#the ground for what they did to him in another life--

[alinathinkstoomuch]

LAP IT UP

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right? warnings | an: dry-humping, power play, dom-ish reader / sub-ish hotch, hotch jizzes in his pants, hotch is a munch and a simp because it’s simply not possible for me to write anything else other than hotchypoo worshipping the ground u walk on!!!established relationship, mentions of sugar baby/daddy dynamic word count: 2.2k

✧ masterlist

“Can I do yours?” you asked, not bothering to shift the mirror as you cleaned up the stray hairs around your left brow.

There was a pause of silence, followed by the rustle of paperwork. Not nearly a sufficient response, so you gently kicked Aaron’s thigh in protest.

“Do my what?”

“Your eyebrows,” you answered, tilting your head as you inspected your reflection, trying to catch the last bit of sunlight streaming through the window. One brow was cooperating. The other looked like it had wandered off and joined a different face entirely.

“They’re not twins,” you muttered. “Barely sisters. Maybe even distant, resentful cousins.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And what exactly are you implying about mine?”

“They could use a little TLC,” you argued lightly, leaning back to look at him over the mirror in your hand. “When was the last time you did them?”

He looked up from his files, one brow lifting—ironically. “I don’t make a habit of grooming my eyebrows.”

“Yeah…I can tell.”

That earned you the famous Hotchner scowl, though it had stopped working on you several scowls ago—right around the time you realised he was all bark and no bite. Or, at least, never with you.

Without another word, you dropped the mirror onto the coffee table and swung one leg over his, settling into his lap like it was your favourite seat…because it was. He stilled beneath you, body going just a little tense, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this was heading, but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” you replied, fingers already threading through the front of his hair. You tugged just enough to guide, making sure his head tipped back against the couch cushion. “Oof. Would you look at that, Hotchner, I think you’re starting to grow a monobrow.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“She needs to go. Quickly.” You leaned in, squinting like you were about to perform life-saving surgery and plucked a hair right from the middle of his brow before he had a chance to respond.

He flinched.

“Baby,” you teased, barely bothering to hide the laugh building in your throat. “You’re fine.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Obviously. I’m in your lap, holding tweezers, and making you nervous. This is my peak.” Just as you plucked another hair, you felt his hands tighten slightly at your hips.

“Just be quick,” he muttered.

Yeah. There was just one small problem with that. Quick wasn’t in your plans tonight. Aaron might be the boss at work, but at home, it was you who got your way. Always had. And truthfully? You didn’t care all that much about his eyebrows. Or yours, for that matter.

You just really, really wanted to be in his lap.

You let the tweezers hover his face again as you pretended to search for another target.

“Hm…nope, that one’s got character. Can’t lose it.”

He huffed. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

“I am,” you insisted, all sickly-sweet innocence as you adjusted your grip on his shoulders, letting your fingers toy with the collar of his polo. “Just want to make sure they’re perfect.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mh-hm.”

“What? You want me to do a half-assed job? You want uneven arches, Aaron?”

“You’ve got two minutes left.”

Silly man. As if you were on his clock.

You said nothing, just hummed like the consummate professional you clearly were, smoothing out his right brow with the pad of your finger. And then—because comfort was key, obviously—you shifted. Absolutely not intentionally aligning yourself with the zipper of his jeans.

You caught the half-shaky exhale he tried to hide and decided it still didn’t feel quite right.

Goldilocks might’ve had a point.

So you adjusted again, this time with a little more pressure. For once, you were grateful for the humidity that made you choose a dress—and the skimpiest, thinnest pair of underwear you owned.

All, of course, in the name of practicality.

His hands twitched at your waist, fingers flexing like he was stuck between wanting to grip you tighter or stay neutral. (Spoiler: he was failing at staying neutral.)

“This all part of the grooming experience?”

“Me taking my time? Absolutely. You know I give a hundred percent to everything I do, baby.”

"I know, honey," he drawled. "You've called me baby twice in the last three minutes. That's usually when you want something."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smiled—subtle, smug, and, annoyingly, entirely correct. Because, yes, okay, you did want something. Just... nothing that came with a price tag. This time.

"What is it?" he asked, utterly unbothered because he was synced up to you in that way that meant nothing you said, did, or asked of him could really surprise him anymore. "Vacation days? Shoes? I told you, you don't have to ask. The wallet's in the drawer."

You gave his hair another tug, guiding his head back to the couch cushions like you were placing something delicate. “You know there’s actually a government term for what you’re implying right now.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he looked so… soft. Almost unarmoured. Breakable in the gentlest way. The tension that usually lived in his jaw, his brow, his posture—gone. Off choosing a different victim for the day.

Lit by the delicate setting sun, he looked—

Angelic.

Almost too pure for what you had planned.

Because while he was just trying to finish a stack of paperwork, you were trying to survive the throb between your legs. And your dress, as helpful as it was in theory, wasn’t offering enough friction to solve anything. So you decided to do what any self-respecting sinner would.

You were going to drag him down a little closer to your level.

Make him less divine, and a little more yours.

“Sugar baby,” you blurted, remembering you were mid-conversation and should probably at least pretend you were behaving. “That’s the term. Is that what you’re implying I am?”

He grinned.

And then he was the one to adjust—lifting his hips just as his hands pressed you down harder against him, guiding you into him.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes fluttering as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

He opened his eyes then, and you did your best to keep a straight face. (Spoiler: you were the one failing this time.)

“You think I’d reduce you to that?”

You reached for the tweezers again, if only for something to do, dragging a lazy finger across his brow like you were still pretending to care about symmetry. “You did say the wallet’s in the drawer.”

“I did.” His grip tightened just enough at your waist to make your thighs instinctively clench around him, something you knew he felt. “But that’s because I’d give you anything you ever wanted without expecting anything in return.”

You pouted, feeling the buttons of his polo brush against your nipples, because, yes, humidity had also declared it a no-bra day, and yes, you were prepared to weaponize it. “So you don’t want my sugar?”

“I want all of you,” he corrected.  “Every part.”

Of course he was still angelic about it—still saying all the right things, still making it a priority to remind you of your worth, even while you were actively plotting how to make him finish in his jeans.

Rude.

But also righteous.

And still better than you deserved…which will only make this all the more satisfying.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, a slow breath pulling into your lungs as the weight of his words landed somewhere deep between your legs.

“You’re really not going to let me be shallow for five minutes, huh?” Your fingers slipped from his brow to his throat, thumb brushing his pulse just to feel how not calm he actually was.

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “You’re not shallow. Just a little needy.”

You hummed like that wasn’t already obvious, like the need hadn’t soaked straight through your panties and probably left a trail somewhere along your thigh by now. Still, for the sake of appearances you brought the tweezers to his brow again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, right as you bucked your hips into him.

You felt his hands slip beneath your dress, rough and warm against bare skin as they roamed—up your thigh, your lower back, your spine.

“I said hold still,” you repeated, the smile in your voice completely ruining the authority you hoped to fake.

He did the opposite.

His hands kept traveling up your back, and you dropped the tweezers altogether, your hands settling on his shoulders as you forced yourself to grind against him, feeling not just the zipper, but the outline of his hard cock, straining like a sin he hadn’t meant to commit.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word breaking apart in your throat like glass.

Your lips latched onto the skin beneath his jaw, feeling his skittish pulse beneath your tongue as you sucked and smoothed over the sting. Aaron’s grip on your neck tightened—a weak, almost pathetic attempt to tame you, to reel you back in, just so he could reclaim a fraction of the control you had stolen.

“This was never about my eyebrows, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t care to. Instead, your teeth scraped lightly over the hickey you were hoping would linger, hips working against him like the truth being unveiled—not the sweet thing he thought you were, but a wicked woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re not even listening,” he said again, a breathless laugh ghosting across your temple, cut off by the groan that followed when your hips met his just right. “Too busy getting yourself off.”

“Pretty and smart,” you mumbled lazily, the friction turning sharper, your clit throbbing now with every slow drag over the rough fabric of his pants.

His hands slipped under the neckline of your dress, tugging the top down with the sort of confidence that didn’t match his frantic breathing or the way his hips were stuttering into yours.

You pulled back from the crook of his neck, only because now it was his turn.

Aaron’s eyes dropped, and for a moment, he just stared like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Then he leaned in, mouth closing around your nipple, lips warm, tongue flicking once, then again, until you gasped and arched into him.

You were close. So close. Though truthfully, most of the build-up hadn’t been physical—it was all mental. The way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, something good. In the way he still hadn’t figured it out, even when you’d pranced past him with the tweezers and the mirror, settling beside him on the couch, legs draped up, spreading just enough to make sure he saw exactly what was on offer.

You could’ve asked. Told him exactly what you wanted and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. You knew that. He loved to take care of you. He always had.

But where was the thrill in asking, when it was so much sweeter to watch him give in?

And you began to pick up on just that.

The way his breath caught against your nipple, the scrape of his teeth getting less careful.

The way his hands clutched tighter at every piece of skin he could reach. The way he started meeting your hips with his own. Slow at first, then harder, like this had been his idea to begin with.

You kept moving and so did he, the friction messy and desperate between you. His head dropped forward, breath stuttering out against your collarbone, his hands squeezing your waist.

Then his hips jerked up into yours, your name falling from his lips in a voice he almost never used. His body tensed one last time, and then you felt it—the heat flooding between you, a groan torn from his throat as he came.

Your greed had been satisfied.

And with one more roll of your hips—feeling his release spread beneath you, mixing with your own slickness—that was all it took to tip you over the edge. Your body locked down, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm hit, splintering and all-consuming.

You didn’t move from him immediately, hands now toying with the collar of his polo as you caught your breath.

“Happy?” he mumbled against your skin, voice still rough around the edges.

You lifted your head, the curve of your smile slow and smug. “Very.”

You expected him to stay soft beneath you—to let you linger, revel in the mess you’d made of him.

But instead, his hands slid to your hips again, and before you could react, he was lifting you off his lap in one fluid motion, placing you down in his seat as he stood over you.

Your legs dangled off the edge, dress still bunched around your waist, thighs glistening with wetness. You pushed yourself up slightly, elbows braced behind you for balance, about to ask what he was doing, pausing just long enough to admire the wet patch on his jeans.

But your confusion melted into a shit-eating grin as you watched him lower himself to his knees in front of you. Though something told you that whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be for your sake, but for his.

And that control you were so desperate to keep?

It was practically nonexistent now—crumbling at a breathtaking pace, resting in the same hands that were sliding your soaked panties down your thighs.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[kermdoeswriting]

The worst jobs ever lead to 0 Student debt

Have you ever been so broke that you've resorted to gigs that normally would make you seem like a minor villains goon?

Danny has.

Being practically broke, drowning in constant student debt, college student has led to some of the weirdest side gigs Danny has ever done. He can at the very least confirm that as he continues his degree in Astrophysics at MIT.

But in all honesty, he's not very picky or upset about how weird they are. Danny would rather do something strange once, then continue drowning in debt the way he was currently.

Student debt was not a joke.

And even if it were, it wasn't a very funny one, considering he himself was just scraping by on his two front teeth due to them.

Either way, the point was Danny's done practically everything in Gotham possible just to make some small bits of cash here and there. Danny only ever goes to Gotham for the sake of an extra ectoplasm boost on top of the fact it has the most jobs out of any city possible due to the crime rate.

He's been a temporary goon and a guard to several different warehouses throughout Gotham & New York City (most times there isn't even anyone or anything in them but a jobs a job). He's been in charge of covering a front temporarily for what looks like fake companies (nothing to do with drug dealing or the mob for some reason, he usually tries to stay clear of those offers).

He also was a tester for some of Mr. Nygma's traps being hired for the sheer fact that he couldn't really die and therefore could test several of Mr.Nygma's traps at once.

He took a temp job to help feed Dr.Quinzel's pet hyenas when she was in Arkham for awhile as well as pet sit. That one was his favorite honestly, Lou and Bud were sweethearts despite the carnage thing.

He recently had even been a personal insta-cart driver for a certain Penguin mob-boss strangely enough (until the guy got sent back to Arkham that is).

Danny really isn't picky when it comes to jobs unless it was just something mostly immoral and just insane, like drug dealing and/or murder & world or several life ending situations or just involved with someone like the Joker.

It's gotten to a point that the average Gotham goon usually recognizes him when he passes by during a job visit. They tended to recommend him a new job when they saw him, knowing he was just as eager as they were in this economy.

Which is how he ended up here, sitting in an empty warehouse yet again for possibly another hour before he could leave and get paid. Danny was sat on the floor doing his advanced calc homework and trying not to scream about it as he sat there.

It was something he did when the nights were slower honestly. The night was ruined quickly after that though when the glass shattered above him and scattered all over his homework and the rest of the ground.

Danny only sighed and mourned the possible money he'd be losing to that mess before shaking the glass off of him and his papers. He didn't bother looking up at his possible attacker.

"You have got to be fuckin kidding me. Not again, Kid."

Only then does Danny look up to see who broke the window. Red Hood sounds exasperated despite the mask covering all of his real voice with a mechanical voice changer. Besides him was Nightwing who seemed just as disappointed as his partner was while putting his escrima sticks behind his back.

"Can I help you Red Pill, Blue Pill?"

That made Red Hood snort while Nightwing just sighed into his hands and dragged them down his face before responding.

"Kid, what are you doing in he- Is that homework???"

Nightwing walked closer almost sounding offended as he looked down at the mess of Danny's math that he was going to have to redo before turning in tomorrow. The thought of recopying everything made him feel angry all over again.

"The one you guys wrecked by getting glass all over it? Yes," Danny leaned back into his plastic chair provided by the Goonion. "Thanks for that by the way, I'm going to have to recopy everything before class tomorrow."

"That wouldn't be a problem if you just got a normal part-time job like a normal young adult." Red Hood snorted as Nightwings slight lecture and it made Danny roll his eyes at the both of them as he sat up.

As if he hadn't tried that route already. In between his space museum internship during the day and his thousands of classes every week, he didn't exactly fit a lot of younger adult jobs schedule.

"Do you know any nearby normal adult jobs that are hiring a current university student with millions in debt and a internship schedule that only allows them to work at night?" Danny snapped back which made Red Hood start to snort and laugh again at Nightwings expression.

"Well..." Nightwing at the very least had the decency to look sheepish as if he had thought about it genuinely and couldn't think of a thing.

"Thought so." Danny slumped against the chair again, before shutting his eyes. He waved them away as he sat back, already mentally preparing himself for another all nighter for the sake of recopying his papers.

"If thats all, I'll see you next time I get a fake listing or bad job that you guys have a tendency to break into. Go away."

Nightwing only sighed again before Danny heard his grappling hook sound off back through the broken window into the night. Red Hood only chuckled one last time before ruffling his hair.

"See you, Kid. Make sure you try to sleep before class"

Danny just huffed at him and waved him off again as Red Hood shot his grappling hook off into the night and joined Nightwing. With a sigh, Danny sat up again and grabbed his nearby backpack filled with scrap paper.

Time to restart the equation all over again.

______________________________________________________________

Basically Danny needs money to keep going to MIT so he continuously decides to take up jobs for hire in Gotham (and other places but mostly Gotham), which lead to him breaking a lot of laws for another cash grab.

Meanwhile, the Batfam is very concerned that they keep meeting this meta young adult (who doesn't even live in Gotham!!) who seems to continuously be running through villain placed ad offers like water to get cash.

How desperate for cash is this guy????

[grison-in-space]

For the record, Tribble (boxer/boston terrier, mostly) in her youth was the only dog I have ever truly sincerely believed would bite someone if we were attacked in the street. We lived in a pretty poor neighborhood together for a couple years on the grounds that I could afford the place on my own and it was in public transit distance of the university I worked at, and she has absolutely reacted with a big blustery display because she thinks something is Off--despite my attempts at the time to convince her that handling weird shit is my job, not hers.

I bring this up to point out that when my dog has gone off in a barking display at someone for being funny-looking, it has almost universally been directed at people of color, sometimes homeless people, and with one exception, maybe two, in that dog's fourteen years of life, it has never been directed at anyone who genuinely and clearly meant something untoward to us. Mostly she has barked and made a big scary display at homeless guys who seemed like they might be drunk or funny-moving, but who were otherwise ignoring me; once at a guy who was offering a very angry chihuahua to Tay. People who seemed out of the ordinary to her, every time. And that was for a generally reliable, trustworthy dog who has never once reacted at humans out of that context.

Dogs do not actually have magic insight powers for telling what humans want to do. Period. They are usually reacting to fear (and boy howdy, you know, it's real surprising but did you know that black folks are way more likely to be scared of dogs?), intoxication, or disability making people move funny. If you, a human, are unnerved or threatened by another person, it makes the dog regard people who are weird like that as Suspicious. Even very well socialized dogs who have a good idea of the full range of normal human behavior can react like this.

I will also say: one of the many moments I was proudest of Matilda was when a tall Black gentleman who appeared to be having some kind of psychotic episode kept rushing around our crossing point spot and yelling at other people. He freaked me out a little bit and she was definitely unsettled, but she trusted me to handle it, and we ultimately crossed the street and moved past him without incident. That's how a service dog needs to act and behave, and that should be how police dogs are trained too if they are going to be working around civilians in any capacity. The fact that they are not is a major injustice that needs remedying.

My abnormal gait caused a police dog to lunge and chase at me while I was simply walking in my neighborhood. That’s a bit terrifying.

Thankfully it was off duty and leashed (I know it’s a police dog cause the owners are my neighbors, who are cops. Their cop cruiser is parked out front. The dog has training.)

But it scared the shot out of me and made my already difficult mobility worse and I had to limp even worse the rest of the way home, while the owner (a cop) just watched.

The implications that cops and their dogs are trained to view suspicious activity as anything abnormal, aka, many things people cannot control (disability for example, like Jesus Christ a trained dog tried to attack me for being disabled) are ferrying. I’m scared.

[countlessimagines]

Here Now [ Sentry X Reader ]

Summary: The past seems to always haunt you.

A/N: I love sentry !!!

Warnings: Mention of addiction, mental health issues

SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS

-

It was hard to adapt to normalcy after Robert had suddenly disappeared. You were left alone in your too small apartment that felt huge and empty without him by your side.

Robert never had an easy life, even if he had you by his side, following him wherever he went. Even if his depression and addiction were sometimes too much to handle. He was forever grateful but extremely guilty that he dragged you into his mess of a life. You saw him for the person he was, not the trauma that molded his moods.

Even when he was not honest, it was hard to stay away from him. You loved him with everything you had, even if it was not much.

He loved you with a fierceness that was almost obsessive. There was a side of him that he seemed to hide from you, something darker within him that lingered. You could see it in his eyes whenever someone suggested you to leave him, another man flirting, or whenever you two go into arguments.

It was scary to see, but then it would melt away and he would be back to normal.

When he saw that there was a new research study that can make you a better man, he did not hesitate to sign up. He feared you would not approve of being a test subject, but knew he had to do something to change. He knew loving you while a mess was never fair to you and wanted to return home to you clean and cured.

A few years passed and it didn’t make any sense for you to stay in the apartment you two shared together anymore. The constant reminder of him was too painful and the fear that he had overdosed or ended up in a ditch someone made you nauseous at the thought.

You had situated yourself in a New York apartment in some crumbling building, but it was all you could afford. You held onto a few photos of you and Robert, wanting to cherish his memory even if it was too painful to bear at times.

After a rough late night shift where you were barely getting home in the middle of the day, you wanted nothing more than to sink into your bed and forget about the world for awhile.

As you were situating yourself in your room, you could hear multiple screams outside your apartment. With a world full of heroes and villains, you were accustomed to panic attacks whenever you could hear trouble. You didn’t know if it meant that there was another alien invasion or a masked murderer on the loose.

You hurriedly ran to your window, only to see a dark shadow creeping onto every surface and clinging to it. In the streets, citizens were reduced to shadows.

The air suddenly left your chest as you could see it scaling the walls right outside your window. Your feet began to walk backwards and you managed to turn and flee to the kitchen.

Without a second thought, you grabbed one photo from your fridge of you and Bob, smiling together while cooking dinner. You held it to your chest and tried to run out the front door, but it was too late.

The shadow’s grip took hold and the next thing you knew you were in a pitch black room.

You knew you were screaming because your lungs felt like they were burning. No sound came from your mouth, though.

It was all so sudden.

You were laying on the ground of your old apartment with your head ringing.

You began to cry, seeing that you were in the one place that broke you into a million little pieces.

“What are you doing here?” A familiar voice cut through the air. “I told you to leave!”

You shakily raised your head up, seeing Robert leaning over you.

His eyes were manic, hair greasy and disheveled, clothes so dirty you thought he might have slept in dirt.

“Baby?” You said in a hushed voice.

“I don’t want you here anymore.”

Your slowly rose to your knees, grabbing for him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I left you. Where were you?”

“You left me there on the street.”

It was clicking in your head once more, it was a memory you didn’t want to relive.

“I had to, you… you were so high out of your mind you didn’t make sense.”

He scoffed pushing your needy hands away from him.

“You abandoned me when I needed you.”

He didn’t look like himself. He felt more colder than usual.

You finally stood to your feet even if you were shaking. “I’m here now. Please don’t leave me again. I thought you died.”

“You probably would’ve wanted that.”

“Never.” Tears were streaming down your cheeks as you reached for him again.

“Leave her alone!”

Suddenly there was a hoard of people who flung into the room.

You didn’t recognize any of them and moved backwards out of fear. “Who are you guys?”

They appeared to be heroes of some sort, and one of them with a shield barreled into Robert and slammed him into a wall.

“Wait! Don’t hurt him!” You screamed, running forward.

Before you could reach him, a pair of arms wrapped around you and held you back.

“Let me go! He needs me!” You shouted and struggled to get out of the grip of whoever was holding you tight.

You helplessly watched as Robert slid down the wall, but your shouts went silent as he faded into a black mist.

“I’m here now. I’m never leaving you again.”

You spun around and realized that you were being held by Robert. But he appeared healthier and not so rugged like the one who disappeared.

“Baby?” You whispered, reaching up to cup his face.

“It’s me.” He smiled, his hair framing his face in a way that made you think of fonder times. “I’m sorry for all that I did.”

You let out a shaky breath, just happy to see him again, safe and healthy in your arms. “It’s okay, baby. I know. All that matters is you’re here now. We can start over.”

You embraced him and held him close, wanting to never let go of him.

There was a sudden coldness and bright light enveloped you both. You opened your eyes to see you were on a city street.

Robert pulled away and looked towards the group of heroes who all were breathing out a breath of relief.

“They helped me.” He said in a grateful voice before turning to you. “I’m going to be better for you, now.”

You ran your finger over his lips like you always used to do before planting a sweet kiss on his lips. “I will be there every step of the way.”

[katemoneymartinsgf]

Jealous in Dallas |pazzi|

a/n: okay so i don’t know how to respond to comments so thank you @asiahoov12 for this request. Sorry i’ve been slacking guys. I got lots of recs and i’m trying to write for all of them. Thank you so much for taking the time to request something, I love it so much.

Request: Ok do one what Azzi is in Dallas at a bar with Paige and Paige gets jealous when someone try's to hit on Azzi

—

jealous in dallas

It��s not fancy. Just some Dallas spot with good music and a patio out back, packed but not too much.

Paige has one arm draped across the back of Azzi’s barstool. The other holds her drink loosely. She’s leaning in close, head tilted as Azzi tells her something about the playlist, something Paige won’t remember because her entire brain is focused on the way Azzi’s shirt fits her just right.

They’ve been like this all night — attached at the hip, close enough to share breath.

So when some dude in a denim button-down slides up next to Azzi and throws out a, “Hey, can I get you another?” like Paige isn’t literally touching her — Paige freezes.

Azzi blinks once, then glances at Paige.

Paige sets her drink down. Slowly.

Azzi opens her mouth to say something polite, but Paige beats her to it.

“She’s good.”

Her voice is calm. Not sharp. Not yet.

Denim Guy looks her over, confused. “Oh — I was talking to—”

“Yeah. I know who you were talking to,” Paige says, sliding her hand from the back of Azzi’s stool to the back of Azzi’s neck. Her fingers curl there. Firm. Claiming.

Azzi shifts slightly in her seat but doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into it.

“I’m just saying hi,” the guy tries again, still clearly not reading the room.

Paige smiles — but it’s the cold kind. The try it again and see kind.

“She’s not saying hi back.”

Azzi reaches up, laces her fingers through Paige’s.

“I’m good,” she tells the guy, voice even.

Paige doesn’t even look at him now. She’s looking at Azzi — jaw tight, pupils blown, like her blood’s running hotter than it should be.

“Let’s go outside,” she says, but it’s not a question.

Azzi’s already nodding.

-

The patio is quieter. A little breeze, string lights, the faint echo of music pulsing from inside.

Paige pushes Azzi gently up against the wall just outside the back entrance. Not rough. Not rushed. Just urgent.

“You didn’t even look at him,” she says, voice low. “You didn’t even entertain it.”

Azzi tilts her head, amused. “Was I supposed to?”

“No. You did everything right,” Paige mutters, stepping in closer. “I just— I saw his hand on the bar. Saw him lean toward you like I wasn’t even sitting there.”

Azzi wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. “And now what?”

Paige doesn’t answer. Just kisses her — hard.

It’s messy. Intentional. A little too much for public, and still not enough. She kisses her like she’s daring someone to look. Like she wants them to.

When she pulls back, breathless, she whispers:

“You’re mine.”

Azzi smiles. Calm. Steady. Dangerous.

She grips Paige’s jaw, guides her back in, and kisses her slow this time — deep, full-body, until Paige’s fingers tighten on her hips like she might come undone right there.

Then Azzi pulls back and says in her ear:

“And you’re mine, baby. So relax.”

Paige exhales like she’s never heard anything more grounding in her life.

But she still doesn’t let go.

Not all night.

-

They don’t leave the bar.

Paige’s hand stays on Azzi’s hip the entire walk back inside, thumb tracing slow, effortless circles through the fabric of her jeans like she’s not even thinking about it — like it’s instinct now, like she’s making sure the bar remembers.

Azzi grabs their drinks from the counter. Paige grabs Azzi from behind — arms low around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder, voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You good now?” Azzi asks, handing her the glass without looking.

“No.”

Azzi hides a grin in her drink. “You’re ridiculous.”

Paige shrugs against her like she’s not bothered — like she’s always this collected.

“He looked like a ‘let me show you my truck’ kind of guy.”

Azzi hums. “Could’ve been.”

“I would’ve broken his jaw.”

Azzi finally turns in her arms, laughter soft under her breath. “You were so pressed.”

Paige’s eyes narrow — not in annoyance, just deliberate. Confident.

“Yeah. And?”

Azzi lifts a brow, still smiling. “You almost knocked the man’s beer off the bar with how fast you stood up.”

“Maybe I should’ve.”

Paige doesn’t say it loud. She doesn’t have to.

It sends heat up Azzi’s spine anyway — that mix of calm and danger, the quiet kind of possessiveness that doesn’t need attention, just presence. Paige doesn’t get loud. She just gets close. And she stays there.

Azzi slides her hands under Paige’s shirt — cool fingers against warm skin — and leans in.

“You jealous,” she says, “or just obsessed with me?”

“Yes.”

The answer lands heavy between them — no hesitation, no blink.

Azzi kisses the corner of her mouth.

“You love me.”

“I worship you.”

Azzi laughs, low and breathy, heart thudding in her chest.

“You were real quiet when I wore this sweater earlier.”

Paige doesn’t move. Just drops her hand lower, slides it down to Azzi’s thigh, and pulls her in — slow, commanding.

“I wasn’t quiet. I was fighting for my life.”

Azzi exhales. She’s still smirking, but her breath catches — because Paige is so unbothered in it all. Cocky, calm, and still completely wrapped around her.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Some would call it possessive I think.”

“You’re whipped.”

Paige tilts her head. “Same thing.”

Azzi kisses her again, slower this time. Lips brushing her ear like a dare.

“You didn’t have to kiss me like that in front of the building.”

“I absolutely did.”

“Now everyone knows I’m yours.”

“Good.”

Azzi pulls back just enough to meet her gaze. “And they know you’re mine?”

Paige smiles — the kind of smile that makes Azzi forget everything else in the room.

“Let ’em try me.”

And Azzi — cool, composed Azzi — just laughs into her neck, arms looped behind her back like Paige is gravity.

She doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

And neither does Paige.

Because Azzi likes being wanted like this. She likes the weight of it — the steady hands, the unwavering attention, the fire just beneath Paige’s control. She likes knowing that even when Paige is calm, she’s still choosing her — loudly, fully, without apology.

[chris-continues]

I’ve Got My Eye on You

If you dance I’ll dance <3

Robert “Bob” Reynolds/reader

SYNOPSIS: When you’re forced to attend Valentina’s gala for publicity, you find solace in a familiar face.

CONTAINS: fem reader, fluff + a dash of angst, mutual pining, reader is convinced she shouldn’t pursue Bob, brief moments w the team, my dialogue is ass because I need to understand his character more so if any Bob writers have insight pls lmk

You did not want to come out tonight.

Well, in part you were curious as to what exactly a gala entails, but with your ragtag team of mercenaries almost nobody was invested in appearing tonight. Well, aside from Alexei eager to show off the team. You rarely see Yelena and Ava dress formally, their dresses notably elegant and distinct.

Your own feels pale in comparison, having to shove yourself into a box that you could not quite seem to fit. Sleek black silk cloaks you, its floor length obvious as the hem brushes the marble below you. The lot of you had hardly any time to view one another, crammed into the backseat of a limo Valentina had used to collect you. At least now you can get a decent look at everyone after the initial round of press.

Bob had been invited along with the team, but was forced to take a separate vehicle. He was maintaining a low profile ever since the incident only a few months prior, and nobody could fault him for that.

“Do you think they have hoity toity hors d’oeuvres or something?” Yelena prods, probably just thinking aloud, “I’m starving,” she sighs, pacing towards the entryway that led to the main dance hall. Her blonde hair is tousled with waves, her bangs framing her face. Stubbornly, she attempts to blow it away to no avail.

“You think with your stomach. The whole common fridge has a shelf dedicated to your pickles and cheese,” Ava retorts, but she’s grown fonder of the team nonetheless.

Alexei storms in front of everyone else, bursting into the room several paces ahead with extreme enthusiasm.

The banter fades into the recesses of your conscience, more focused on the grandeur of the main hall. A grand staircase greets you, your hands gingerly raising your dress as you descend. An air of opulence floats about the room, a crystal chandelier hanging upon the ceiling.

Your lips part in awe, continuing to step down. Many view your group, your eyes raking over the audience until you find him.

His eyes are transfixed upon you, hopeful, admiring, and yearning. The Bob you see is a far cry from the one lounging around the compound, no loose sweaters to hide his figure- a fitted tuxedo hugs his torso.

“He’s doing the googly eye thing,” Yelena whispers, eliciting an amused scoff from you. She seems entertained by playing matchmaker, but you’re sure Bob has his own problems to manage. He doesn’t need you.

Still, the most polite course of action is to greet your coworker/friend/roommate of course, so you find yourself weaving through the crowd while the remainder of the team disperses into the room. Unbeknownst to you, he’s been doing the same, hopeful for your company ever since he arrived.

Up close, he doesn’t seem so startlingly different in contrast. He’s still the same man. A crooked boutonnière stands proud upon his lapel, a lock of hair refuses to be styled, and his amber eyes seem to always be focused on you.

“You… you look beautiful,” he says, reverent as ever. He cautiously steps closer to you, as if attempting to fathom that you’re even real.

Because you’re not a memory stolen from the Void, nor a fleeting glimpse of joy in his previously bitter life. You’re real, tangible and absolutely striking. Your lashes kiss your cheeks as you glance towards the ground, a bit shy.

Of course someone as wonderful as him has the ability to make your knees weak.

Your eyebrow raises, playfully eyeing him. “You’re one to talk,” you shrug, a moment of pause standing between the two of you. You’d hoped that the two of you would grow more comfortable conversing. There was occasional banter, where you’d share details of your day. The store clerk at a bagel shop in the city, a little girl pointing up at you with awe, and the kind lady on the subway. He’d do the same while the two of you cleaned around the compound or went grocery shopping. Spending time with him became domestic, something that terrified you and stoked the flames of your fondness for him.

“..do you wanna dance?” You offer, extending a hand towards him.

“Sure- yeah,” he nods, his free lock of hair bobbing with the movement, “if you’ll have me.”

A scoff escapes you, the thought of turning him away now was ridiculous.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You comment, not leaving any room for questioning. The two of you weave your way through to the dancing portion of the hall, his hand resting on your own as the other rests just above your waist. You step a tad closer, the air stifling and your breath almost stilling.

His hands rest tentatively, yours doing the same. You feel a streak of boldness, your thumb gingerly smoothing out his lapel. You almost don’t notice the way his heart is racing beneath your palm.

“I was hoping you’d be able to stay at the compound with me this week,” he confesses, “I’m due for a night of rest.”

You cock your head to the side, eyebrows furrowing with concern.

“Trouble sleeping lately?”

“That, and everyone’s been on their toes lately. Been remindin’ me-“

Suddenly, a jolt of force almost seems to knock you over. You don’t catch a decent look of their face, your shoulder stinging from the impact. Your torso is knocked, half pried out of Bob’s hands as the hand on your waist solely supports you.

His eyes are flooded with concern, never once leaving you as he scans you frantically.

“Hey- you ok?” He inquires, voice tinged with worry. The raspy quality to his voice has you attempting to steady your legs, lest you almost tip over once more.

You can feel the gaze of several onlookers, but you find yourself seemingly unbothered. His is the only one that matters.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” you mutter, the hand that was once on his chest finding purchase on his shoulder. If anything, from an onlooker’s perspective this could’ve been played off as him dipping you, which seems to stir something within your stomach.

“You’re more heroic than you give yourself credit for,” you tease after a moment, the two of you stepping in tandem with the surrounding couples.

“It’s more natural than you think,” you murmur, your hand resting on the nape of his neck. You almost don’t notice the way he melts, leaning into your touch.

Curiosity flickers behind his eyes, a warmth blooming within his chest.

“Do you like me playing hero? N-not that you need saving or anything-“ he rambles, but trails off once he sees you. Not the hardened front for press, but the kind, empathetic and caring person he’s come to know. The one who gently glides behind him in the kitchen to add something to a skillet, who accidentally locks eyes with him from across the conference room, who’s lingering touches have been seared to his skin and worshipfully committed to memory.

“Yeah. I do.” You whisper, your lips pressing together before they part for a cheesy grin.

Your steps are careful, measured, worried your step on his toes. Despite your coordination as a mercenary, you still manage to be rendered immobile by his presence. Especially when he’s holding you like porcelain, hands cradling your figure like you were worth more than anything.

“I’m up to stay behind from a mission this week.” You state after a moment, recalling his prior statement.

Something small twists in your gut, guilt eating away at your conscience. You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s a far cry from your main priority- yet his smile keeps your worries at bay for now. Keeping him company is enough, the soft moments between the two of you something sacred and almost saccharine.

[burrowkit]

Okay, let’s try this on mobile, as usual-

Trigger warning, it gets dark. And messy.

My best friend. My absolute soul best friend. All of them, they were bound to my soul. They’d dragged me out of my personal Tartarus. They helped me turn from the dark to the light. A healer, instead of a killer.

Not that I ever had a chance to be a killer. My friends were there, ever guiding me away from those cursed texts. And now, with them gone… their fragments of their soul still eternally bound to me.

A promise we made, years ago. That we would always be with each other. From this life to the next.

“You just weren’t that good of a healer, kid,” The General informs me. We never did get his name.

He seems content to be relegated to being a title. One that makes him more ominous.

Fiona, my sweet Fiona, I think, brushing the last strands of her hair behind her ear. Nearby is the shredded remnants of Theodore.

Our mage, Isabella, because Isabella sounded cooler that her birth name, Keith. We had always reminded her that we loved her for who she is, not what she can do. Not what she looked like. Not the names that defined her past.

And Toni.

Sweet Toni.

Our leader. The one who was so determined we could safely spy on our enemies without being spotted.

They were wrong. We all were.

“It’s your turn, healer,” he warns me. I’m not afraid.

No, because I have the power of five souls, intertwined with love.

Because I will die, ensuring their deaths did not go in vain.

I cannot bring them back to life, their bodies too far gone. The General made sure of that. Made sure I could never mend their bodies enough for necromancy, not that the sweet little healer would ever know necromancy.

No, there’s a few necromancers that’ll bring the dead back for a pretty penny.

He doesn’t know what I can do.

He doesn’t know what my friends begged me to keep as our last resort.

And truly, we are the last resort. There’s no one left to stand against The General and his armies. Not for another few generations. This is our last chance.

And I’ll make them pay. In blood. In death. In life.

I force myself to stand, feeling shaky as I stare up at the monster. His eyes seemingly glow more red than should be natural. Many have suggested he kills in battle to preserve his own damned soul. His own decaying body.

“You’re right, General,” my voice is soft. Quiet. Barely making an echo in this world. “I’m not that great of a healer,” I admit, my voice growing stronger as the ancient texts, embedded to the backs of my eyelids, seemingly flash in front of my eyes with every blink. “And it is my turn,” I force myself to grin. The darkness urging me on. No, not just the darkness. My friends.

My family. The only ones who cared enough to keep me from stumbling too far from my own body. And now, I’ll risk it all just to keep them here another day. Another hour. Another second. I can feel the tears welling up in my tear ducts, but I refuse to cry. Not now.

I can do that after I get revenge, but not now.

The General grins at me. I can see the shimmers of magic as he tries to reap my friends��� souls. I watch the confusion as he’s unable to pick them up. To add their lifetimes to his. Instead, their souls seem to gather behind me. Helping me stand.

Helping me face the great evil.

“I’m so glad you’re prepared to meet our makers,” he informs me. Grinning. He pulls his sword back, preparing to slice my own head off.

He freezes as I wave my right hand. He lets out a strangled cry, as he finds himself magically bound.

“You mistake me, General,” I spare a glance at the battlefield. I wave me hand once more, freezing the rest of his decayed army in place. “It is my turn. To attack, not to die. I believe it’s your turn, to die,” I don’t let my voice tremble. I start him down.

The magic whispers, telling me the army could be mine. Instead, I whisper back, telling the army to disappear.

They do.

Poof.

Gone.

They cease to exist.

They don’t slump to the ground. They don’t bleed out. No, the few stranglers in the city’s army, the last members to stand against the great evil, stare at shock at their foe being vanquished.

The General’s mouth drops slowly. It’s all he can do, bound as tightly as he is.

I tilt my head slightly at him, watching him carefully. “Fiona was my rock. She kept me from ever falling to the dark. She kept me from straying too far away from being a healer. And when I slid, she always caught me,” I motion at Fiona.

Her body is also disintegrating. With no soul in a bound body, the body is falling apart.

I wave at Theo next. “Theo was the big brother we all needed. Always there to watch our backs. Always kept any unwanted people from getting too close. He indulged my dalliances into the dark, always with conditions,” I smile softly at the memory.

Of me finding new dark books. Theo always there, lending a hand, always ready to fetch Fiona to pull be back.

“Isabella taught me so many defence spells. You know, in case I, as the healer, needed to defend myself from harm. I wish she could have seen how many times I used them to guard Theo’s back in our wanderings,” I continue. Reminiscing.

“And Toni, our fearless leader,” I sigh. “They always had the plan. The information. They somehow had a third and fourth eye when it came to everything. So maybe… maybe they knew this was the outcome. Maybe doing this is okay…” I trail off, staring at their bodies. All of them.

Their souls nudge me softly, reminding me that a healer can come from the darkest of paths.

That I, myself, was once a master of soul magic. That I once knew how to steal the life of someone to bolster my own lifespan.

It also means I know exactly how to undo it.

I move both hands in front of me, and break an imaginary stick.

The General screams in pain, many of his bones shattered in an instant.

The binding spell is gone. I don’t need that, not for what I plan to do.

The sky turns a deep red, as if someone turned the atmosphere to fire.

I hear many of the few citizens gasp. They flee, having likely been pre-warned by Toni.

Oh Toni, you thought of everything, didn’t you.

Except how I would live without you all…

I take the air, watching slices appear on The General’s skin. One has to slowly break apart the body to free the stolen souls.

Slowly, so slowly, I can see some of them escaping. They whisper to my friends’ souls.

I can’t hear their words, nothing but my own friends’. Their comforting words and encouragements. To help draw the stolen lives from this… monster.

He could survive it. Realistically, it’s plausible. But for his transgressions, I won’t allow it.

Never.

I’ll hide ever book regarding this magic. Ensure it’ll never be found again.

I would burn the books, if I thought that would keep their secrets. Still, there’s always a chance the information could be stumbled upon.

The books could help undo this damage.

I gash the air once more, grinning as he cries in pain.

“Hello, ancient one,” I greet, his stolen mask crumbling. I hadn’t realized he’d used souls to hide his true face.

“You,” he gasps, voice croaking with pain. He pants, as if this is the hardest battle he’s ever been in.

It probably is.

I drop my own mask. The one I crafted a decade ago. When I was reborn in this body, with my friends. “You killed my friends, you don’t deserve an easy death,” I whisper.

I gather the magic I was told never to use.

And I drop it all on him.

He screams for hours, his last day meant to torment him to his true death.

“Farewell, cousin. Shall we never meet again!”

And I drive his own sword into his heart, ending his torment.

Maybe a last bit of mercy before eternity of torture.

Maybe just ending it early to hurry up his attainment of pain.

I’m not sure.

All I know, is I abused too much.

My friends’ souls beg me to hold on.

I can’t.

Not without them.

“To the next life, forever bound,” I whisper as I collapse on the ground.

I feel their souls settle down next to mind.

“To the next life,” they whisper in return.

You were the healer—the last light of your party. But now your final ally dies in your arms, and there’s no one left to save. The enemy jeers, calling you useless. You look up, eyes hollow and black. The light is gone. The Void answers. You're no longer a cleric. You're something far worse.

[sangunary]

BatFam x Batsis Reader.

SYPNOSIS: Batsis is us.

The Whole Family Sitting Together To Discuss About Damian's Problem Of Chocking Criminals.

Dick: "It's against our moral to restrict their airflow... You're not going to listen huh."

Dick: "Reader, tell him why we don't chock people"

*Reader Standing Dramatically Near The Window Looking Out Into The Forest.*

Reader: "I once was just like you Dami... Chocking people out like it was a side hobbie"

Reader: "But... Damian, I realised that..."

*long pause.*

Reader: "That some people liked being choked"

Reader: "I learn it the hard way, he told me to chock him harder and ever since that day I haven't even have the gut to stare at anyone's neck for even a minute."

Dick: "You're just traumatizing him!"

*Damian haven't tried to chock out any person from that day... due to disgust.*

*Dick checking out the new upgrade Bruce made for the batmobile.*

Dick: "I don't see much change... It's just the belt is made from better leather and alot wider... Why is that?"

Bruce: "I've noticed that Reader like to rest their head on the belt and sleep, I assume it must be uncomfortable for her to sleep on so I've improved it."

Dick: "You couldn't add more seat but can improve the belt so that it would be more comfortable?. Your favouritism is showing clear as day, B!"

Bruce: "Priority."

*Superman Decided(Begged) to babysit you and now you're stuck with Luthor for some reason.*

Luthor: "What is so funny?"

*Reader on the ground laughing so hard that they are literally crying.*

Reader: "You got... the second sun on your head!"

Reader: "Ha! Is your ultimate power your baldness?!"

Luthor: "That isn't funny kid"

Reader: "How could you ever ambush anyone? Your shiny head is a dead giveaway!"

Reader: "I can see my reflection on your head!"

*Luthor always wear a hyper realistic wig near you to protect his ego.*

*Reader Got kidnapped by deathstroke.*

Reader: "Too scared to show your true face? How ugly are you?"

Deathstroke: "Im not here to entertain you, but I supposed I rather have you see my face before you die."

*Deathstroke taking off his mask.*

Reader: "HOLY SHIT... you're atrocious! Put that shit back... You should put trigger warning next time my PTSD almost activated!".

*Reader trying to show Tim how the mission should be done."

Reader: "See ain't that hard... Just following the plan invade, destroy, put away for the popo and explode"

*Tim reading the plan.*

Tim: "There is no explosion here... it's leave. The last step is leave."

Reader: "Oh, im dyslexic-"

*The villain hideout exploding on the background."

Tim: "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Reader: "Can't a girl be dyslexic in peace?"

*Jason introducing Reader to his (gang) members.*

Jason: "This is my rat, sell drugs to her and I'll have your hands for decoration"

Reader: "Isn't that abit too much?"

Jason: "If you dare ask for drugs I will personally hang you from that celling."

Reader: "... Okay"

*Few days later. Reader being hang from the very celling.*

Reader: "I only did it to see if you actually would! I would never do drugs and you know that! Please take me down from here! I think there's cockroaches up here!"

Jason: "Well, you're going to be part of the celling unless you rethink about your life decisions!"

Roy: "How can a mere human hang another human that high up?"

Jason: "Raw Disappointment".

[heartyluv]

love your blog so dang much 🫶🫶🫶 may I request protective Sylus who is there to prevent reader from harm in a sticky situation? (circumstances completely up to you) 💕

Note: Ahhhh, I can’t thank you enough. Making you happy makes me happy! I wasn’t too sure how to go about this, but I think it ended up coming out pretty decent. I hope you think so. It’s actually longer than I anticipated, too. Enjoy!

Warning: Shooting, Sylus kills someone, Gross man touches and hits you. Sylus arrives in time so nothing graphic happens, but please, still read with caution.

Sylus/Reader

“It’s not too late to change your mind. I can figure out how to get what I need another way.”

“I know you can. But I know I can do this for you.” You take hold of your worrying boyfriend’s hand, caressing his knuckles gently with your thumb.

“In and out, do you understand?” He says gruffly, concern etched in his tone. You look to Sylus with full attention, comprehending and digesting all of his words. “Do not compromise yourself and do not put yourself in unnecessary danger.”

“Just because I don’t care to do something a certain way, doesn’t mean it won’t be done in order to keep you safe,” he says firmly before taking your hand and sliding a small ruby red ring onto your thumb. “Do not hesitate to press this should you need me.”

When you offered to help your boyfriend complete a job, of course his first and immediate response was no. You weren’t trained, nor did he want you to be apart of this kind of aspect of his life. He was the one who got his hands dirty, who lied and manipulated who he needed to in order to get things done—not you. But you begged him.

You begged him so much, promised that you could help. You just wanted to feel useful. You wanted Sylus to know how much you really had his back, how dedicated you are to him. You wanted to prove yourself.

But he didn’t need you to do that because Sylus knew how much he could trust you and how much you cared for him. He was your protector and letting you do this goes against everything he stands for when it comes to keeping you safe. It was with complete reluctance when he finally caved and said yes to letting you enter a party undercover. It was only because he truly saw how much you were bothered and came to understand how important it was to you to be useful despite it being unnecessary in his eyes

It’s a fairly simple job. You’re to retrieve documents relating to the operations of an arms dealer trying to climb the ranks to surpass a top businessman like your boyfriend.

He wasn’t a threat, but Sylus handled his business in a way that never allowed something with potential to solidify. Knowing what this man was going for, who he was working with, and his plans, was all he needed to squash his business before it could really get off the ground.

You look down at the short tight black dress you put on, feeling slightly uncomfortable because not only did you not tend to wear clothes like this, but you were wearing it to flaunt yourself in order to gain the arms dealer’s, Mikael’s, attention.

Sylus’ main reason as to why he was allowing you to do this because he would be out here waiting for you with Luke and Kieran, ready to wreak havoc if necessary. Admittedly, if you were able to go in and obtain the information he needed, it would make his life incredibly easy, but difficultly wasn’t a foreign concept to Sylus. If anything happens to you, going in with guns blazing wasn’t above him, even if it would cause some hiccups that he’d have to deal with. He had no other plan at the moment and you were his best shot, but in the end? You were coming home with him unscathed.

You look out the window of the SUV you’re in and gaze at the large mansion with obnoxious strobe lights and loud music. Luke is parked right beside you in a sleek red sports car, ready to drive you to the front door so that you can have a flashy entrance. It’ll draw Mikael’s attention and unfortunately, that’s exactly what you need. Bringing your eyes back to Sylus, you softly smile and hope your nervousness isn’t so evident.

“I got this Sy, I promise. In and out.” He nods curtly, reaching over the center console and kissing your lips before sighing. He gives you the okay to go, watching you climb out of the passenger seat of the black vehicle and into the backseat of the expensive one. Kieran sits up in the backseat, patting his shoulder.

“She’ll be okay, Boss. She’s smart and we’re here for her if anything.”

But Sylus doesn’t speak. He simply watches the car turn onto the road and head to the house whose backyard he’s about to wait in while you’re inside. For their sake, you will be okay. Because no one will be able to control the man he will become if you aren’t.

When Luke drives off, your body buzzes with uncertainty. There’s no guards or anything, but you know they’re around. That incognito feeling and uncertainty of their placements has you on edge, but Sylus assured you that he had it covered. Slowly, you climb the marble steps and walk into the lavish home, feeling the beat pulse through your body as dozens of people gyrate against each other in any open space available.

And just as you thought, Mikael has been staring at you since the moment you came in. You know he heard the loud music Luke played, know he’s curious about the lone woman who’s come to his party.

Sylus showed you several images of him, so you’re not mistaken about who the older man is. Short, stubby, balding, and in his 50s.

Two women sit on his lap in the little VIP section he’s created from himself and he roughly squeezes their thigh, saying something before they stand up. Mikael is next, pushing past them with two cups of what you assume is alcohol, in his hand as he makes his way to you.

“And what is a pretty lady like you doing, coming here alone? Come to see me, hm?” His grin is mischievous and it makes you want to cringe as he hands you the drink of what smells like whiskey. But you promised Sylus. You promised yourself.

You smirk, stepping closer and looking him up and down, biting your lip to make him believe that you want him. What you really want is to vomit.

“And if I did?” you tease, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and his eyes fall to your mouth.

“I’d say you’re a smart broad.” He steps closer, his overpowering cologne washing over you as he whispers in your ear.

“I gotta say, ain’t been no girls as sexy as you in here tonight. Come to the VIP and we’ll see how lucky you get.”

Disrespectful and full of himself. Every single part of you wants to kick his ass.

You simply smile and nod, taking his sweaty hand and letting him guide you to the booths he has in the corner of what seems to be the living room. Sylus said his office is upstairs and that’s where he has the documents.

You’re so close. You won’t fail, you tell yourself.

It feels like hours go by as he gropes your body in ways that makes you want to have his hands shot off. From your ass to your thighs, he just keeps touching. But you need to get into that office. You refused to drink, trying to keep him talking and distracted with monotonous conversation.

And finally, finally he says what you’ve been waiting for.

“Why don’t I take you upstairs? Show you around?” He grabs himself through his pants, and the urge to hurl continues to grow. Your anxiety spikes as well, because this is exactly what Sylus said not to do, but it’s the only way you have.

“Don’t let yourself end up alone with him. If you can’t a way to the office by yourself, leave. I’ll be there for you.”

But you can’t leave. You won’t.

People continue to party as Mikael brings you upstairs and down one of many halls, showing you several different rooms. He’s flaunting his wealth clearly, as well as his status while he gloats on and on about how he doesn’t know what to do with all the space.

He passes a door though, and that makes you stop.

“What’s in here?” you speak up, and he turns around with a sly smile.

“Curious thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles. “My office. Nothing in there you need to worry your pretty little head about.”

“Mm, I’m not worried. But I do like offices. I like them a lot,” you let your words end in a flirtatious tone.

“Yeah? Tell me what you like.”

“Why don’t I show you?” He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Easy. Of course he is.

He pulls a key out of his pocket, using it to unlock the door. Paranoid too, it seems.

When you’re in the office, you look for the safe. Sylus mentioned that would be behind a painting and how convenient that there’s only one in here with Mikael sitting on a throne. Pitiful.

Before you can try and say anything, Mikael wraps his arms around your waist and your body tense as he kisses your neck.

“Wait—” You try and speak but he’s tugging at your dress.

“No wait,” he grumbles, his breath like lava on your skin. “You don’t get to tease me all night and try and take it slow, doll. Show me what you like about offfices so much.”

You try and push him back, but he just starts getting more aggressive. The more you pushback, the angrier he becomes. So much so that he hits you because of your resistance.

You fall to the floor due to the impact, your eyes widening with fear at what he might try and do. Is he going to kill you? Worse? You don’t want to find out.

You’re way in over you head. You hate that it took you this long to realize that, but you need help. You need Sylus and you need him now.

It’s as soon as you press the button on the ring that you start hearing gunfire. Mikael looks at you with accusatory eyes.

“You bitch!” he snarls. “What did you do?! Who do you work for?!”

He starts to snatch you up, griping your arm tightly, but the door kicks open, wood splintering and flying through the room. Sylus doesn’t even give him a chance to let you go. He simply shoots him in the knee, causing Mikael to fall to the floor in agony.

“I’m so sorry,” you mewl, feeling tears prickle in your eyes.

Sylus squats down next to you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s the sight of your disheveled clothes, the red print on your face and arm, and the fact that you pressed the button in the first place, that makes his blood boil. He’s fueled with rage, but he refuses to scare you more than you already are.

“You’re okay,” he promises you. “I’m taking us home.”

Mikael looks at Sylus with shock and fear, still disoriented from the pain.

“S-Sylus!” he shouts and your boyfriend stands, giving him attention and tilting his head.

“I mean, Mr. Sylus! I didn’t know—I swear, she came onto me! I would never—“

“Your attempt to excuse your actions only angers me more than I already am. For her, I will make your death swift.” He takes a step forward. “Had I not been so determined to make sure she remains okay, you would have felt more pain than the result of a bullet. You’re a poor excuse of a human being and there is no such thing as redemption for you. Maybe you’ll do better in your next life.” Sylus shoots Mikael so that one bullet is all he needs to end him, point blank.

You jump, tears falling down your cheeks. You’re embarrassed and shaken up. Sylus has killed in front of you before. That’s not what scares you. It’s just the intensity and reality of it all. You weren’t ready, and Sylus was right to be hesitant.

But he doesn’t think any of that at all.

“Come, sweetie,” he gently grabs hold of your hands. “I’m here. Can you stand?”

You nod, letting him help you up as he rests his suit jacket on your shoulders. He guides you out of the barren home and back into the SUV, throwing orders to the twins to get everything cleaned up and to get the files.

The drive is silent, all the way until you’re back home. Sylus helps you out the car when you arrive, taking you inside. He brings you to the grand bathroom and begins to undress you, then runs a hot bath with your favorite bath salts and soaps. He undresses himself next, letting you step into the tub first before climbing in and sitting behind you.

“I’m sorry…” you finally speak, only to apologize again.

“Don’t be,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I failed—”

“I failed. I knew better than to let you go in there, yet I did it anyway. But you’re safe now, kitten. As long as I’m breathing, you will always be safe. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” you say just below a whisper.

“Put all your faith in me. I won’t make the mistake of putting you in harms way ever again.”

Your eyes water again and you turn around, taking advantage of the large tub to sit in his lap. You wrap yourself around him, holding him close as you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Sleep, sweetie,” he kisses your cheek. “I have you. I’ll take care of everything.”

You listen to him because you trust him as much as he does you. Had he not been there… you don’t even want to think of it anymore. All that matters is that he was. He will always come to your rescue because a life without you is not a life Sylus will ever experience. That, he is sure.

[yatori-morgana]

————————————

Blood

In which the Leech twins see something they shouldn't have, but they aren't complaining~

Contents & Warnings: established relationship, blood & murder, mentions of cannibalism, tweels being freaky, kinda suggestive?

»Jade Leech x gn!Reader x Floyd Leech

————————————

The blood was everywhere. Splattered on the floor, coating yourself, coloring the body from whence it bled… Everywhere. Brilliant red, drying into an unappetizing brown, as all blood did. You stared down at the fresh corpse, apathetic. They meant nothing to you. You hardly knew them. All that mattered was they got what they had coming to them.

The liquid once warm on your face had started cooling.

"…Y/n?"

The sound of your name tumbling from someone else's lips stopped you dead in your tracks. The wrist you held in your hand dropped to the ground with a dull thud, and you slowly turned from your place on your knees. Your eyes met heterochromic ones.

Jade.

You didn't know what to say, what to do. No one was supposed to know. But it was only Jade. Surely it was fine? But no, what if he had wanted you for your perceived innocence, something to balance his own sin? No, that didn't sound like Jade. But what if this still somehow made you undesirable? It certainly could. It had made you unlovable before. It was almost inevitable that it would happen once again. Such was your fate, you always believed.

He took a step toward you, expression as unreadable as ever.

This was it, this was the moment you always knew would come. The moment of—

Soft lips met your own, drawing a gasp from you. His hand came to your cheek and smeared the sticky blood across your skin, staining himself in the process. Beautiful lashes fluttered while his eyes closed, and his touch once more entranced you.

This kiss was one of the sweetest he'd ever blessed you with, and you couldn't fathom it in your shock. Why?

When he pulled away, he made sure to swipe a thumb over your lower lip. You stared up at him in a daze, but he only smiled, those dazzling teeth on full display in all their razor sharp glory.

"Jade…"

"You've always been beautiful," he murmured, still leaned over you just slightly, "but in this moment, you're ethereal."

Ethereal?

A flush adorned your cheeks, and you raised a hand to hover over the lips he'd kissed so lovingly. "I don't understand," you dumbly admitted.

"You're simply gorgeous covered in the blood of your victims," he answered all too sweetly. "I couldn't resist. I'd take you right now if not for the company of our dearly departed." He gestured to the corpse.

"You still want me?"

"Hm?" Jade tilted his head in curiosity, his mismatched eyes seemingly twinkling as he scrutinized you. "But of course, my love. Did you really think I'd abandon you over something as trivial as this? Please, have more faith in me."

Trivial?

But of course. A stranger's life was worth precious little to someone like Jade. Yet, you had doubted. You should've been more worried about him killing you, not you killing another. What an embarrassment.

"Ah, you're shaking." He knelt in front of you, once more taking your cheek in hand. "Cold? Or do you truly fear abandonment?" He seemed more amused than anything, and you looked down in burning shame. "Chin up, pearl. You'd have to make a grievous mistake for me to leave you — and frankly, I'd kill you on the spot for such a betrayal, so you wouldn't have long to regret it."

"Oh." You awkwardly laughed, but your gaze never lifted. It was an incredibly Jade response, yet you still found yourself unbalanced by it. He must've noticed because he chuckled quietly and pulled you onto his lap.

"Oh, darling relax. I'm only hurt you didn't invite me. I'd've at least liked to watch. Now, would you rather get cleaned up, or do you need more time to rest?" He pressed another kiss to your forehead, and you clung to him like he might very well drop you anyway.

"Stay," is all you said.

"Rest it is."

--

Blood smeared across your tongue as you dragged it along the blade in your hand. Sharp, tangy, and delicious. You were tempted to carve a chunk from the body in front of you, but you knew raw meat was not ideal. Sure, you could've cooked it, but smoke from a flame would draw unwanted attention, and taking it back with you would be a risk, too. It was a shame, really. One should always use every part of their catch, yet you had to constantly deny yourself such pleasures.

Still, you should enjoy the forest while you could. Letting that opportunity go to waste would be the real shame.

"I smell it over here~" A lilting voice mumbled, and your head snapped up. "So fresh~"

Your head turned all too slowly. First Jade, now Floyd? How many more people would catch you in the act? You were lucky it was only them. Anyone else, and you would either be behind bars or cut down in an instant. Except perhaps Azul. He knew when and how to keep his trap shut.

"Ahh~ Shrimpy, whatcha doin' here~?" Floyd singsonged. "And— Oh. My bad~ Ya hunting~?"

Your fingers twitched, hands wanting to move but refusing to, and your eyes locked with his. He maintained his mildly interested, mostly sleepy expression, relatively unbothered. His hand moved to behind his head in a relaxed pose.

"…Sorta." You didn't know what else to tell him. This didn't deter him, though, and he stepped close enough to lean over to you.

"Mm~ Clean kill~ But ya coulda asked me if you were hungry~" Floyd knelt down, and his fingers slowly clasped around your arms, just shy of your shoulders. His voiced dropped low. "I'm always happy t'hunt for my mate~"

A shudder ran through you. Not in fear or disgust, naturally, but something much less flattering.

"It's not like that," you said. "It's… I don't know. I need to do it."

His chin came to rest on your shoulder. "You're hungry," he whispered, "but not for food, huh~?"

You stayed silent, but that was enough evidence for him.

"Don't worry~" He cooed. "Me 'n' Jade won't tell~" His hands slid down your arms, and your breathing stuttered. "You're jus' like us, after all. Hehe, who knew our Shrimpy was such a freak, eh~?"

"Please don't say stuff like that," you muttered. "S'embarrassing."

"You were gonna waste this," he realized, lifting his head up. "Why?"

Your answer was clipped. "Could get caught."

His arms slipped around your waist. "Don't worry~ No one's gonna see us. Lemme help ya cook this~"

"But Floyd—"

"Shh…" He nuzzled your cheek with his. "You're not gonna waste your catch. We'll eat it together~"

You sighed. His mind was made up, and he'd drag you around until he got what he wanted, so there was no use in arguing. Still, you felt a smile coming on. Yes, you were a freak. Not in the fun way he meant it, but a freak nonetheless. And yet, he accepted you in all your gory glory. He and Jade both.

"…Fine. Have it your way."

————————————

[fordiaz]

Leaving it Behind (Eddie Diaz) ⊹ ࣪ ˖🕰️୭˚. ᵎᵎ

“But I need you to know I’m trying. I’m trying to be the man you deserve. And I want to be the person you can trust.” 🤎ྀིྀི⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪🎻

Synopsis: After a string of broken promises and a failed relationship with Marisol, Eddie Diaz returns to El Paso hoping to rebuild his life—for Christopher, and for himself. There, he meets someone new: grounded, kind, and refreshingly honest. For the first time in a long time, Eddie allows himself to believe he can start over. But when a trip back to Los Angeles threatens to unearth the parts of him he swore he’d left behind, both he and the woman he’s falling for are forced to confront a difficult question: can you truly move forward if you’re still tied to the past?

Genre: Angst

AU: None

Pairing: Eddie Diaz x Nurse!Reader

Warnings: Cheating because all men are dogs, Bobby’s funeral (😭), Eddie’s MESSY love life.

Note: I decided to be a menace for once and thought that maybe I should shake it up and try to make something super angsty, especially since I’m already at the point in S7 where Eddie is basically lying to himself and Marisol about Kim. I hope you guys like this, and no, I am not sorry for the gut wretching angst journey you are about to embark on. Happy reading!

El Paso wasn’t where Eddie thought he’d end up again. Not after everything he’d built in LA — the 118, the friendships, the years of growing into someone he could finally look at in the mirror.

But choices had consequences. And sometimes those consequences wore the face of your twelve-year-old son, standing in your parents’ kitchen with clenched fists and eyes rimmed red.

“I know what you did,” Christopher had said. No yelling. Just hurt. Quiet and heavy like a thunderstorm sitting low in the sky. “I know why Marisol left.”

Eddie hadn’t been prepared for that. He wasn’t sure what part stunned him more — the fact that Christopher found out or the way he didn’t scream. He just withdrew. Packed a backpack. Told him he was staying with Abuela and Abuelo “for a while,” because of Eddie’s actions.

Eddie stood there, breath stolen from his lungs. Watching his son walk away like he was just another mistake to sort through. And maybe, in that moment, he was.

He hadn’t meant for things to fall apart with Marisol.

She was safe. Kind. Familiar in ways that didn’t challenge him too much. And that’s exactly why it failed. Because Eddie wasn’t good at being vulnerable with people who didn’t push him past the surface. And when things started unraveling, instead of fixing it, he ran — into a mistake he couldn’t take back.

A one-time thing, a moment of weakness he couldn’t explain even if he tried. But it was enough. It always is.

Marisol had left without slamming the door. Just said she hoped he figured things out — not just for himself, but for Christopher.

But Christopher had already figured things out, and it broke Eddie more than the silence Marisol left behind.

So he packed up. Took a leave. Moved back into the house he grew up in, the one that never felt like home until it held the weight of his guilt.

There were days he didn’t speak much. His parents gave him space. Tiá Pepa dropped off food. Christopher barely made eye contact.

Eddie let it happen. Let the space fill with consequences and time and things he couldn’t erase.

He tried to be there. Tried to show up for every school event, every quiet breakfast. He even helped Christopher with a science project one weekend, and when he said “thanks,” it was the first word they exchanged in three days.

Eddie knew this wasn’t just about infidelity — it was about trust. About Christopher growing up in a world that already felt unpredictable. And now his father, the one constant in his chaos, had proven to be just as unreliable.

So Eddie started from the bottom again.

Therapy twice a week. No excuses. Long runs in the morning before sunrise. Checking in with the rest of the 118 even though it felt like salt in a wound. Keeping in touch with Buck — sporadically, because hearing his voice only reminded Eddie of what he left behind.

But what mattered most was Christopher. And Eddie was ready to earn his place again — not with empty promises, but with consistency. Time. Honesty.

He didn’t know what the future looked like.

El Paso wasn’t LA.

There was no 118, no chaos-driven adrenaline calls, no rhythm to fall into. Just this: a quiet city, a disappointed son, and a man trying to figure out what redemption could even look like.

Eddie hated the new Uber gig — if he was being honest with himself. It wasn’t the driving or the waiting or the awkward small talk; he just missed the uniform. The purpose. The feeling of waking up and knowing exactly who he was.

But ever since moving back to El Paso, he’d needed something to fill the silence. And he wasn’t above rebuilding himself from the ground up — again.

He told himself it was temporary. Just a way to stay busy when Christopher was at school. It gave him a reason to leave the house, clear his head, and, if he was lucky, make enough to buy himself some independence outside his parents’ walls.

He wasn’t expecting you, though.

You were standing on the curb outside a coffee shop, half-lost in your phone and half-wrapped in sunlight.

Your name popped up on his app — quick ride, five stars, “pick-up at 9:20.”

When you climbed into the backseat and greeted him with a smile that could cut through morning haze, something in his chest tightened. He glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

Your sunglasses slid down the bridge of your nose as you adjusted your seatbelt, and when you looked up, you caught his eyes.

“Morning,” you said, voice bright but casual, like the day hadn’t started until just now.

“Morning,” Eddie echoed, mouth dry. “You, uh, heading to work?”

“Something like that. Interview.”

“Good luck,” he said without thinking. “Though you don’t look like you’ll need it.”

You let out a surprised laugh, glancing out the window with a smile tugging at your lips. “Do you usually flirt with your passengers?”

“Only the ones who look like they could ruin my life.”

It was meant to be a joke. A throwaway line. But when your eyes met his in the mirror again, there was a pause — just long enough to feel like maybe neither of you wanted it to be just a joke.

There was something about you. Maybe it was your energy — confident, a little chaotic, alive.

It reminded him of something. Someone. Shannon, maybe. But not quite. This was different.

You talked the whole drive. About how you just moved to El Paso. About trying to find something new after too many years of making yourself small in cities that didn’t deserve you.

Eddie listened. Really listened.

And when you got to your destination, you didn’t get out right away.

“Thanks for the ride, Uber man.”

He grinned. “Eddie.”

“Eddie,” you repeated, like you were trying it out for size. “You always this charming, Eddie?”

“Only when I’m lucky.”

You smirked, thumb hovering over the door handle.

“Well. Maybe I’ll get lucky enough to ride with you again.”

He watched you go, heart doing something he hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t love — not yet. But it was the start of something. He knew it in his bones.

Later that night, he kept checking the app, wondering if he’d ever see your name pop up again.

He didn’t know then that the universe — messy, loud, inconvenient — had already decided.

You weren’t just a passenger. You were going to be something else entirely.

Ever since that day, the evening felt different. Eddie’s house was quiet, the soft hum of the fridge and the faint rattle of the air conditioner the only sounds.

The dim glow of the kitchen light cast shadows on the walls, making everything feel intimate, private.

You sat at the counter, your hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee, eyes occasionally darting over to Eddie as he moved around the kitchen.

He had a way of doing everything with ease — a methodical rhythm that came with years of practice.

The familiar clink of utensils and the sizzling of something in the pan were oddly comforting. But tonight, it wasn’t just the food that had the atmosphere thick with tension.

You could feel it. There was something on Eddie’s mind. He had been quieter than usual, his smiles more forced, his movements more deliberate.

It was almost as if he was waiting for something — or someone — to make the first move.

You set your mug down, catching his eye. “You alright?”

Eddie paused mid-slice, his knife hovering over the cutting board. He glanced at you, offering a tight smile.

“Yeah, just… thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued. You had been with Eddie for a few months now, enough time to know when something was bothering him.

“About?”

Eddie’s gaze dropped, his focus shifting to the vegetables in front of him. His voice came out low, hesitant.

“A lot of things. Mostly about… what we’re doing here.”

Your heart skipped a beat, sensing the gravity of his words. You knew Eddie was a man who carried a lot of weight on his shoulders.

You’d seen the way he carried the burden of his past, the guilt that still lingered after everything he’d been through. But this — this was something new. Something raw.

You slid off your seat and walked over to him, not saying a word, just standing beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your presence.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” You whispered, voice softer than you intended.

“I’m not going anywhere, Edmundo.”

Eddie’s eyes flickered to you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled deeply, setting the knife down with a soft clink.

He leaned against the counter, turning towards you fully. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve never really told anyone this,” he began, his eyes meeting yours, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to seeing.

“But I guess… I guess it’s time.”

You stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue. You could feel your heart racing, your chest tightening with the weight of his words.

“You know I screwed up,” Eddie said, his voice thick with guilt.

“With Marisol… With my son. I wasn’t who I should’ve been. I wasn’t even close. I made mistakes — big ones. I hurt people. And I didn’t know how to fix it. So I ran. And that’s what I’ve always done. When things get tough, I run. I shut down, I push people away, and I pretend like it doesn’t matter.”

Eddie’s hands were trembling now, but he didn’t seem to notice. He took a step closer to you, his eyes dark with the weight of his confession.

“I don’t want to do that anymore,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I don’t want to run away from this. From you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Eddie…”

He held up a hand, his other hand trembling slightly as it reached out to you, brushing your arm with the gentlest of touches.

“I know it’s not going to be easy. I know I’ve got a lot of baggage. But… I want to be better. For you. For Christopher. For me.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the quiet desperation to make things right, to rebuild what he had broken. And as much as you wanted to believe him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this — this — was the moment where everything would either fall apart or finally come together.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me for everything,” he added quietly, voice trembling with the weight of his emotions.

“But I need you to know I’m trying. I’m trying to be the man you deserve. And I want to be the person you can trust.”

Your heart ached for him.

You had known there were parts of his past he wasn’t proud of, but hearing him speak so openly about it — the guilt, the shame, the fear of losing you — made it hit home in a way that words couldn’t quite capture.

Eddie had been carrying all of that for so long, and you could feel the weight of it in the room with you. You reached for his hand, gently pulling him closer.

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore, Eddie. We’re in this together. I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat as you spoke, his eyes softening, that same guarded expression starting to melt away. He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

You could feel the tension in his body, the weight of everything he had been holding back for so long.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered against your hair.

You shook your head, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.

“You’re not perfect. And I’m not expecting you to be. But I’m here. And I know you’re trying. That’s enough for me.”

Eddie closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against yours, the two of you standing there in the quiet of the kitchen.

It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but it was real. And for the first time in a long time, Eddie felt like maybe — just maybe — he was on the right path.

He let out another breath, slower this time, and opened his eyes. “I don’t know if I can ever make up for the things I’ve done,” he whispered.

“But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”

You smiled softly, reaching up to cup his face in your hands.

“You don’t have to make up for everything, Eddie. Just… be here. Be the man you want to be. For you. And for us.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead in the softest of kisses.

When he pulled back, his smile was small but genuine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Eddie truly believed that maybe — just maybe — he could be the man he always wanted to be. And you’d be there, right beside him.

“I’ll try,” he said, voice firm, yet filled with the kind of hope he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

And for the first time in a while, you believed him.

Trust didn’t happen overnight.

It wasn’t born out of one heartfelt conversation or a single night of vulnerability. It had to be built — slowly, steadily, like the way Eddie once learned to rebuild his life after the army, after Shannon, after every time he’d broken something he wanted to keep.

He told you he was trying. And he meant it.

The next morning, he made breakfast before you could even blink — not to impress you, not as some apology in the form of eggs and toast, but just to show he was there.

He passed you your coffee with the exact amount of creamer you liked, no questions asked, as if memorizing the tiniest details about you was his new favorite thing to do.

He didn’t push you to talk about what the night before had meant. He just… let you be. Gave you space but stayed close enough that you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

And then came the small promises — the ones he didn’t even say out loud.

He texted when he got home from shifts, just to let you know he was safe. He picked up extra groceries when he knew you’d had a rough day, even if it was something silly like your favorite granola or that weird candy you mentioned in passing.

He showed up — emotionally, mentally, and physically — every single time you needed him.

It wasn’t flashy. It was simple, honest effort.

Eddie didn’t date with ease. He’d never been great at navigating love without fear. But something about you made him want to get it right this time.

You reminded him of a version of himself he forgot existed — the guy who used to laugh more, talk about books and movies, draw comics with Christopher on the weekends.

And you saw all of it. Not just the tough guy, or the single dad, or the soldier. You saw him.

But trust wasn’t just about what Eddie did — it was about what you let him do.

There were days you pulled away slightly, still uncertain if this was too good to be real. If he’d wake up one morning and decide it was all too much. But Eddie never flinched. Never took your distance personally.

He was patient, even on the days you weren’t sure how to explain the knot of fear in your chest.

One night, a few weeks later, you had a bad day at work.

You didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to explain why you felt raw. You just showed up at his place unannounced and sat on the couch like a ghost of yourself.

Eddie didn’t ask questions. He just sat beside you in silence and let your hand find his. Thumb brushing against yours in slow, comforting circles.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice so low you could barely hear it. “You don’t have to say anything.”

It was the first time you cried in front of him.

Not the sobbing kind — just quiet, exhausted tears from the kind of safety that surprises you. The kind of safety you forgot was possible.

He held you for hours. Not once did he pull away.

You started to realize that Eddie wasn’t just telling you he wanted to be better — he was showing it.

In the consistency. In the vulnerability. In the way he never once looked at you like you were too much to hold.

You weren’t used to that.

And maybe that’s why it mattered more.

It wasn’t a perfect relationship. There were still shadows. Still memories of Marisol, Ana, Kim, and Shannon, and mistakes that neither of you could completely erase.

But Eddie was doing the work. He went to therapy regularly again. He talked to Christopher openly about feelings, about what he learned from messing up — not just as a partner, but as a father.

You watched him slowly rebuild himself, not for you, but with you.

One night, lying on his couch with your head on his chest and his fingers gently tracing lines along your back, he whispered it again — not the words “I love you” just yet, but something that felt just as sacred:

“I’m not gonna mess this up. Not with you.”

You looked up at him, smiling softly, the kind of smile that comes when something broken finally feels like it’s healing.

“I know,” you said softly, knowing this wasn’t going to be easy, but slow movement is better than no movement.

“Sometimes grief doesn’t just reveal what you’ve lost—it shows you what you never really had.”

The city felt different the moment the plane touched down in Los Angeles.

It wasn’t the skyline or the dry California air. It wasn’t even the taxi ride that weaved past familiar streets Eddie used to talk about with fondness. It was the weight.

The weight of loss.

You’d never met Bobby Nash, but from the way Eddie had described him—father figure, moral compass, rock of the 118—you understood what this funeral meant.

It wasn’t just laying someone to rest. It was saying goodbye to the man who raised a firehouse full of broken people and gave them a home.

Eddie had been quiet since the news. Not withdrawn, exactly—just… cloaked. Like he was protecting something inside himself, and he didn’t want you to see it.

When he asked you to come with him, you didn’t hesitate.

You packed your bag, held his hand on the flight, and offered silent comfort as his eyes kept flicking out the window. You knew this wasn’t just about grief—it was about returning to a version of himself he thought he’d left behind.

The 118 turned out in full, along with more firefighters than you could count. There was something unspeakably reverent about the ceremony: the folding of the flag, the low hum of bagpipes, the weight of silence as the bell rang in Bobby’s honor.

You watched as Eddie stood beside Chimney and Buck—two men who seemed to carry just as much pain in their eyes. Hen offered you a soft, acknowledging nod from across the pew.

When your gaze met Buck’s for the first time, there was something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of curiosity, maybe. Or caution.

You didn’t blame him. You were new. And you were standing beside Eddie Diaz at Bobby Nash’s funeral. That meant something.

After the service, the wake was held at Athena’s—warm food, quiet chatter, a house that suddenly felt too big without Bobby in it.

You found yourself in the kitchen helping restock drinks when Buck appeared beside you, gently brushing past to grab a beer.

“You’re Eddie’s new girlfriend, right?” he asked, voice quiet, but not unfriendly.

You smiled, a bit caught off guard. “Yeah. I’m Y/N.”

“Buck.” He shook your hand like someone who knew his own grip scared people and tried to dial it back.

“I know. Eddie’s talked about you guys a lot.”

Buck gave a half-smile. “Good things, I hope?”

You laughed softly. “Only the best.”

There was a beat of quiet, a pause that didn’t feel awkward, just thoughtful.

“I’m glad he has someone out there,” Buck said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s hard to rebuild… when part of you never really left.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. But it stayed with you.

The next few days in LA were mostly a blur—visiting the firehouse, seeing where Eddie used to sleep, where he used to eat, where Christopher used to run up to the bunks and draw little doodles on the whiteboards.

You saw how tightly the team clung to each other.

And how tightly Buck clung to Eddie.

There were moments that made you pause.

Like when Buck asked Eddie if he was going to swing by Chimney’s with the rest of them, and Eddie glanced at you and hesitated—just for a second—before replying,

“Maybe. We’ll see how she’s feeling.”

It was small. Barely a pause. But it lingered.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting outside with Hen. She was warm and grounded, easy to talk to, and you’d mentioned how surreal it was to step into a world you’d only heard about through Eddie’s stories.

“He’s been through hell,” Hen said, looking into her wine glass. “We all have. But Eddie? He tends to bottle things up until the pressure’s too much.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ve noticed.”

“He’s not a bad man,” she added quickly. “Just… still learning how to be the man he wants to be. Even now.”

The words weren’t harsh. They weren’t even meant to be cautionary.

But they settled into your chest like an echo.

The next day, the return to Texas was quiet.

After the heaviness of LA, the stillness felt jarring. No radios blaring at the station. No long waves goodbye from a firehouse family. Just Eddie, driving you home, one hand on the wheel, the other clenched in a fist on his thigh.

You noticed it.

How he didn’t reach for your hand. How he didn’t turn on the music like he usually did. How he dropped you off at your apartment instead of asking if you wanted to stay at his.

“Just tired,” he said, brushing a kiss to your forehead. You nodded.

But something in you already knew.

After going back to work since the visit to LA, you didn’t expect to see him that night after your shift.

You were walking back from the clinic after picking up extra hours. You weren’t far from the bar Eddie sometimes mentioned when he caught up with old friends. And you wouldn’t have looked — wouldn’t have even noticed — if the laughter hadn’t been his.

The unmistakable sound of Eddie Diaz trying to charm his way out of guilt.

And then you saw him.

Sitting across from a woman with long, painted nails and a knowing smile. She touched his arm. He didn’t pull away. He leaned in.

Too close.

And the worst part?

The relief in his face.

Like he wasn’t trying to hide.

Like this wasn’t a mistake — it was intentional.

You heard his key in the lock before the door creaked open. He didn’t expect to see you there — not seated on the couch in the dark, not awake. His steps halted.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

You turned slowly. No panic. No rage. Just the kind of silence that scares a man more than shouting ever could.

“Where were you?” you asked, your voice calm but cold. A glacier waiting to crack.

“I… I grabbed a drink with someone,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “One of my buddies from highschool.”

“No, Eddie. You were at the bar with another woman. I saw you.”

His breath caught. The truth stunned him like a slap, but he didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try.

So you nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

You stood then — and your presence filled the room. Strong. Rooted. Devastated, yes, but far from broken.

“Why?” you asked. “Why bring me into this if you knew you hadn’t changed?”

“I have changed,” he said, standing too now, desperation creeping into his voice.

“I didn’t plan for that to happen. It just… being in LA again… it reminded me of who I was. Before all of this. Before I tried to be someone I’m not.”

“Someone you’re not?” you repeated. “You mean loyal? Committed? Honest?”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sharp with clarity.

“You know what’s not fair? Telling me I was safe to trust you. That you were working on yourself. That this—us—was something you wanted to build. That’s what’s not fair.”

Eddie stepped forward, but you didn’t budge.

“I wasn’t lying, Y/N. I wanted it. I still do.”

“No, Eddie. You wanted the illusion of stability. You wanted to believe you could do this… but the moment it felt too real, the moment you were surrounded by your past, you unraveled.”

His eyes shimmered, glassy with shame.

“I felt free there. Like the version of me before the guilt, the expectations… like I could breathe.”

You let the words sit in the air for a moment before speaking.

“Then you should’ve stayed there.”

That made him flinch.

“Because I won’t be your halfway house,” you said, voice rising just enough to cut through the air between you.

“I won’t be the woman who holds your hand while you figure out how to not betray her. I’m not a stop along the way to you finding yourself. I know who I am.”

Your chest ached, but you didn’t let it crack. Not in front of him.

“I’m not perfect, Eddie. But I’m worthy. Worthy of someone who means it when they say they’ve changed. Someone who doesn’t mistake old ghosts for new beginnings.”

He tried again. “I swear, I didn’t plan it. I just got lost for a second.”

“A second,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “That’s all it took to throw away everything we were building.”

He stayed silent.

“I loved you,” you admitted. “And I let myself believe you were different. That you were done running. But I see it now — you’re not done. You’re just getting better at disguising it.”

The room was heavy now. Quiet and full of things unsaid.

“And if this is what freedom looks like to you — lying, sneaking around, hurting someone who only ever showed up for you — then I hope you enjoy it,” you said, voice steady and laced with steel.

“Because you’ll be enjoying it without me.”

You walked past him, grabbing your keys from the counter.

“I deserve something whole. Something real. Not this watered-down version of love you’re still trying to figure out how to give.”

Eddie reached out, but you shook your head.

“Don’t. I won’t let you make me doubt my worth again. Once a cheater, Eddie… no matter how much you try to bury it, that part of you always finds a way out.”

And with that, you left.

Not in pieces — but finally, for once, intact.

It was the second night you hadn’t slept. The silence in the apartment was heavy, the shadows deeper somehow—almost like they knew. Like even the walls were mourning something that wasn’t dead, just lost beyond return.

Your phone lay face-down on the couch cushion beside you. You stared up at the ceiling, trying to blink away the sting behind your eyes.

The ache wasn’t loud. It didn’t shout. It whispered. It echoed. It lived in the empty coffee cup still sitting on the kitchen counter.

In the jacket Eddie left hanging by the door. In the memory of his hands on your waist as he kissed your shoulder and said, “We’re building something real here, you and me.”

But he hadn’t built anything. He had wandered.

And he had left you behind in the wreckage.

You didn’t even know who to call. You were new here. You had no family in El Paso, no lifelong friends. It had always been Eddie and Christopher—your whole small, carefully built world. And now it was just… you.

You thought about calling Hen, maybe Chimney. Ravi, even. But there was only one name that kept circling back to your heart like a warm current in freezing water.

Buck.

You hadn’t spoken much since Bobby’s funeral. He had been kind, a little guarded, but incredibly present.

When you met, it felt like an echo of something familiar. Like someone who carried similar scars, even if they weren’t visible at first glance.

You swiped up your phone and stared at his name. You didn’t want to be a burden. But you also didn’t want to feel like you were vanishing.

So you hit the button.

It rang twice before his face filled the screen, tousled curls and all. His brows furrowed in concern the second he saw your face.

“Y/N?”

Your voice cracked. “Hi.”

His smile faded. “Hey. What’s wrong? You okay?”

You swallowed. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

He nodded, gentle and calm. “You don’t have to explain. I’m here.”

That was all it took.

The tears came fast and unfiltered. Ugly, broken sobs that clawed their way out from the hollow in your chest.

You held your phone like it was the only thing tethering you to solid ground, and Buck didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush you. He just stayed on the other side of the screen, letting you cry.

“Eddie—he said he changed,” you finally managed, voice hoarse. “And I believed him, Buck. God, I believed him.”

He sighed softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I thought he was it. He made me feel safe, like I could finally let go of everything I was trying to prove. And then I saw him with someone else, and it just… shattered everything. It felt like I was the problem again.”

“You’re not,” Buck said firmly, eyes steady. “You’re not the problem, Y/N. Don’t let what he did trick you into thinking you’re less.”

You wiped your cheeks, your hands trembling.

“It’s just… When I left everything behind and met him, I built a life here thinking it would grow roots and let him in. And now I don’t even know where home is.”

Buck leaned forward on his end, his voice low and sincere.

“Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s just people who see you. Who stay. Who don’t make you question your worth every time things get hard.”

You blinked at him. “You really believe that?”

He nodded. “I’ve lived that. My parents didn’t really see me. Not the way I needed. It took years to realize that family isn’t blood—it’s the people who choose you. Over and over.”

You were quiet for a long moment, breathing in the calm he offered.

“I’m so tired, Buck. Tired of trying to be enough. Tired of picking up pieces I didn’t break.”

He smiled gently. “Then don’t pick them up alone. Let someone help. Let me help.”

You exhaled, shaky but real. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because I know what it’s like to lose your sense of self in someone else,” he said. “And because you don’t deserve to go through this alone.”

Something in your chest unclenched at that.

He didn’t pity you. He understood you.

So you kept talking. For hours.

About Eddie, about your family, about the parts of yourself you’d fought to protect. And Buck listened—really listened—until the heaviness didn’t feel so suffocating.

By the time you ended the call, the sky outside had shifted to early morning gray. You still hurt. You still felt hollow in places.

But for the first time in days, you felt seen.

And safe.

© fordiaz 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[easytiger-xo]

Fire Trap

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader ❤︎

✦18+ (MDNI)✦

summary: Dean finally tells Sam what their father said to him before he died. Sam doesn't take it well—and takes off. With nowhere else to turn, Dean shows up on your doorstep. One thing leads to another, and Dean's world comes crashing down. Again.

cw: emotional distress/panic, fire-related trauma (implied), PTSD themes/aftermath, hurt/comfort, near-death experience, some angst, explicit sexual content, shower sex, soft dom!dean, unprotected p in v. (srry if i missed anything.)

wordcount: 4,344

✦ a/n: This story takes place during S2 E10, 'Haunted'. Obviously changed some things to make it work. Took a lot of inspiration from an episode of Burn Notice, where Michael thinks that Fiona is killed in a fire trap and it leads to him finally letting her in. I just needed that with Dean. I hope you enjoy! ❤︎

Now. “I said no. Just wait for me, okay?” Dean’s voice rang out over the phone—firm, protective, already laced with frustration.

“I can handle it. Looks vacant. Just a quick in and out.” You heard the sharp inhale, the beginning of another protest, but you didn’t let him finish.

You hung up.

Four days ago.

You weren’t expecting him.

It was nearly midnight when headlights swept across your window, followed by a knock—two short, one heavy. His knock. You opened the door, heart thudding, and there he stood: jaw tight, eyes glassy with something heavier than exhaustion.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind him like it would keep everything chasing him at bay. You hadn’t seen Dean in months. Not since he ended things with you.

Said he loved you—always would—but that it wasn’t the right time. You didn’t press him. You never did. Because you’d always understood Dean Winchester better than he wanted to be understood. And that terrified him more than anything else. So you let him go. Even though it left a bruise that never quite healed.

You knew the reason he pulled away without him having to explain. John had died. Dean was carrying the grief like a loaded shotgun, and he didn’t want it going off in your direction. He didn’t trust the version of himself that came out when he was hurting.

You missed him. But you didn’t resent him. He still called sometimes. Usually late at night. Case questions. Lore trivia. Sometimes he just wanted to hear someone who remembered who he was before all the weight. You gave him what you could. But it was never personal. Not anymore.

Until now.

He sat on your couch like the ground had finally given way beneath him, talking more than he had in years. Told you what John said about Sam before he died. Told you how badly he messed up trying to protect him. Told you how Sam took off—furious, betrayed—and didn’t look back.

“The kid jacked a car and ran off into the night,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. It just feels like…” His voice cracked. And in that second, he looked younger. Lost. Like he was nineteen again and the whole world had fallen apart in front of him. You reached over and rested a hand on his knee. “I’ll help you find him.”

He looked down at your hand but didn’t pull away. He just let the silence settle around you.

Then his phone rang. Ellen. She’d seen Sam. He was headed to Lafayette, Indiana. Dean didn’t wait. He grabbed his keys. You grabbed your coat. And when the Impala roared to life, you were in the passenger seat—where you’d always belonged.

The two of you pull up outside the only motel in town—one of those faded, roadside places that hasn’t been updated since the '80s. The Impala idles beneath you. Through the open curtains of one of the ground-floor rooms, Dean spots him.

“There’s Sam,” he mutters, leaning forward against the wheel. Then his eyes narrow. “And... huh.”

You follow his gaze. A woman.

Dean’s mouth tugs into a crooked, boyish grin—the kind that’s always been your undoing. “Sam, you sly dog.”

You laugh under your breath. “Kid’s been on the run less than a week and already shacked up.”

Dean chuckles, then shifts back into gear. “Alright, let’s park outta sight and get a room. Wait this out.”

The motel room smells faintly of mildew and old cigarettes, but you’ve both stayed in worse. Dean paces back and forth, boots thudding softly against the worn carpet. “Dean, you’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.” You glance down, then smirk. “Actually, keep going. That might be an improvement.”

He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t even crack a smile. You try again. “Y’know, if Sam’s getting lucky, no reason we can’t…” You raise your brows, a playful lilt in your voice. It’s half a joke. Maybe only a quarter.

Dean pauses mid-step and looks at you, unamused. Stone-faced. You sigh and throw your hands up in surrender. “Fine. Okay. I’m gonna go grab a couple sandwiches from that shop across the street. You still like pie, right?” You don’t wait for an answer. The door clicks shut behind you before he can say a word.

The air outside is cold enough to bite. You pull your jacket tighter around you as you walk, trying to shake off the sting in your chest. He’s still not ready. Didn’t bring you here for that, even if part of you wishes that’s what this trip was. You sigh and try not to read too much into it. It’s not about you. It never really has been.

The bell above the shop door jingles as you step inside. Turkey for you. Ham for him. And cherry pie—of course. You toss in a six-pack for good measure. Something to fill the silence, if nothing else.

You’re balancing the bags as you cross the street when you spot her. The woman from Sam’s room. She’s walking away quickly, coat half-zipped, keys in hand. You pick up your pace to catch up.

Back at the room, you fumble trying not to drop everything. You’re just about to twist the doorknob when it swings open from the inside. “’Bout time,” you say, grinning.

Dean chuckles, stepping aside. “Sorry. Bathroom.” You walk in and set the bags on the desk. “Hey, I saw that girl leaving Sam’s room. He’s still in there. You want backup?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. I got it. Brother stuff.” He reaches out and takes your hand for a second. Just a second. “Thanks.” You know what he means. Not just for the food. For being here. For staying. For not pushing. You smile and nod. “Go get him.”

Dean had every intention of tearing into his little brother the second he saw him. He was ready to yell, to demand an explanation, to tell Sam just how worried sick he’d been. He knocked hard on the motel room door. A few seconds later, it creaked open. Sam stood there, clearly not expecting to see him.

“Dean?” he blinked. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say—” He held up a hand, a half-hearted peace offering.

Dean pushed past it. “No, I don’t think you do, Sam.” There was anger in his voice. Not just frustration—real anger. The kind that came from fear.

“Just—just hear me out, okay?” Before Dean could fire back, Sam started talking. Fast. Desperate to get it all out. He explained why he was there. The woman—Ava. How she’d tracked him down, said he was in danger. How she told him about a dream she’d had. One that sounded way too familiar.

A house. 5637 Monroe Street. Fire. Death.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he listened. His brain was already moving, processing the pieces. When Sam finally stopped, Dean exhaled. “Alright. Let’s go check this place out.”

Sam blinked. “Really? You’re not gonna—?”

“What?” Dean cut in. “I’m still pissed, but I get it. You need to figure this out. We’ll do it together.” What he didn’t say: the guilt was eating him alive. John’s last words, the burden of carrying that secret, letting it fester for so long—he didn’t need one more wedge between them.

“I’m gonna grab Y/N and we can—”

“Y/N is with you?” Sam interrupted, brows lifting in surprise.

Dean stopped mid-step. “Yeah, Sam. You left me high and dry, remember?” His voice was sharper than intended.

“Right. Okay.” Sam nodded, grabbing his gun from the desk, tucking it away, and following Dean out.

They stepped into the motel room to find it empty. The bags of food were untouched, still sitting on the desk. A faint chill hung in the air—quiet. Dean’s stomach dropped.

He reached for his phone, dialing your number without hesitation. It rang twice before you picked up. “Where are you?” he asked, already sensing the answer.

You were standing outside a weather-worn house, the address etched into the crooked mailbox: 5637 Monroe Street. Paint peeled from the siding. The air smelled like dust and something old.

“Oh, uh… I didn’t tell you,” you replied, a little too casually. “I talked to that girl—Ava—before she left. She told me what was going on, gave me the address. Thought I’d check it out while you were, y’know, dealing with brother stuff.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “I’m on my way with Sam. Do not go in there, okay?” There was a tightness in his voice now. But you were used to that—Dean always worried about you. Always would.

“I’m just gonna take a look around,” you said, balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you cocked your gun.

“I said no. Just wait for me, okay?” Dean’s voice rang out over the phone—firm, protective, already laced with frustration.

“I can handle it. Looks vacant. Just a quick in and out.” You heard the sharp inhale, the beginning of another protest, but you didn’t let him finish.

You hung up.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, flipping his phone shut with a snap.

He spun on his heel and strode toward the Impala, jaw clenched. Sam didn’t say a word. He just followed.

You approach the house with trained caution. This isn’t your first rodeo. You keep low, quiet, circling around until you find a broken window that hasn’t been boarded up. It groans as you slide through, landing softly inside. The place is silent, but not dead. It feels off—air too still, shadows too sharp. Someone’s been here recently.

Your senses are on high alert, scanning everything. Your eyes catch it just in time—a tripwire strung low across the floor.

Close one.

You step over it carefully, heart thudding. What you don’t see is the pressure plate beneath a scrap of old rug. You feel it the second your boot presses down.

Click. A hiss. Then the walls erupt.

Flames roar to life like they’ve been waiting for you. Gas-fed, fast, angry. You stumble back, instinct taking over, but the fire’s already crawling up the walls, licking the ceiling. Smoke fills the room in seconds. You spin, searching for an exit. You're trapped. Your lungs tighten, panic flooding your veins. You press your back to the wall as the heat surges closer.

By the time Dean pulls up, the house is a blazing inferno. He doesn’t even turn the engine off.

“NO! NO! NO!”

He’s out of the car in a heartbeat, sprinting toward the fire. Sam grabs him around the chest, holding on with everything he has. “Dean! You can’t!”

Dean thrashes, fury and fear making him wild. “LET GO, SAM!”

“Dean, there’s no way—no one could survive that!”

Dean’s voice breaks, full of something raw and desperate. “Y/N!” he screams your name again and again like it’ll bring you back. His voice rips through the night, hoarse and ragged.

Sirens wail in the distance—firetrucks.

“Dean, we have to go. Now!” Sam’s dragging him, fighting him every step of the way. Dean doesn’t stop struggling until they’re back at the car. He tears the door open, peels out, tires screaming against the pavement. He’s already calling your number. Straight to voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached me. Leave a message.”

“Son of a bitch!” He ends the call and dials again.

“Hi, you’ve reached me—”

Again.

“Hi—”

And again.

Every time your voice plays, it cuts deeper.

They drive up and down the stretch of road near the fire, Dean scanning every shadow, every ditch, every side street. “You got out,” he mutters. “You had to.” His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, the phone trembling in his hand. “This can’t be happening, Sam.”

Sam watches him, heart heavy. He’s never seen Dean like this. Not even when they lost their dad. Not even when he was dying. Sam wants to say, ‘I’m sure she’s okay’, but he doesn’t.

Because what if you’re not?

Hours pass.

Rain starts to fall, soft at first, then harder. Visibility drops, and they’re forced to head back. Dean drives in silence, jaw locked, eyes dead ahead. He pulls into the motel lot, throws the Impala into park, kills the engine. The rain drums against the roof like a ticking clock. Sam opens his mouth. “Dean, I’m—”

“Don’t.” Dean’s voice is low. Icy. He steps out into the rain, the phone already to his ear again. He dials. Again. Again.

“Hi, you’ve reached me...”

He stands at the door to the room, water soaking through his jacket, pooling at his feet. He doesn’t open it right away. Just stands there, hand on the knob, staring. Terrified of what won’t be waiting for him on the other side. Finally, he breathes in deep—and steps inside.

“Hey, that you?”

Your voice cuts through the room like a thunderclap.

Dean stops cold.

He turns toward the bathroom in stunned silence as you step out, barefoot, wrapped in a worn motel robe, towel-drying your hair. You’re annoyed, totally unaware of the storm you’ve just walked into.

“Mean-ass lady at the front desk wouldn’t let me use her phone, and this dump doesn’t have any in the rooms...” you mutter, shaking your head. “That place was freaking booby-trapped, Dean. I barely got out. Dropped my damn phone jumping out a window. Whoever set that up—serious operator. Not your average monster-of-the-week.”

You keep rambling, still scrunching your damp hair in the towel, not noticing the way Dean hasn’t moved. Not noticing the way his chest is rising like he can’t catch his breath.

“I smelled like a roasted pig,” you laugh softly, tossing the towel toward the bathroom. It lands in a heap on the floor. “Had to shower or I was gonna start—Dean?”

You finally stop talking. His name leaves your lips gently, and it shatters him.

He drops his phone. It clatters to the carpet, forgotten.

In two strides, he’s in front of you. You lift your eyes and what you see stops your heart—raw emotion burning through him like gasoline on fire, and you would know. His hand rises, trembling slightly as he cups your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin like he’s testing whether you’re flesh or a ghost.

“You didn’t think,—” you begin to whisper. Your voice is soft. Slowly understanding. But he silences you with his touch.

And then he’s kissing you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just need.

His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and desperation that makes your knees weak. His arm wraps around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. This is a man who thought he lost you—who's still shaking from the idea of living in a world without you.

You kiss him back with equal fire, fingers digging into the back of his neck, pulling him closer. You’ve missed this. Missed him. 

He tugs at the belt of your robe, hands rough and urgent. The fabric parts easily, slipping off your shoulders and pooling at your feet. Dean steps back just a breath, eyes sweeping over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin again.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re really here.”

You reach up, pull his mouth back to yours. “I’m here,” you murmur into the kiss. “Not going anywhere.”

He peels off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thump. His hands find your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You gasp as your back meets the cool wall, his body pressed hard against yours.

There’s nothing gentle in the way he touches you now. It’s all adrenaline and relief, love buried in every hurried movement. His lips leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his hands everywhere at once—gripping your thighs, cupping your face, running over your ribs like he needs to feel your heartbeat to believe you’re alive.

You thread your fingers through his hair, gasping his name, tugging him closer. He grinds against you, groaning low in his throat.

“I thought I lost you,” he breathes against your skin. “I thought—I couldn’t—”

You cut him off with another kiss, slower this time, but no less full of fire. “You didn’t. I’m here. I’m right here, baby.”

He lifts you away from the wall, carrying you to the bed without breaking contact.

He lays you back on the mattress like he’s staking a claim—like you’re his last breath and he’s not about to waste it. The old springs groan beneath the weight of you both, but the sound is lost in the firestorm between you. 

Everything is heat, tension, the crackling charge that started building the moment he saw you step out from the bathroom.

You’re already reaching for him, tearing at his belt with shaking fingers. He meets your urgency, unbuckling it like it insulted him, then shoves his jeans and boxers down in one swift, brutal motion. His shirt clings to him, soaked through and molding to every hard-cut muscle, but he rips it off and throws it across the room like it’s in the way. Like everything is in the way.

Your eyes rake over him—freckles and scars scattered across his chest, sweat glistening in the dip of his collarbone, that perfect cock already thick, hard, and leaking for you.

“Fuck, Dean…” you breathe, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

He doesn’t give you time to linger. His hands grip your thighs and he drags you closer to him, the rough pull stealing the air from your lungs. A low, primal sound rumbles in his chest, and he stares down at you like he might devour you.

“Thinking you were in that house,” he says, voice low and cracked. “You don’t know what that did to me.”

You reach for him, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. “I'm so sorry,” you whisper. “I'm here, I'm okay.” you reassure him again.

And that’s all it takes. He strokes himself once, twice, then presses the thick head of his cock to your entrance. There’s no teasing. No slow slide. Just need. He thrusts into you in one deep, devastating push—stretching you wide, filling you completely, until your back arches off the bed and his name punches out of your throat.

“Oh fuck—Dean!”

He curses under his breath, fingers digging into your hips like he’s anchoring himself. “Jesus, baby—I almost forgot how perfect you feel.”

He pulls back and drives into you again, setting a rhythm that’s all force and fire. The bed rocks beneath you, old springs squealing under every relentless thrust. It’s not careful. It’s not clean. It’s everything he’s been holding back—the fear, the guilt, the ache—hammered into you with every sharp, punishing snap of his hips.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs, your hands fisting the sheets. He’s everywhere—on your skin, in your lungs. His hand curls around yours, fingers entwined, grounding himself in the fact that you’re alive, here, under him, with him.

“Harder,” you beg, voice breaking. “God, Dean—I need it. I need you.”

Your words detonate something in him.

He groans—raw, low, feral—and flips you, pulling you to your knees in a blur of motion. He plunges into you from behind, deeper now, rougher. The angle hits something sharp and bright inside you, and the moan that tears from your throat sounds wrecked.

His chest presses to your back for a moment, his breath hot on your neck. Then his arm wraps around your middle and pulls you upright, your spine arching as he holds you to him. One hand slides up your stomach, cups your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until your legs threaten to give out. The other snakes down between your thighs and finds your clit—circling tight, fast, merciless.

You’re gasping, trembling, so close it hurts. “I missed you,” you choke out, head falling back on his shoulder. “So much—needed you.”

“I know, baby,” he pants into your skin, his voice a ragged whisper. “I know. I’ve got you now.”

He fucks up into you harder, his pace brutal, fingers moving in time with each deep thrust. Your walls clench around him as the pressure builds, blinding and unstoppable. “Come for me,” he growls against your ear. “Remind me how it feels when you fall apart for me.”

And you do. You fall to pieces around him, a scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you like wildfire. Your whole body locks, trembling, shaking. He holds you through it, hips stuttering before he buries himself deep one last time, groaning your name as he spills into you, hot and thick and so much.

You collapse forward onto the bed with him still inside you, both of you trembling, slick with sweat and shaking breaths. His body covers yours, anchoring you both to the moment. His lips brush your shoulder, soft and reverent. Again. And again.

The room has gone quiet now, save for the soft rasp of Dean’s breathing. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just clings to you like a lifeline. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, your other hand tracing soft lines down his spine. No words—just quiet comfort. A balm for the ache you know he’s still carrying in his chest.

After a long stretch of silence, he finally shifts, just enough to look at you. His face is raw, open in a way he almost never lets himself be.

“When I pulled up and saw the place burning,” he says, voice gravel-soft and cracked at the edges, “I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I was too late.”

Your heart twists, and you cradle his cheek in your palm, letting him speak.

“There wasn’t a sign of you. Just smoke and flames. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I kept playing it over in my head—what if you’d screamed for me and I wasn’t there to hear it?”

“Dean—”

“I don’t ever wanna feel that again,” he whispers, a tremble threading through his words. “I swear to God, if I ever lose you like that—really lose you—I won’t come back from it.”

You pull him into your arms, wrapping yourself around him like armor. “You didn’t lose me,” you say, fierce and quiet. “I’m here. I got out. I’m safe. With you.”

He lets himself be held. You feel the way his body slowly starts to unwind against you, all that coiled panic bleeding out with every breath. It takes time, but eventually his head finds its place tucked against your chest, and his breathing evens. You stroke his hair until the tension fades from his muscles, until his weight grows heavier, and you realize he’s drifted off—finally, safely—against you. You stay like that for a while, your fingers ghosting over his bare back, memorizing the feel of him in sleep. 

You slip out of bed when the first faint light of morning begins to warm the sky outside the cracked blinds. The bathroom is quiet. Steam curls around you as you step into the shower, eyes closing under the gentle cascade of water. You tilt your face up, letting it wash away the sweat, the ache, the lingering adrenaline. Just breathing. Just being.

You don’t hear him come in. But you feel him.

Strong arms slide around your waist, warm and steady. His chest presses to your back, skin to skin, and you exhale softly as his mouth finds the slope of your shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you murmur, eyes still closed.

He kisses just below your ear. “You didn’t.”

His hands move slowly over your body, reverent, unhurried. There’s no rush in the way he touches you now—just the quiet ache of love rediscovered. He turns you in his arms, your wet skin slipping against his as you face him.

His eyes lock with yours, and whatever he’s feeling—whatever’s left unspoken—he says with that look. With the way his fingers brush your cheek, the way his lips find yours, soft and aching.

He kisses you like he needs it to live.

You melt into it, letting him guide you gently back against the cool tile. His body presses to yours, his hands skimming the sides of your waist before sliding down to the curve of your hips. He lifts one of your thighs, anchoring it around his waist, and when he slides into you this time, it’s slow—achingly slow.

You gasp into his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. He’s deep and thick and perfect, and he fills you like he’s trying to carve himself into your soul. His forehead rests against yours, the rhythm of his thrusts gentle but steady, a slow roll of pleasure that builds in quiet, tender waves.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, breath catching, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “I know. I love you too.”

He rocks into you, again and again, his hands cradling your body like you’re precious—fragile and holy. Your moans echo softly in the fogged bathroom, mixing with the hum of the water, the slide of wet skin on skin.

It’s not just sex. It’s worship. A thank-you. A promise.

And when you come, it’s with a soft cry into his mouth, your whole body trembling against him. He follows seconds later, arms tightening around you as he groans your name, his hips stuttering as he pours everything he has into you.

You stay wrapped around each other long after, letting the water cool and the world slow down. His lips never leave your skin for long—tracing your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“Next time,” you murmur, brushing his wet hair back from his forehead, “don’t wait ‘til after a near-death experience to come back to me.”

Dean smiles faintly and kisses your collarbone. “Deal. But I'm not going anywhere.”

credit & links:

⟡ gif & pics from pinterest, edited by me. ⟡ dividers by easytiger-xo.

[oaksgrove]

hi!! i love your fics sm! thank u for taking the time to write them. im the same anon that sent the prince!simon x knight!reader and let me tell you, i love it tons. and so, i have come back with another request.... (too many, actually) what about a sunshine-recruit!reader x simon riley? where reader dies because i am in need of a bit of angst... you can make it fluffy if you wish! tysm :3

-🌊

A Light that Never Goes Out.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Sunshine!Recruit!Reader

Synopsis: When you joined the team, you brought sunlight to a world built on shadows. Simon Riley, guarded and scarred, never meant to fall for you — but he did, quietly, in the spaces between missions and the weight of war. After a mission goes wrong, Simon is left to grieve the future you dreamed of together. Years later, he fights to build the life you deserved, haunted and comforted by your memory, learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. 

Warnings: Major character death (reader), intense grief, mourning, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet healing, found family support, soft mentions of afterlife signs.

Word Count: 1748

When you joined the team, you were a burst of sunlight in a world made of steel and smoke.

Simon noticed it right away — the way you smiled easily, the way you laughed like you weren’t afraid of the dark things that followed men like him.

At first, he kept his distance.

You were bright.

Not loud or flashy.

Just… bright. Like warm sunlight through broken clouds.

You fought with laughter on your lips. 

You comforted with hands steady and sure.

You lived like every second mattered, like every moment was a gift you refused to waste.

But you had this way of staying, even when he tried to shove you away with silence and gruff remarks.

It undid Simon Riley in ways he couldn’t name.

You became his shadow. His better half.

A hand on his shoulder after a rough debrief.

A warm, unguarded grin across the firepit on cold nights.

A quick-witted remark that made him huff a rare, quiet laugh behind the skull mask.

And somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something deeper.

Into touches that lingered.

Into glances that burned.

Into conversations in the dead of night, hushed and full of almosts.

Maybe it was the way you handed him coffee in the mornings, always just how he liked it, no words needed.

Maybe it was the way you sat close enough during briefings that your knee brushed his, grounding him without even trying.

Maybe it was how, when nightmares yanked him awake gasping, you were the only one he could stand near — the only one who could sit quietly beside him and make the dark a little less heavy.

He didn’t say it.

You didn’t either.

It lived in the in-between.

The almosts — delicate, unspoken.

One evening — in a rare pocket of peace between missions — you sat together near a low campfire, shoulders brushing in the quiet.

You tilted your head back, staring at the stars, the orange glow soft against your skin.

“You ever seen the English countryside, Ghost?” you asked, voice dreamy.

He grunted. “’Course I have.”

You smiled — soft, faraway.

“I want to see it someday,” you said. “Not just pass through on a mission. I want to live there. A little cottage, a garden, some chickens maybe.”

He snorted quietly. “You, a farmer?”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Shut up. I’d be amazing. I just… I don’t want to miss life, you know? I want peace. I want mornings where the biggest decision is tea or coffee.”

Simon looked at you then — really looked — and something deep inside his chest clenched tight.

You deserved it.

The countryside. The garden. The peace.

Every goddamn good thing this ugly world had to offer.

But lately, you’d changed.

It was small things at first.

You hugged Soap a little longer.

You laughed louder.

You stared up at the stars like you were trying to memorize them.

You lived like you were racing time.

Simon saw it.

He always noticed everything about you.

“Somethin’ you’re not telling me, sunshine?” he asked one night, voice low and rough.

You smiled — soft and sad.

“Just… want to make sure I don’t leave anything unsaid,” you said, gaze flickering over his face.

His chest ached.

Something old and wounded and terrified flared inside him.

But he didn’t push.

He should have.

Because your next mission went sideways.

Explosions. Gunfire. Screams through comms.

Simon fought like hell to reach you.

Bullets sliced the air.

Dust and smoke clawed at his vision.

He found you slumped behind a shattered wall — blood pooling, painting the dirt dark and ugly.

“No, no—” His voice cracked, shattering something inside him.

You blinked up at him, smile trembling.

“Hey, Ghost,” you rasped, teasing even now. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t you bloody dare,” he growled, hands pressing desperately to the wound, trying to keep you here.

You lifted a weak hand, brushed it against his masked cheek.

“You’ve got to let me go,” you whispered.

He shook his head, fierce.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” you said gently. “You will.”

Your hand slid down, gripping his glove weakly.

“I’m not scared,” you murmured, voice slurring. “I had a good life and you made everything better, Simon.”

And with a final, shuddering breath — you were gone.

Simon didn’t sleep for three days.

He sat in the base office, soaked in grief, as higher-ups coldly discussed standard procedures — how you’d be flown back to London, buried in a cramped military cemetery like a number on a roster.

Simon stood up — slow, dangerous.

“No,” he said, voice low and shaking with rage.

“Lieutenant—”

“No.”

He slammed a hand on the table.

“She wanted the countryside. She gets the countryside.”

It was the first time anyone had seen Ghost lose it like that — not from fear, not from pain — but for you.

It wasn’t easy.

There were papers to sign, approvals to fight for.

There were arguments, threats, pulled favors.

But Simon fought for you the way he wished he could’ve fought that day on the battlefield — until, finally, finally, they relented.

You were laid to rest on a gentle green hill, overlooking golden fields that swayed in the breeze.

Wildflowers scattered the meadow.

The air smelled like rain and earth and the soft promise of spring.

He chose the spot himself.

And they buried you with full honors.

But for Simon, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

He stood at your grave long after the others left, rain soaking through his jacket, dripping off his mask.

In his gloved hand, he clutched your dogtags, now dulled but still bright in his palm.

“You’re home, love.” he said hoarsely, voice breaking the silence. 

A gust of wind stirred the air, soft as a sigh.

He squeezed the charm tight.

-

The porch creaked under Simon’s weight as he settled into the old wooden chair, a cup of black tea cooling in his hands.

The cottage he lives in is small.

It sits just over the rise from where you’re buried, hidden behind a low, hand-built stone fence.

The wildflowers still scatter across the fields like a living quilt— you would have loved.

It took him a few years to get here.

He wasn’t ready at first.

But your memory pulled him like a tide, quiet and steady, until one day he realized —

This was what you would’ve wanted for him.

Life.

Peace.

Home.

So he bought it.

He planted the garden himself — clumsy at first, rough hands better suited to weapons than trowels.

But he learned. Tomatoes. Lavender. Some stubborn sunflowers that leaned drunkenly against the fence posts.

The chickens were Price’s idea.

“Be good for you,” the old man grunted, hauling a coop into the yard one weekend.

Simon pretended to hate them. But secretly he built them a little covered run and started naming them after famous authors. You would’ve laughed yourself silly.

The 141 came by every few weeks —

Johnny crashing through the door with bags of groceries, insisting he could cook (he couldn’t).

Gaz plopping down on the porch swing with a cold beer, tossing a ball for the dog Simon somehow ended up adopting.

Price bringing his cigar and sitting outside under the stars, talking quietly like the world wasn’t rushing past anymore.

It wasn’t perfect.

Grief still lived in his bones, heavy and old.

Some days hurt more than others.

But here — in this little pocket of the world you dreamed of — Simon healed.

Slowly.

Steadily.

The night was clear — stars scattered across the sky like shards of glass, the fields bathed in silver moonlight.

The chickens were quiet in their coop.

The house behind him glowed warm and steady, windows like golden eyes keeping watch.

He should’ve felt at peace.

Most nights, he did.

But tonight… it felt different, harder to be at ease.

The breeze was gentler than usual — almost tender — brushing across his scarred knuckles, tugging at the collar of his sweater.

And for one trembling second, he could almost swear he felt you.

Sitting beside him.

Swinging your legs, the way you did when you couldn’t quite sit still.

Warmth where there should’ve only been air.

Simon’s chest twisted, a deep, old ache that no amount of time could ever quite erase.

He set the cup down with a shaking hand.

Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes — rough, embarrassed, furious at himself for still being this wrecked after all these years.

But it broke anyway.

A ragged, raw sound tore from him as he hunched over, shoulders shaking.

Grief clawed up from somewhere deep and buried — sharp, brutal, endless.

“Fuck—”

He bit down hard on the curse, on the pain, on the shame of it.

He barely heard the front door open.

Barely registered the heavy steps across the porch.

And then there was Price, he stayed for the night afraid to drive home in the rain, —

solid as the stone wall out back, steady as the seasons.

Without a word, the old man sat down in the chair next to him.

Lit his cigar with practiced ease.

Exhaled smoke into the quiet air.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t offer false comforts.

Didn’t tell Simon to get over it or move on.

He just sat there.

Like a lighthouse in a storm.

After a long while, Simon scrubbed his face with his hands, voice wrecked and raw:

“I just— I could feel her.”

A rasp. A confession.

“Like she was right fuckin’ here.”

Price nodded, slow and grave.

Tipped his head back to look at the stars.

“Maybe she was, mate,” he said simply.

Another long stretch of silence.

Only the chirring of insects.

The whisper of the fields.

Price knocked the ashes from his pipe and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Grief’s just love that’s got nowhere to go,” he said gruffly.

“You loved her. Still do. Nothin’ wrong with feelin’ it.”

Simon swallowed hard.

Felt something inside him — tight and knotted and hurting — ease just a fraction.

He didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t need to.

Price just reached over, clapped a heavy, fatherly hand on his shoulder, squeezed once.

And for the first time in a long, long time —

Simon let himself lean into it.

Let himself be comforted.

Not just by your memory.

But by the living.

By the life you would have wanted him to keep holding onto.

That night, when he finally went inside, he left the porch light on.

Just in case.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[sanjoongie]

🄶🅁🄴🅈 🄰🅁🄴🄰

🩶Pairing: Grey Jedi! Kim Jungkook x Mandalorian! Reader

🩶Au: star wars, sci fi, mandalorian, jedi

🩶genre: smut

🩶trope: enemies to lovers

🩶rating: 18+, MDNI

🩶Warnings: mentions of lightsaber battles, death, dismemberment, laser pistol fighting, ⚠DUBCON⚠ (jungkook uses his sith powers to manipulate the reader to do some questionable things), dirty thoughts, breast play, body worship, begging, oral (f), unprotected sex, slight degradation, praise kink, biting, aftercare mentioned

🩶word count: 3,642

🩶summary: When you go to avenge your brother’s death, you did not expect to find the jedi who had killed him merciful, or hot, or capable of twisting your mind and body exactly how he wanted.

🩶divider by @cafekitsune

🩶author's note: I wouldn't have written this without @anyamaris & @pars-ley encouragement. What started as a payback plot bunny turned into going back to my roots. I hope you can enjoy!

Your android, B0-0M, chirped at you as you stayed low to the ground, your scanner looking for any movement at the encampment below the cliff you were laying on.

“No, Boom,” You said fondly, pushing it back from the edge. “I’m not sending you on recon.”

The android made a small noise of sadness and her wheel whirled as she moved behind you. You chuckle at her disappointment.

You were hunting Jedi today. More specifically, the Jedi that had killed your brother.

You may have love your brother with all your heart but you knew in your heart of hearts when he took up the contract to kill a jedi that he was in over his head.

“Come on,” Your baby brother flashed his dimples at you. “It’s the contract of a lifetime! Imagine me, Django Eldoradon, a killer of Jedi. I think our ancestors would be proud.”

Tears filled in your ducts and you let them stream down your cheeks under your helmet.

“Better to honor them with your life than your death,” You whispered to yourself.

Your throat tightened as the flap to the small abandoned hut finally fluttered but it was not the Jedi that came out. Instead, it was a small child. He ran around outside as if he didn't have a care in the world. And when he found a stick, he began to swing it around like it was a…

No, it couldn't be. The Jedi were near extinct. Had the grey one found a Force sensitive child to train?!

You closed your eyes and were reminded of the bleak remains of your brother. The charred flesh from the lightsaber will never leave your olfactory senses. His head had been removed and his arm. The jedi had no sense of mercy when he killed your brother. You would not be like him.

“Boom, I have a job for you.”

Boom whistled and wheeled her way to where you were slowly shuffling backwards. You sat up when you were no longer in view of the cliffs and patted her on her head.

“I need you to distract the child down there. Preferably lure him away from the camp. Pretend you’re playing a game with him, anything. Just keep him away from the camp until I call for you, can you do that?”

Boom did a fancy twirl, making happy noises and then wheeled off down the trail that had taken you up to the top of the cliffs.

Unfortunately, the Jedi had decided to leave the hut at the most inopportune moment.

The Jedi ruffled the youngling’s hair and then moved to two swords leaning against the hut. He tossed one to the youngling and took a fighting stance. You whispered for Boomie to halt her progress, to wait for a better moment to lure the youngling away. Instead, you had to endure watching as the Jedi fondly corrected the youngling’s stance and adjusted the wooden sword in his hand and patiently taught him more.

Problem number two was when the Jedi took off his shirt because of the exercise and the rising morning sun’s temperature. You had the perfect view of the way his broad back muscles rippled as he whirled his wooden blade, suddenly showing off for the youngling, who applauded in wonder.

You rolled your eyes. This Jedi was just another arrogant man. The world would be better without him.

A tinge of regret for what may become of the youngling echoed in your heart but you shook your head. You couldn't care for everyone. And the only person who had truly mattered to you had been killed by the man down the cliff. There was only one thing left to do: kill him.

The Jedi broke to go to a rain barrell for some water. The youngling did not follow him, instead opting to try whirling the practice blade by himself.

“Now, Boomie!” You whispered excitedly.

Your droid zoomed over, doing all sorts of exciting tricks and lured the child away from the hut and completely out of view and hearing of what might happen when you killed the Jedi.

You secured your hookshot around a rock and silently let yourself down the cliff. By the time you had your blaster aimed at the Jedi’s head, he finished drinking the water from the barrel.

“I was wondering when you were going to come down from your hiding place,” The Jedi said, without even the decency of turning around and facing you. “Your anger radiated from the top of that cliff all morning.”

You sneered under your helmet. “I’ve come to claim the bounty on your head, Jedi Scum.”

“Oh that old thing is still around?” The Jedi turned around, leaning against the water barrel. “How much is it up to now?” The smirk on his face only fed into your anger. “Two Mandalorians in a span of a few days, so it must be pretty high.”

“I didn’t come here to listen to you brag about yourself. Will you defend yourself or will I simply shoot you in the head and be done with this,” You snapped.

The Jedi took a fighting stance. With his saber drawn, the laser growing and glowing grey of all colors, he motioned with two fingers. His eyes danced as if he found this whole situation amusing. What a fucking arrogant Jedi!

With a shout, you launched yourself upwards for the advantage of a higher vantage point with your jetpack thrusters working quickly. You shot at the Jedi but he deflected your blaster’s shots. You barely avoided one and the other made you adjust lower. You shot your hookshot at the Jedi but he simply jerked his head to the side before it could wrap around his neck. With reflexes quicker than anything you had ever encountered, his hand shot out and grabbed the wire. He pulled with all his might, jerking you down and back to the ground. You rolled on the ground, head over heels, and in a stance to shoot at Jungkook again. Still, his lightsaber deflected them all. You managed to use your vambrace to block the reflected shots as you stood, the beskar steel doing its magic.

Briefly, you wondered, if this was also when your brother felt the hopelessness of fighting a Jedi.

The Jedi held out his hand and suddenly you couldn't move a muscle. He briskly walked to where you stood, frozen in place.

“I knew you couldn't win the battle without using your Jedi tricks. You’re nothing without your Force,” You spat.

“The Force is the entire reason I am who I am,” The Jedi announced. His eyes narrowed. “But what’s your story?”

His eyes drilled into yours and you swallowed. You felt like your memories were being sifted through. Flashes of your life passed through your mind. Your childhood. The slow stretch as a teenager. The arduous journey as an adult. The recent death of your brother at the hands of a Jedi. The way you studied the Jedi on top of the cliff.

A slow smirk pulled at his lips and then his tongue played at the lip piercing.

“Revenge for your brother? How original,” The Jedi poked at you verbally.

“This isn’t a story for you to yawn at, Jedi scum, this is my life!” You snarled.

“It’s Jungkook, not Jedi Scum.” Jungkook paced in front of you, seemingly unbothered by your response. “Seeing as how I’m clearly at an advantage here, I have a proposal for you. If you can resist my powers in manipulating you, I will allow you to kill me.”

The shock of his words made your brow furrow in confusion. “Why would you do that?”

Jungkook shrugged. “I’m curious as to how much of a Mandalorian you are. Pitting your resistance against my powers is interesting.”

“And if you win?”

“Then you will cease in your attempts to kill me. I don’t wish to be continuously watching my back for a Viroblade in it.”

This was your chance to get revenge for your brother. Everyone always said how stubborn you were. Wouldn’t that equate to a Jedi attempting to manipulate you? You had to try.

“Deal,” You spat.

Jungkook grinned. “Splendid.” The Jedi released you from the force and you had control over your body. Or so you thought.

You felt pressure in your brain immediately. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t physical. It was sudden thoughts that didn’t seem like your own. Such as the way your fingers itched to cup your breasts. You most certainly did not want to do that. Then came the thought that you should ditch your armor. No? Perhaps your helmet?

“Wha…what are you doing?” You stuttered.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Why, manipulating you, Mandalorian.”

You shook your head. This was absurd. Shouldn’t he be trying to get you to point your gun at yourself? Shoot your hookshot around your neck? Use your jetpack to fly yourself into the cliff face???

Except more thoughts that had nothing to do with your death continued to permeate your mind, each one becoming harder and harder to resist. Thoughts of sucking Jungkook’s length and the weight of it on your tongue. Thoughts of wrapping your legs around Jungkook’s waist as he thrusted into you. Thoughts of--

You were sweating now. You gritted your teeth and said, “What is the point of this?”

Jungkook chuckled. “Are you tempted?”

You swallowed as imagery began to filter into your mind: Jungkook’s head between your thighs, lapping at your inner folds. His hands molding against your breasts, massaging them with interest. His lips pressed against yours in a searing kiss that had you licking your lips.

“No,” You growled. At least you attempted to growl. It sounded more like a whine.

“No?”

“These are dirty tricks, Jedi,” you murmured.

“Surely you’re aware I do not follow the strict teachings of the Jedi. You’ve seen my lightsaber. I’ve killed your brother. Dirty tricks all well within my abilities. Shall we try some more?”

A loud whimper pulled from your throat as you felt a throbbing between your legs. Wetness gushed out of you as if you had just had an orgasm. The ache inside of you was almost immeasurable. You felt almost dumb with lust.

“Ju-jungkook,” You protested.

“Giving up?”

You opened your mouth to decline, to argue, but you found your inner thoughts brought to the forefront of your brain. They brushed against your inner sanctum; wondering if his shoulders rippled as he changed stances while practising his forms for the youngling he was protecting. The way he had twitched his fingers to encourage you to come and attack him when you had launched an attack on him. The glimmer of amusement in the dark orbs of his. Thoughts you had stuffed into the far recesses of your mind, to never see the light of day, were bright as day in your mind now.

“St-stop that,” You demanded.

Jungkook hummed in disagreement, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. This fight has to have an end. It’s either you win or I do.”

Your entire body was covered in a sheen of sweat now with the mental resistance. You stripped off your gloves in an attempt to find some relief. Then your helmet came off. Then your chest plate. You pulled at the turtleneck of your bodysuit, but still you were hotter than the two suns on Tatooine.

Those same fingers continue to move down your collarbones, pushing the front zipper down your torso. It managed to make its way halfway down your chest before you snapped out of it. The air licked at your sweaty skin and you sighed.

“All you have to do is let go and all this can stop,” Jungkook crooned. “I can help you with the relief. Remove your clothes and show me your battle-hardened body. Flick your nipples for me, I’m sure they’re a beautiful color and deserve to feel the morning light on them?”

“I will not break,” You vowed.

“Oh, you will,” Jungkook said with confidence that only a Jedi carried. “I can feel it in your mind. How much you wish to let go of it all and sink into the pleasure.”

“That’s you projecting,” You denied.

You kicked off your boots to further relieve the heat in your body. Your leggings were gone too. You felt like a flame licked at every bit of your skin that was covered. The urge to get naked pulled at you greatly. The slick between your legs, the ache to be filled, pushed at you even more.

Jungkook paced around you. “You’re a valiant warrior. Strong, capable, and beautiful. It’s not a loss to let yourself go to your baser instincts. We are human after all.”

“Aren’t you a Jedi? Don’t you hold yourself to a code?” You attempted to distract yourself with words.

“You saw my saber. I simply act for the balance. A bad act for a good one. A good act for a bad one. The cycle repeats and I maintain my stance.”

“That’s awfully arrogant of you.”

“It is simply what I am tasked with, Mandalorian.” Jungkook shrugged his broad shoulders. He walked behind you and you could feel his lips against the shell of your ear. “Break for me. I can give you pleasure that you’ve only ever dreamed of as some merc grunted over you.”

“Get the fuck out of my head,” You hissed.

“Oh, but it’s so fun in there,” Jungkook mused. “You’ve never had a man taste you before. Should I be the first? How you will gasp as my wet appendage teases your throbbing clit.”

“Stop it,” You grunted. You clenched down on nothing, pressing your thighs together.

“But oh, how you want it, Mandalorian?” Jungkook chuckled. The Jedi’s hands hovered over the curves of your body. You wanted to lean into his touch. All you had to do was--

Your breasts filled his cupped hands and you both groaned at the feeling. His rough palms and callused fingers squeezed your tits and played with your nipples. Pleasure rippled through your body and you whined.

The Jedi made quick work of the rest of your clothing and took you inside of his makeshift hut. He laid you gently on the bed of blankets and pillows in the corner.

“You should be commended for your fight.” Jungkook’s eyes danced merrily.

HIs lips refused to leave any of your skin untouched. The column of your throat, the line of your jaw, the stretch of your collarbone. His descent between your breasts was torturous. You arched your back, needing him to touch your nipples but he refused. He kissed your hip bone and the inside of your thighs and your calves but he did not dip his tongue in between your thighs like he promised. It was like he was pulling a sentence from your mouth without the mind tricks.

“Please,” You rasped.

“I want to hear you say it,” Jungkook said huskily.

You groaned in frustration. Your hands dug into his hair and pulled hard. Suddenly, your tense thighs were on either side of his head. “Lick me,” You demanded.

Jungkook’s arms wrapped around your thighs and he brought his lips to your lower ones. You could have sworn you saw a smirk on his lips but it didn’t matter when they were wrapped around your clit.

Your back bowed as intense pleasure shot through all the nerves in your body. You gasped and thrusted your cunt further onto Jungkook’s face. The Jedi groaned as his tongue paused to lap at the delicate nerve. As much as you hated to admit it, he had been right. You had never felt something so good before. Your finger was nothing compared to Jungkook’s tongue on you.

It was quick to bring you to completion, your thighs shaking and your hands in his hair tugging. You groaned, unhappy with the quick orgasm.

“Is… is that it?” You demanded.

Jungkook snorted. “Hardly.”

Your body was raised without further ado, and you found yourself on your side. Jungkook was quick to settle down behind you, also on his side. He lifted your upper leg up, hooked his leg with your lower one, and thrusted between your legs.

You whimpered as your sensitive core was prodded by his cock.

“This time, you will say it, Mandalorian. Or I won’t enter you. No matter how much you say please. I want to hear what you want,” Jungkook grunted.

Your pride rippled between your desire and your anger. The last thing you wanted to do was bow to a Jedi, let alone the exact one that had killed your brother. But there was a pull, a need, a desire that held a flame akin to your need to battle. Certainly, there was fight in your Mandolorian blood, but wasn’t fucking there too?

You growled. “Get out of my head,” You insisted.

Jungkook giggled. He let go of your leg with his hand and stroked your body instead. One hand caressing the swell of your breast and the other ran along your inner thigh. “but you’re so fun to play with.”

He continued to rut against you, smearing your wetness along your folds and your thigh in a mess that made you grit your teeth. True to his word, he did not penetrate you.

“How can you…?”

“Intense concentration.”

You sighed. “Jungkook.”

“Say the words and I’ll give you my all.”

You swallowed loudly. Somehow, you believed it.

You licked your lips in preparation for what was coming your way. “Fuck me,” You whispered.

All it took was the Jedi to angle his hips differently and then he was spearing right into you. You let out the most lascivious groan that had ever left your lips in your entire life. Being filled to the core with a cock that knew exactly what it was doing was a completely and utterly different feeling than being rutted into because of a battle won.

Jungkook dotted kisses up the side of your neck and he slowly thrusted into you. “You are so fucking wet for me, Mandolorian.”

“I…” Words were lost on your tongue. You couldn't have even said your own name at that moment. All you could focus on was the way your insides were churning with lust.

“Gone dumb already?” Jungkook laughed silently against your skin. “I told you I’d make you feel like nothing you had ever experienced.”

Jungkook’s arm wrapped around your upper chest to hold you in place, his thrusts shoving you upwards unwittingly. Both your hands dug into his bicep as you whimpered.

“That’s it, show me how good you can take me,” Jungkook whispered against the shell of your ear.

All you could manage was to hold on as Jungkook continued to fuck up into you. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The Jedi was right; you were utterly dumb on his cock. All you focused on was the way he slipped into you and out, pleasure radiating from your lower stomach and through every vein in your body. You were on fire and soothed at the same time.

“You can be a good girl for me and come, huh?” Jungkook grunted into your shoulder. His mouth was against the skin there, tongue making circles there and his teeth teasing a bite.

“Please,” was all you could murmur.

“That’s it, just along for the ride, aren’t you? Riding my cock so well, just like I knew you would.”

Your back arched, head cast back against Jungkook’s shoulder and lower half pushing back against his pelvis as your climax hit you like a two tonne bantha. You screamed his name as bright lights painted the back of your eyelids. The pleasure was insurmountable.

“Good girl,” was the last thing you heard and then Jungkook grunted, releasing inside of you.

He rode out his high as you came down from your own. “Fuck, I don’t think I’ve had a Mandalorian before. If I had known, I might have fucked your brother instead of killing him.” And then he bit down into your shoulder as he thrusted slower and slower inside of you.

If you had energy, you would have punched the Jedi, but you had nothing more to give.

When you woke up later that day, you were in your inner suit and completely cleaned up. You could smell something good being cooked and the laughter of a child. Your brain only caught up with you when you heard the happy chirps of B0-0M.

You sat up quickly and groaned as your thighs protested any movement.

“You're safe,” The Jedi reassured you.

You rolled your eyes. “I've never been safe my entire life.”

“Well for now, no one will hurt you while I'm here.”

You clucked your tongue against the roof of your mouth in annoyance. “I tried to kill you earlier.”

Jungkook chuckled. “And I fucked you earlier.”

You huffed. “I’m going to find my armor.”

Before you could make it to the door, Jungkook was there, Force Speed lending to his steps. “Don’t.”

“I didn't come here to cement a future,” You scoffed.

Jungkook stared at you. “I didn’t say that. I just said that for today, you don’t have to worry.”

You avoided his seemingly all-knowing gaze. “I’m going to get my armor now, Jedi.”

Jungkook placed a hand on your shoulder. “At least stay the night. Niki is enjoying your droid's presence. He hasn’t had a lot to laugh about for most of his life.”

You rolled your eyes and sighed, crossing your arms under your breasts. “I hope you’re a good cook.” You made your way to a stool by the fire that Jungkook had been cooking at.

Jungkook smiled happily, moving back to the fire. “Whatever you need.”

[cantareincminor]

My wonderful husband commissioned @juuyeah to illustrate the epilogue of Orpheus as a Mother's Day gift! (Minor spoiler: it's a happy ending 😊)

More spoilers under the cut:

“Franky, if not for that day, for that conversation we had…my life might have been incredibly different. Even if WISE was still going to recruit me regardless, what you said to me that day, and just the way you acted, like there were no real dividing lines between us…it left a lasting impression on me that I’ve never forgotten all these years. You’ve always been a man of courage and conviction. You’ve always had a unique ability to see past all the bullshit, whether it came from the politicians running this country or from an 18 year-old soldier on the other side. Or from the so-called super spy I used to be. Thank you for that. Thank you for always pushing me toward the truth.” Franky wiped at his eyes in frustration. “Ugh, I come in all frazzled from being run into the ground by this little monster I live with, and now you spring this on me? You Westalian son of a bitch.” He had whispered the last few words, but Ernie somehow still perked up and yelled, “Swear jar! I have enough to buy ice cream now! Take me to the ice cream store!” Franky ignored him and enveloped Loid in a crushing hug. The latter returned it with equal fierceness.

Juu did an AMAZING job capturing the hope and joy of the epilogue, especially Twilight (now Loid) finally at peace with himself. And able to compliment Franky genuinely and hug him without being embarrassed!! I love his smile of contentment, it’s exactly how I imagined it!

And Franky’s son Ernie playing with Anya in the background!! They’re SO CUTE!!! (Thanks Juu for suggesting Ernie as a name!)

After Twiyor, I absolutely love writing the friendship between Twilight and Franky. In canon and in Orpheus, Franky continuously challenges Twilight to question his own deeply ingrained assumptions and fears, while supporting him through every trial. He deserves all the love for everything he does for the Forgers!

To me their friendship is just as powerful a symbol as the other bonds between East and West (like Twiyor). I decided to write this scene instead of another Twiyor moment into the epilogue because Franky is Twilight’s oldest friend, the first Ostanian he talked to in a civil manner and really connected with. The only person who knew Twilight before he joined WISE, and the one who nudged him onto the path of giving up his blind hatred of Ostanians and seeking out the truth for himself. A neat little bow to tie together the newfound peace between their countries.

[procrastinating-story-writer]

Crashlanding Hedgehogs

Chapter One

"I should have stayed my ass in bed... sleeping through five alarms should have been a sign to stay my ass at home."

Is what you grumbled as you exited your car on the way to do some grocery shopping.

The traffic was crazy and cars were not moving. Why?

Your answer came as you stood on the chaotic streets of London, watching the ascension of the Eclipse Canon from G.U.N headquarters.

This was not something you expected to happen today. The music from the car radio abruptly switched to an emergency news broadcast.

The announcement about the end of the world came moments later... it had you sipping your coffee, calm as a cucumber while folks around you ran around frantically.

To you, if it's meant to be, them so be it. No use losing your mind over what you clearly can't control.

Call after call came to your phone but you ignored each one. There was no urge to speak to anyone.

Climbing on top of the hood of your car was the best decision to watch the sky. The bright beam from the canon was both beautiful and haunting. At least dying would be instantaneous. Hopefully.

You counted down the inevitable, humming that tune from when the titanic was sinking. Your mind made up to die... it was a good life (as short as it was) despite the ups and downs.

The beam got brighter, closer, this was it... that was until Dr. Robotnik addressed the world with his speech about 'if I can't have world domination, I might as well save it...''

The death beam passed over where you sat, which then vanished seconds after the explosion.

Everyone around were cheering, but you couldn't help but roll your eyes, "what a good day wasted. Let me get my groceries and head home."

Things were uneventful after that. You did your shopping (making sure to keep out the way of exuberant patrons), got home in one piece, made a quick dinner, and was now having a cold beverage as you sat on a lawn chair in your back yard.

Living out of the busy city had its perks, and the main one was the quietness. Not a neighbor for miles.

Unfortunately, the quiet was interrupted by something fast approaching. Looking up, a ball of fire was hurling directly at you.

"Well, fuck."

Call it luck, a miracle, or just good reflexes, but the speed at which you moved saved you from getting hit.

The poor lawn chair couldn't say the same. The collision rackled the ground, the sound making your ears ring.

Today was just cursed, wasn't it?

It took a few minutes to get your breathing and heart rate to calm down; another few to stand upright with wobbly knees.

There was a fucking crater when your lawn chair was.

The areas decorated with broken gravel, blotches of fire, and your poor flowers.

You should have turned tail and sprinted out of there, maybe call the police but common sense must have taken a vacation because you decided to investigate.

Colored you shocked when an unconscious body appeared as the smoke cleared. Why was there a life-sized hedgehog unconsciousness in your back yard?

"I know I'm not drunk... nah, I'm not seeing things."

You couldn't help but stare, noting that they were alive somehow (by the rise and fall of their chest) after crashing from the sky.

Sighing, you quickly but carefully moved the body, slowly taking it inside.

"I must be out of my mind. Let's hope I don't come to regret this later on."

If you had only known the headache it would bring later on, you would have left him there.