.

" Are you certain? This is quite the opportunity, you know! A chance to raise a child, shape a young mind, be part of something truly groundbreaking! "

You scowled. Opportunity? Was that how he saw it?

" I’m not ready for this, Crowley. It needs someone with experience, someone who knows what they’re doing. Give it to them. "

Silence.

Then, finally

" Well, if you’re absolutely sure…I’ll make the arrangements. "

You put your phone down and sighed, running a hand through your hair. The weight on your chest loosened slightly.

It was the right choice.

Raising a child real or not wasn’t something you could do just because someone told you to. It required commitment. And if you weren’t ready for that, then the best thing you could do was step aside and let someone else take care of it.

You looked at the doll one last time.

“ Guess this is goodbye, huh? ”

It blinked slowly.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “ You probably don’t even understand what’s happening. ”

Maybe that was for the best.

When Crowley finally arrived, he was all smiles, acting as if this was just another minor inconvenience in his day. You didn’t bother explaining yourself again. You’d made your decision, and that was all that mattered.

As he carried the doll away, you watched from your doorstep, a strange sense of relief settling in your chest.

It wasn’t your responsibility anymore.

And that was okay.

But the last thing you saw was that doll staring at you one final time before it disappeared.

[obitez]

100 Miles

Written for @bucktommyangstweek Day 5: Missing In Action

wc: 1,364 | Rating: G | cw: None

~~~~~~~~

It was a call to support a five alarm fire right in the middle of the 118’s zone of responsibility. 

It wasn’t often that Harbor went out to work a call with the 118. The seven years it took for him to meet Buck was evidence of that. 

But it seemed like tonight would be that night. 

Five truck companies had already been called to put out a fire at a high rise condo building before they were called to pick up two people in need of a medevac transport. 

“Harbor 17 to IC,” Tommy spoke into the headset as they approached the site in the helicopter. “We’re about two minutes away from you.”

“Incident Command to Harbor 17, Copy that,”  a familiar voice came through to Tommy’s headset in response. 

That was Bobby’s voice. So the 118 were here. 

Cool, cool. That was all great. 

He and Buck hadn’t been on a scene together since… (not counting the cruise ship fiasco)... ever. 

“Was that Nash?” Nate, one of their slight medics on this chopper tonight, asked. 

“Yeah,” Tommy said. He adjusted some of the controls, descending slightly as he began to look for an open area to set down so the patients could be loaded on board. 

“Isn’t your boyfriend on his crew?” Nate then asked, to the groans of the rest of the crew. If there was one thing that Nate was great at, it was distracting people. 

“Can we talk about this later?” Tommy asked. “This isn’t a vacation flight.” 

Eleven though he couldn’t see the other man’s face, Tommy could feel him roll his eyes. 

Then another message came over the radio. “Buck, do you copy?” Tommy overheard Bobby’s voice call out through the radio. 

At first Tommy didn’t think anything of it. Although certainly not ideal and against how the training plans always went, firefighters occasionally got separated from each other. Tommy continued on with what he was doing, trying to find a place to touch down to pick up the two medevac patients that needed to be transported. 

“Buck, do you copy?” Bobby’s voice sounded out, again, through the radio, sounding more strained and anxious this time. Tommy picked up on it immediately that time. 

Five… Ten… Twenty seconds went by and neither Buck or anyone else spoke through the radio. 

Come on Buck, Tommy thought to himself. What’s taking so long? 

“Kinard, over there,” Jack, his co-pilot said from the seat next to his. “Just ahead of the parking lot, the area is open.” 

Tommy looked up and to the right and saw the area the other man was pointing to, moving the controls to start to head in that direction. 

It only took them about two minutes to get to the open area by the parking lot, three minutes to load the patients in the back, and another two minutes getting in the air. 

The entire time, Tommy was mostly zoned out of what was happening around him, having done this hundreds if not thousands of times before. He was just trying to pay attention to the radio, to wait and hear if Buck would respond, to know that he was safe, unhurt, -

“Buckley, I say again, come in,” Bobby’s voice sounded again into the radio. 

Two seconds, five seconds, ten… still no response from Buck. 

As they ascended in the air, turning in the direction of the hospital to deliver the patients, Jack reached up to the radio, intending on changing the channel back to the regular air traffic control. Tommy sprung his hand out, stopping him. 

“Tommy,” Jack said softly, “We need to get back online with the tower. We're about to leave the airspace, we won’t be able to hear them anyway.”

Tommy knew the other man was right. It was standard procedure. But at the same time, he wanted, no he needed, to know if Buck came back in. He needed to know that Buck was alright. 

Jack held eye contact with Tommy for a long moment, and Tommy couldn’t bare to be subject to that sympathetic look for longer than necessary, as if Jack knew something that Tommy didn’t. 

Tommy let go of his hand and turned his head back towards the front. Seconds later the radio channel switched over to the main for air traffic. 

Tommy still hadn’t heard Buck come back in. 

🚁 🚁 🚁 🚁 🚁

An hour later, as Tommy landed the helicopter right outside of the hangar, he got out and immediately went inside, intending on going directly towards where they kept the radios that were connected to the main dispatch channels and all of the other fire stations in the northern half of the city. They should have enough reach to tap into whatever channel it was that the 118 were working on. All Tommy had to do was hear Buck’s voice. 

“Tommy!” Jack called out after him. 

“What?” Tommy nearly snapped out at the other man. 

Jack stopped, taking a half second to catch his breath after running after him. Tommy almost turned around to continue to where he was going when Jack spoke up. “Just take a second man,” he said. “Take a second to breathe before you do some-”

“I was just going to check the radio,” Tommy said as he turned around and continued walking, just missing Jack mumble something along the lines of ‘as you murder everyone in the way to do it.’ 

Checking over the main radio, it seemed like the scene they were at had mostly been cleaned up, surprising from what Tommy oversaw there only an hour ago.  The guys with the 118 were already on their way back to their station - if they weren’t already there. 

As Tommy picked up a radio, intending on calling them, he felt his phone in his pocket vibrate. Quickly checking it, he lifted an eyebrow when he saw it was a text from Buck. Tommy didn’t wait to read it as he automatically went to call the other man. 

Buck must have still been on his phone, as he picked up with less than one ring. 

“Hey Tommy, what’s up? We just got back from a call,” Buck greeted him. 

“Y- yeah,” Tommy said, slightly caught off guard from what he had been thinking of less than thirty seconds ago. “I was in one of the choppers that flew by. Just wanted to check and make sure you were okay.”

“Oh yeah,”Buck said, and Tommy could hear the smile in his voice. “It was pretty big over there, I’m sure you saw it from outside. But no major injuries - although I think Eddie might’ve messed his ankle up again.” 

“Yeah, just wanted to make sure,” Tommy said. “We were on the same radio channel for a while, I could overhear Bobby trying to get ahold of you. You weren’t really responding.”

“Oh yeah, you overheard that?” Buck asked, as he let out a little laugh. “It was some type of radio malfunction.”

“A radio malfunction?” Tommy asked. 

“Yeah,” Buck said. “Something went wrong with the transponder or something, I don’t know… I was trying to call into Bobby each time he called my name over the radio. Honestly, it wasn't until I got out of the building that I realized it was only me he was calling out to and that he hadn’t heard anything I was saying.”

Tommy let out a breath upon hearing that. All of that worry - for a radio malfunction. 

Getting off the phone with Buck, Tommy let out a long breath, his shoulders falling in relaxation, nearly every muscle in his body releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he had been holding. 

Buck was going to be alright. Buck was alright. 

The entire time Tommy had been having an almost anxiety attack over what danger Buck might have gotten into while going through a high rise fire, it was just a faulty radio. 

It almost made Tommy laugh when he thought it all over. 

For the next month, the first thing he did at the start of each shift was make sure all of their radios were properly working… And calling Buck to make sure the 118’s were to.

Also on AO3

[writing-for-marvel]

A fairy without her wings and a captain without his crew—two misfits manage to find each other in the cruel dark world that is Neverland.

I’m literally already crying and it’s only the summary 😭 oh the hold this story has on me Janie you’re probably so sick of me talking about it - I think I need professional help lol

The only thing that saves you from his sinister motives is, despite your lack of wings, you are still a fairy. Tinker Bell made a pact with him all those centuries ago; she will help him take as many lost children as he wants—but her family, her species, is forever off limits. 

Your writing is forever exquisite and just how in a couple of paragraphs I’m already so immersed in this magical world oh how I’ve missed it

You reached twenty-five and your wings are still nowhere to be seen. The taunting soon began; there hadn’t been a wingless fairy in existence in millennia. The children called you a freak, the adults shook their heads in shame. Some of them pitied you, most were disgusted by you. You turned to your parents, hoping they would still love you despite your differences.

I feel like I can relate to this so much in my own life and is probably why I have always felt such a connection to this story 🥺

There are fates so much worse, as you would soon discover.

Dun dun duuuun!! Omg I’m so excited for What’s to come!!!

The stranger had placed you upon a wooden table in what looked like the captain’s quarters, a handkerchief draped over you as a makeshift blanket.

To keep her warm 🥺🥺

It was only in the morning light that you realized he only had one good arm, that you realized who he was.

Your mind Janie!!!! The connection between Bucky’s amputated arm and Captain Hook ahhh *chefs kiss*

He tutted at you in disapproval once he felt your weight on his shoulder, but he silently allowed you to sit there for as long as you liked.

Oh he acts all tough but he likes the company 🥺

You held it above your head on shaky arms in what you hoped was a display of strength, and you swore you saw the smallest hints of a smile in his chiseled features.

Awww him finding that companionship again after what happened to his friends 🥺 oh it makes me soft

How did he lose his arm? Another touchy subject, but you’d always been a curious little bird. He didn’t seem to mind your questions anymore, but he still did not answer.

I’m such an inquisitive person by nature, another reason I think I relate to fairy in this story

But you leapt onto it, wrapping your arms around it as best as you can. Your arms didn’t even reach halfway around him, but he gazed down at you in what you believed was shock. You fell asleep there that night, waking up to the sight of his face in front of you, having fallen asleep at the table himself, evidently not wanting to wake you.

I am soft I tell you 🥰🥰🥰🥰 they just make me feel all mushy inside

What was his name? It was this question that finally allowed you to hear his voice. As you gazed at him, instead of the evil, instead of the sin you had always heard about in those tales about him, you saw only yourself in his steely blue eyes. You saw your own loneliness and longing reflected back at you, and you knew for certain right then that the tales were untrue.

😭😭😭😭😭 oh how their stories are different yet so similar and how they’ve found each other 😭😭😭😭 imma need some tissues

But the real reason you stayed was because there was warmth there, a kind of warmth you’d never felt, even before you were an outcast.

*sniffling* oh they’re perfect

Magic eluded you for years. You thought it had forsaken you. You thought it had deemed you unworthy. Turned out, magic came to you in the form of a lonely captain on a deserted ship, himself nothing but a lost soul that Peter Pan could not—or would not—touch.

JANIE I NEED TO SCREAM AT YOU FOR THIS OH IT IS TOO PERFECT FOR WORDS

They called him Captain Hook.

You would only ever call him James.

I am sobbing. It is perfection

James would never tell you that finding you on that forest floor was what saved his life. He would later learn what you were, but even without fairy wings you remained the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in Neverland.

How dare you??? This fic will ruin me and I will gladly let it every damn time!!

It would mean killing Peter Parker, the very last of James’ crew.

Oh how much pain James is in I’ll never forgive you Janie (kidding I already have)

You were such a tiny little thing, but somehow you already took up more room in his life than anything else had in years.

This passage is so beautiful 🥹

He didn’t want to be friends, because his heart longed for something more.

😭😭😭😭 switching up the pov did something to my soul! Such a fantastic choice

He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to tell you he’d never do it again. He wanted to promise to cut off his other hand if you didn’t believe him.

I’m now just reading this through tears… I’ve given up on trying to stop them

He found it in your eyes then. He silently vowed to do everything to keep it there.

They are my everything 😭😭😭

But in reality, he’d given it up. Peter wanted to know how badly he wanted his friends back.

Stop it!!!! It hurts too much 😭😭😭

I never said I would give them back alive.

You meanie Janie what did I ever do to deserve this???

It was a word he hadn’t spoken in years and it sounded strange on his tongue, like it didn’t even belong to him. But then you repeated it, slowly, one, twice, three times, and he knew that nothing was ever going to be the same.

Them 🥹 oh them I’ll never get over them, like I’m in neverland myself I will never grow old of this story, I could read it every single fucking day and it will always remain my absolute favourite fan fic ever. I know I say that all the time but I don’t mean it flippantly Janie, I genuinely from the bottom of my heart adore this fic with everything I’ve got

Lock me up and throw away the key this is all I will be talking about for the rest of my life

i’ve always thought about writing a sequel or rewriting this as a miniseries, and i’ll never say never when it comes to this story, but i’ve yet to be struck with any kind of inspiration that could possibly do this fic justice. maybe one day? who knows.

Do you even need to ask?? I would sell my soul for a speck more of this universe. Who do I have to bribe???? I’ll give anything

REQUIEM.

PAIRING — captain hook!bucky barnes x fairy f!reader

CONTENTS — one-shot; alternate universe—neverland; inspired by peter pan; fluff; angst; past character deaths.

SUMMARY — A fairy without her wings and a captain without his crew—two misfits manage to find each other in the cruel dark world that is Neverland.

WORD COUNT — 3.1k

✩ masterlist ✩ bucky barnes m.list ✩ library blog

The forest is a cold and desolate place at night. During the day, when the sun is shining, Neverland is breathtaking. But that’s part of the trap, you see. 

And once you fall in, you can never leave. 

Peter Pan would never allow it. 

The boy who never grows up floats in the inky sky above you, unmoved by the fact that you’re alone in the forest this late at night, having been cast aside by your own kind. You would almost find him beautiful, flying amongst the stars, a trail of fairy dust trickling behind him, if you didn’t know him for who he really was. 

The only thing that saves you from his sinister motives is, despite your lack of wings, you are still a fairy. Tinker Bell made a pact with him all those centuries ago; she will help him take as many lost children as he wants—but her family, her species, is forever off limits. 

A part of you believes Pan really does love Tink in his own sick and twisted way. It’s why he’s kept his promise thus far, even as his glowing eyes find you on the forest floor. You think you see a flash of sympathy in Tink’s eyes as they fly overhead, and shame, red hot and suffocating, spreads through your veins like wildfire. 

You curl up into a ball in the grass, as small as you can, hoping it will provide some relief from the chill. Despite the painful memories, you remember home. It is never cold in the kingdom of fairies, only ever full of sunshine and blooming flowers. 

As is the norm with your kind, you were supposed to come of age at twenty years old, sprouting wings, finding a mate, and finally taking flight. Instead, you watched year after year as the people you thought were your friends left you behind, their colourful wings sparkling in the golden sunlight. 

You reached twenty-five and your wings are still nowhere to be seen. The taunting soon began; there hadn’t been a wingless fairy in existence in millennia. The children called you a freak, the adults shook their heads in shame. Some of them pitied you, most were disgusted by you. You turned to your parents, hoping they would still love you despite your differences.

You had been wrong.

Your mother, at the very least, tried not to let it show that she was ashamed of you. But perhaps that was worse, knowing that she was trying to love you in spite of it all but couldn’t quite manage it.

Late in the night, you decided to leave the only place you had ever known and loved. You took nothing with you.

Perhaps you would die in the forest, surrounded by plants and flowers, underneath the winking stars. You close your eyes, still shivering, thinking that perhaps it wasn’t the worst way to go.

There are fates so much worse, as you would soon discover.

He had woken you up maybe minutes, maybe hours, after you had fallen asleep. When you opened your eyes, it was still dark. By all logic, you shouldn’t have been able to see his cerulean gaze against the navy blue sky, but there he was.

A human loomed over you, unsmiling and silent. He crouched in the grass next to you, sending you scrambling away as fast as you could. It only took him two strides to reach you again, his palm open and faced up on the dirt right next to you.

When you didn’t move, he gingerly picked you up with two fingers, lifting you all the way to his face as you twisted and struggled. Your tiny little fists did absolutely nothing, no matter how hard you threw them against his skin.

With a yelp, you were unceremoniously tossed into the air before he caught you in his open palm. You couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped you.

Warmth. He was so warm.

You curled up on the rough calloused skin of his hand, unable to fight the lull of sleep until you woke up again in the morning. This time, you were aboard a ship, bobbing slightly with the gentle waves of the ocean.

The stranger had placed you upon a wooden table in what looked like the captain’s quarters, a handkerchief draped over you as a makeshift blanket. You could see him standing outside the doorway on the quarter deck, telescope stretched out in front of one eye, as he searched over the horizon.

It was only in the morning light that you realized he only had one good arm, that you realized who he was.

In the stories, they called him Captain Hook.

You had heard of him in tales of a villainous pirate that had reached your kingdom long ago. He was said to be cruel, even sadistic; you never thought you would ever meet him, or that he would take you in.

For the first few weeks, he downright refuses to speak to you. But the rules of decorum no longer apply here; after all, he is a pirate and you are no longer amongst the fairies. Unrelenting, you pester him with questions.

Why would he save you if he doesn’t want to be friends? You didn’t have any friends back at home… well, not anymore. You would like to know what true friendship looks like before you die.

How come he leaves the candle lit all night for you, even though it disturbs his sleep? Some nights, after some considerable effort, you blew out the flame just to see what would happen. He would calm, his tossing and turning would cease, as if he were more comfortable in the darkness. Hidden. Obscured. Safe.

Where was everyone else? Is a captain really a captain if he has no crew? There are signs that people have lived here. Markings on the walls, drawings on old bits of parchment hidden haphazardly between the pages of a book, clothes that are either too small or too large or too feminine for him, a hairbrush with long strands of red hair tangled in the bristles.

Unable to fly, you could not venture far from the captain’s cabin. That is, unless you grabbed onto his sleeve as he passed by. He tutted at you in disapproval once he felt your weight on his shoulder, but he silently allowed you to sit there for as long as you liked.

Sometimes you would sing to yourself, old songs your mother used to sing that used to bring you comfort. Sometimes you watched the sun set over the horizon. But today, you played with the chain of a necklace that rested around his neck, hidden underneath the collar of his loose-fitting shirt, tugging at it out of curiosity.

The shift in movement revealed a set of tags with names on them. Steve, Sam, Sharon, Joaquin, Tony, Natasha… but was is the last one that has you reeling in shock, dropping the chain as if it burned your palms.

Peter.

Peter? 

Peter Pan?

The nameless captain reached up to grab you off his shoulder and marched back to his cabin to practically toss you down onto the wooden table. You tumbled out of his grasp, surprised and breathless at his sudden harsh treatment. Your heart plummeted to your stomach when he took out a glass jar and placed it upside down on top of you, rendering you trapped.

You cried for hours until he finally set you free, something akin to shame and guilt in his eyes.

When you didn’t forgive him for days, because he hadn’t even so much as asked for your forgiveness, he took you out of the ship for the first time, out onto the beach where the ship was docked. He placed you gently onto the warm sand, and your anger was washed away with each lick of the waves. You rolled around in the sand, shrieking with laughter as you ran and frolicked, squealed with glee as the water lapped at your feet.

You had never been to the ocean before, you told him. Again, he didn’t speak as he picked up a pretty pink shell and handed it to you. You held it above your head on shaky arms in what you hoped was a display of strength, and you swore you saw the smallest hints of a smile in his chiseled features. You ran around with it held above you, waving it back and forth and relishing at how the air suddenly cooled when you were underneath it.

When he finally took you back to the ship after you grew tired, you insisted he bring the shell with you. You laid down next to it, smiling at the way it sparkled and shone, at how you could still hear the sounds of the ocean as you fell asleep beside it.

You finally found the courage to ask one day. Why did Peter Pan hate him so much, enough to spread such wicked lies about him? He still didn’t answer you, but he didn’t get angry this time. Instead, he looked at you with such sad eyes, you decided not to ask anymore.

His pain was now your own. You lay your head on the fingers of his flesh hand as he grasped the railing, closing your eyes when you felt his knuckle-white grip loosen.

How did he lose his arm? Another touchy subject, but you’d always been a curious little bird. He didn’t seem to mind your questions anymore, but he still did not answer.

It was alright, you told yourself. You’d speak for the both of you. He moved to take his false arm, the one with a hook for a hand, away from you. But you leapt onto it, wrapping your arms around it as best as you can. Your arms didn’t even reach halfway around him, but he gazed down at you in what you believed was shock. You fell asleep there that night, waking up to the sight of his face in front of you, having fallen asleep at the table himself, evidently not wanting to wake you.

Who was Steve? You’d heard the name sometimes in his sleep. It was one of the names on his necklace. It was the name signed onto the drawings that litter the ship. Drawings of flowers, trees, the sunset, the ocean. Drawings of what Neverland could be. And of him, of your captain.

What was his name? It was this question that finally allowed you to hear his voice. As you gazed at him, instead of the evil, instead of the sin you had always heard about in those tales about him, you saw only yourself in his steely blue eyes. You saw your own loneliness and longing reflected back at you, and you knew for certain right then that the tales were untrue.

You never hoped to leave the ship.

You had nowhere else to go, after all.

But the real reason you stayed was because there was warmth there, a kind of warmth you’d never felt, even before you were an outcast.

You prayed you’d never have to.

“James,” he finally answered. His voice melted into your skin, seeped into your veins, and traveled straight to your heart.

Magic eluded you for years. You thought it had forsaken you. You thought it had deemed you unworthy. Turned out, magic came to you in the form of a lonely captain on a deserted ship, himself nothing but a lost soul that Peter Pan could not—or would not—touch.

They called him Captain Hook.

You would only ever call him James.

James would never tell you that finding you on that forest floor was what saved his life. He would later learn what you were, but even without fairy wings you remained the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in Neverland.

For a moment, he thought he had been hallucinating. There was no way a cursed being like him would find a solace like you after centuries of sorrow. It must be a trick. He must have finally lost his mind from grief. You could not be real.

But then you opened your eyes and the rest was history. James knew he needed to protect you then. Although, if he were really being honest with himself, he wasn’t doing it solely for you. The last time he had allowed to care, to love, Pan had taken everything from him. But you were off limits. The boy who never grows up was not allowed to touch you, not unless he wanted to hurt the only person who’d been loyal to him for as long as she had.

It’d been a very long time, and Pan is no longer the Peter that James remembered and loved, but there were still pieces of Peter in there somewhere—the traces of a boy who loved just as fiercely as he desperately wanted to be loved in return. It was why no matter how hard he tried, James could not bring himself to end the tyranny. Because to kill Peter Pan would be to kill the boy he used to be.

It would mean killing Peter Parker, the very last of James’ crew.

And if James had walked away from you that night, then he could bid what remained of the already shattered remnants of his soul goodbye. You were such a tiny little thing, but somehow you already took up more room in his life than anything else had in years.

“Why did you save me if you didn’t want to be friends?” You asked him one day, sitting at the table in his cabin, tiny legs dangling off the edge. You kicked them underneath you innocently, eyes hopeful as you asked the question.

He did want to be friends, but he didn’t remember how.

He didn’t want to be friends, because his heart longed for something more.

“How come you leave the candle lit all night for me, even though it disturbs your sleep?” He thought you might have been cold, but honestly this wasn’t just because of you. He left a candle lit at night even before you ever came along, as sleep had been the one to disturb him. Most nights, it eluded him. But on the rare occasions it did come, it was almost never peaceful.

And perhaps it was his way of atoning, of trying to guide other lost souls away from the darkness.

“Where is everyone else?” They are all dead… except one. Rage flooded into him when you found the tags with the forbidden names engraved on them. It had been a very long time since he’d had to share space with another living being, and sometimes he forgot how delicate you were.

His anger lashed out then and he cruelly trapped you underneath a jar, hating himself for it when he heard your crying and sobbing into the night. Your little hands bang—tinkle—against the glass, begging him to let you out.

You withdrew from him after that.

He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to tell you he’d never do it again. He wanted to promise to cut off his other hand if you didn’t believe him.

He didn’t know how. He couldn’t find the words important enough.

So, he took you to the beach, watched as you played and jumped and leapt. The happiness that radiated from you when he gifted you a tiny pink seashell is debilitating. The water splashed at your feet, and when you looked up at him, smiling, it took everything for him not to weep.

When was the last time he found joy—pure unadulterated joy—in Neverland?

He found it in your eyes then. He silently vowed to do everything to keep it there.

“Why does Peter Pan hate you so much?” Hate was perhaps not the right word, because Pan had never taken the chance to kill him either even though he’d had plenty of opportunities.

But Peter was drunk on power and fairy dust, allowed it to turn him into the tyrant he was today, luring the lost and terrified spirits of children under his spell in a misguided and twisted attempt to build some kind of family.

He might sympathize with Pan, if it hadn’t turned him into a bully. And he never liked bullies; neither did the rest of his crew. They fought alongside him, determined to free Neverland and return it to the utopia it once was. They did not succeed.

“How did you lose your arm?” The stories told that it was bitten off by an alligator. But in reality, he’d given it up. Peter wanted to know how badly he wanted his friends back.

I can return them to you, but you can’t have something for nothing.

He should have known better than to make a deal with the devil; he never does give you what you wish for.

I never said I would give them back alive.

“Who is Steve? I hear you say his name sometimes.” This was the name that always hit him hardest. It belonged to his first mate, his best friend, his brother in arms. He was half-surprised when he had to blink away tears, astonished that the grief he had grown so comfortable with still had the power to bring him down under again.

Tiny, stubborn, and hot-headed Steven, who always chose to do the right thing, no matter how hard it would be.

He remembered cradling Steve’s small body in his arms, burying him under the sand along with the rest of his friends. He had kissed them all goodbye, clutching at their limp hands as his lips caressed their foreheads before he walked away, but he would leave a part of his soul with each of them.

“What is your name?” He looked at you then, and centuries of ache compelled him to tell you. It was a gift, one’s own name, and to share it with another person was sacred. It was an act so simple, but it was capable of forging a bond. When you told him yours, he craved it—that connection to another creature he hadn’t had in so long.

“James.”

It was a word he hadn’t spoken in years and it sounded strange on his tongue, like it didn’t even belong to him. But then you repeated it, slowly, one, twice, three times, and he knew that nothing was ever going to be the same.

You called to him that night, sounding happy to be able to do it, to say goodnight to him and follow it with his name.

“Good night, James.”

The fog suddenly lifted. The name that had been so foreign to him suddenly belonged to him again. He remembered James Barnes, the person he used to be, the person he needed to rediscover.

He remembers the person he must remain. 

fin.

AFTERWORD — i’ve always thought about writing a sequel or rewriting this as a miniseries, and i’ll never say never when it comes to this story, but i’ve yet to be struck with any kind of inspiration that could possibly do this fic justice. maybe one day? who knows.

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