#we will see...pray for me LOLL

[kirain]

Part twenty-one of my appreciation project.

@spinfins A fic based on their wonderful fanfic here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Art by @toonybrin here!

The water was warm, but Emmrich barely seemed to feel it.

"Bathe him," Dorian had said. "Just enough to soak his wounds. Don't fill the tub. Don't scrub. We don't know the extent of his injuries, and we don't need you peeling his skin like you would a salmon."

Rook winced at the image, and Dorian apologised.

"Look, just... run over them with a sponge as best you can. We can't heal him with magic, so dab away whatever grime you can to prevent infection."

"Right."

"If you need help, give me a shout. I'll come running."

She could have—she considered it—but Emmrich had already been violated and laid bare before too many eyes. She trusted Dorian, knew he wouldn't take any pleasure in it, but the guilt of undressing Emmrich when he had no mind to object weighed heavily on her conscience. She knew he wouldn't want her—or anyone, for that matter—to see him in such a gruesome state.

"I'm so sorry."

She had cradled his head as she helped him into the tub, careful as one might be with glass—no, not glass. He was softer than that. Bruised flesh and weary bone and breath that stuttered shallow in his throat. She'd held him up as he slumped, arms limp around her shoulders, legs shaking as she lowered him into the water.

He'd wailed. Thrashed.

Of course it hurt.

Now he leaned back against the copper edge, his head lolled to one side, damp strands of silver clinging to his forehead. His lips were dry, cracked. His one good eyelid fluttered but didn't open. He looked a hundred years older, and infinitely more fragile.

Rook dipped the sponge again, wrung it out, and brushed it over his shoulder.

He groaned.

She stopped.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Emmrich didn't respond. He sighed arduously through his teeth, the sound tight and unnatural. Maker, she hated this. She hated it almost as much as she hated the Venatori and Ghilan'nain. She bit the inside of her cheek, her fingers trembling as she began again—slower, barely more than a caress over the mottled bruises blooming down his ribs and across his stomach.

"Don't wash his hair," Dorian had warned. "Don't dunk his head or cover his mouth. Don't do anything that might give him the impression he's drowning. He still hasn't regained control of his faculties."

Rook obeyed.

After the ritual—after witnessing what a semiconscious mage could do under strain—she hadn't dared take any chances. She'd gone further still, resting his shackled wrists over the edge of the tub, too afraid to let them sink beneath the water. Instead, she'd dabbed at the skin she could reach, and even that had made him jolt in agony.

And now, she was subjecting him to yet more torment, lapping the soapy, browning water over his hollow abdomen. The dirt and clotted blood refused to lift, her strokes too restrained, too tentative—but she prayed the remedy would seep into his wounds well enough to atone for her cowardice.

"You'll need another bath," she said, forcing a smile. She knew he couldn't see it, but she hoped he'd hear it in her tone. "When you're feeling better, maybe Dorian can take us to a fancy bath house."

She chuckled at the notion, then frowned.

Come on, kid. We both know you're not gonna let him outside after this.

Varric was right. She wasn't sure how she'd ever let him out of her sight again.

But you need to get over it. Spooks will never heal if you smother him. He's a free spirit. You need to let him fly, to restore his faith in humanity, or this whole thing'll break him.

"Yeah, well—" Her jaw clenched. "That's easy for you to say... when you're not wrist deep in his bloody bath water. I have to keep him safe."

Suddenly, Emmrich tensed as the sponge drifted over his left side. Another groan—hoarse this time, and louder. His brows furrowed and he tried to pull away.

"I know, I know." She shuddered. "I'm trying not to hurt you."

She didn't cry—she didn't have the right, not when he was the one suffering—but the tears burned behind her eyes like smoke. She'd never seen him like this. Emmrich, with all his gentleness and virtue, reduced to raw breaths and the occasional twitch of a hand he could no longer lift.

She couldn't wash him thoroughly, but she could at least do it reverently, whispering "sorry" into the air each time the sponge strayed too close to his lesions—so many times, the word could've defined her entire life's vocabulary.

When he was clean—or as clean as she could delude herself into thinking he was—she drained the tub in silence and fetched a towel, draping it over him with tender hands.

But even that hurt him.

"Vishante Kaffas..."

He was barely conscious as she dried him off, yet he still reacted. His skin was too pale, the bruises too vivid. She spoke his name once, desperate for him to hear, but he didn't respond.

She didn't stop.

She dressed the worst of his wounds—the split along his ribs, the scratch on his shoulder, the angry swelling around his abdomen. She even tried to patch the infuriating gash on his nose, but he wouldn't allow it, moaning and recoiling, expending energy he couldn't afford to waste. No matter how gently she approached, no matter how many reassurances she gave, any contact with his face was voicelessly forbidden.

His face.

His handsome face.

How many times had those foul cultists grabbed it? How many times had they pried his mouth open and forced that poison down his throat? How close had they been? What did he see? Did he taste their sweat, their transgressions, the metallic tang of their gloves? Did he smell their rancid breath?

She wanted to scream. No wonder he didn't want to be touched, and she had no wish to upset him.

She let it go.

He's not clean, kid. You're wrapping dirty wounds. All you did was get them a little wet. There's still gunk inside.

"No. Dorian said the soap had elfroot and myrrh in it, and he told me not to scrub. He'll be fine." She shook her head. "You'll be fine, Emmrich."

Fair enough.

By the time she finished, the room smelled of herbs and gauze—and shame.

"All right," she muttered, rising to her feet. "We need to get you to bed, sweetheart. Can you handle it?"

He said nothing, of course, but the faint tilt of his head struck Rook as a precious flicker of awareness.

She embraced him, slipping her arms under his. "On three, okay? One... two... three."

He gasped sharply as he stood, nearly choking on it.

Rook winced. "I've got you. I've got you."

He sagged against her, dead weight in her arms as she dragged him from the tub. His poor shins struck the rim with a dull clang that echoed off the walls—but if he felt it, he gave no sign. The greater pain had numbed him to the rest.

"Kaffas..."

Rook staggered back under the sudden pressure. He was so much larger than her, so much heavier in his weakness. But she didn't fall—she couldn't. With a nimble twirl, she hooked one arm beneath his and the other around his waist, then bore him forward with a strength that belied her size.

They made it halfway across the room when his knees buckled.

"No. No, Emmrich—!"

She tightened her grip, but it was too late. He dropped to the floor, almost in slow motion, whimpering as his legs folded beneath him.

"Emmrich!" She crouched beside him, steadying him against her chest. He was trembling, his eyes rolling under their lids. "Sweetheart, you have to stay with me."

He groaned in defiance, head hanging low between his shoulder blades. One hand hovered over his ribs, his body curled ever so slightly inward.

"You can rest all you want once you're in your nice warm bed," Rook promised, her voice quaking but kind. "I'll even fluff the pillows for you. But you have to stand. Just one more time. Please. Can you do that for me?"

For a long moment, she feared he might pass out right there on the floor.

But eventually—painfully—he nodded.

"That's it," she praised. "It's almost over."

With immense effort, she hauled him upright, her heart twisting at the sound of his pitiful mewls. He was heavier than before, swaying into her—directionless. Gritting her teeth, she took a tottering step forward, bearing his weight inch by inch.

"That's it," she huffed. "Just lean on me. You're doing so well, sweetheart. We're almost there."

His lips parted, and one word scarcely escaped: "Rook..."

Her breath caught.

She almost stumbled.

She could have bawled from the way he said her name—like it meant everything. Like it was his reason for living, for enduring days of torture, for clinging to whatever scraps of hope he had left.

Her name was the thread that kept him tethered to reality.

"I... I'm here," she stuttered. "Just keep walking. I won't let you fall again."

Step by slow, agonising step, they made it to the bed—finally. Rook let out a long, exhausted breath and eased him down, her hand cupping the back of his head with the same care one might use to lower an infant into a crib.

"Ah, ah..." Emmrich stiffened the moment he met the mattress—the shift in stance, the pull of gravity, all wringing fresh pain from his battered midsection.

"I'm sorry," Rook murmured for the millionth time, adjusting him in search of the most comfortable position.

It took some trial and error, some fumbling, but lying on his back—with a cushion propping up his left side—seemed to suit him best. That side, for whatever reason, caused him the most distress.

"I'm sorry. So sorry."

His breathing was harsh, laboured, but once she had him settled, he melted under the blankets, the creases in his forehead loosening like knots unravelled. Lying there, his head nestled in a feathery pillow, he looked so small. So achingly innocent.

That was Emmrich Volkarin—a man of boundless compassion, who weathered sorrow without resentment, resisted violence until it was unavoidable, and reached for every outstretched hand, no matter how fleeting. A rare gleam of gold in a world tarnished by cruelty, hatred, and neglect.

"Emmrich, I..."

Rook's fingers curled into fists, her nails carving crescents into her palms. This was the first time since his rescue that she'd had a chance to truly look at him—alone, with no well-meaning intrusions, no one there to poke or prod him. Bathed, bandaged, soul intact—yet he was still a wreck. Still broken. Still soiled. Her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding into her gums.

What kind of monster could do this to a man like him?

They deserved to die. The Venatori. Elgar'nan. Ghilan'nain.

They all deserved to die!

"Dar...ling..."

She froze.

Emmrich's good eye fluttered open, just for a heartbeat—so swift she almost thought she'd imagined it. He looked at her, perhaps even smiled—all of it gone in the span of a second.

"Thank you..." he wheezed.

She didn't move. She didn't dare. Sleep had finally claimed him, and she feared even her own breathing might shatter the silence. An eternity seemed to pass before she was certain she wouldn't disturb him. Then she sat beside him on the bed, her eyes wide and shimmering. She reached for his hand—cold, chained, bare in a way that felt wrong—and held it gently between her own, as if she could shield him from the memory of his abduction.

And she wept.

[millermouth]

Summary: From below the bridge, you watch helplessly as chaos unfolds—gunfire, shouting, and the relentless tank chasing down the two people you prayed would survive.

a/n: kicking my feet writing that last part :') shorter chapter

It’s not until hours later, with the blue tinge of dusk beginning to peek through the overcast sky, that another sound reaches your ears besides the steady crash of waves.

Gunshots.

Your stomach pitches violently as the sharp cracks echo through the air, followed by distant shouting and screams. The bridge above comes alive with chaos, the muffled sounds of conflict carrying across the water. You leap to your feet, straining to make out what’s happening.

And then you see it—the tank again.

Its hulking shape moves like a beast in the dim light, the muzzle flashing as it fires through the air. Sparks and smoke ignite the night, casting eerie shadows that make your chest clench.

“Shit,” Henry mutters beside you, already standing and staring up at the scene.

But you don’t respond. Your eyes are locked on the figures near the bridge’s edge, moving frantically. One of them is small, darting between flashes of light—the unmistakable shape of Ellie.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Beside her, Joel. His broad frame moves with deliberate urgency, grabbing Ellie’s arm as the turret fires again, closer this time.

“No,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the realization crashes over you.

Joel and Ellie are running, their silhouettes stark against the glow of chaos. They sprint toward the edge of the bridge, their movements desperate.

And then they leap.

Time seems to slow as they disappear from the ledge, their bodies plunging into the dark water below.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the world feels completely still.

“No!” you shout, your voice hoarse as you stumble forward, your legs trembling beneath you.

“They’re in the water,” Henry says quickly, gripping your arm as if to hold you back. “They’ll make it—they have to.”

But the moment they hit the river below, you lose track of them. Your mind reels as you stare at the spot where they vanished, the water is churning and shifting in the dim light. Panic grips your chest like a vise, your breaths shallow and erratic.

“I can’t see them!” you cry, scanning the water frantically. “Where are they?”

Henry steps closer, squinting into the dark. “There!” he shouts, pointing toward a jagged rock jutting out of the water. The turret’s fire above has momentarily stopped, but the tension in the air remains suffocating.

Your heart plummets as you make out their forms—Joel’s body slumped against the rock, Ellie in his arms, both unmoving.

“They’re not—Henry, we have to—”

“No way,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “That current’s strong, it's too dangerous.”

“I don’t care!” you snap, tears stinging your eyes as you clutch his arm. “Please, Henry! Help me get them!”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he glances back at Sam, who stands frozen a few steps behind.

“Sam can’t swim,” he mutters, his voice strained.

“Then he stays here!” you shout, already pulling off your pack. “Please, Henry. They’ll die if we don’t.”

For a long moment, he stares at you, the conflict etched across his face. Then he curses under his breath, his hands moving to shrug off his gear. “Alright,” he sighs. “Let’s go.”

The two of you plunge into the icy water, the shock of it stealing your breath. The current tugs at you immediately, but you push through, your eyes locked on the jagged rock ahead.

“Ellie!” you scream, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the current waves.

As you get closer, the scene becomes clearer. Joel’s arm is draped protectively around Ellie, his body half-slumped against the rock’s edge. Neither of them are moving.

“I’ve got Joel!” Henry shouts, swimming toward him.

You reach Ellie first, gripping her by the shoulders and tugging her free from Joel’s grasp. Her small frame is limp, her head lolling against your chest as you struggle to keep her above the water.

“Come on, Ellie,” you whisper desperately, tears mixing with the water on your face. “Stay with me.”

Henry pulls Joel off the rock with a grunt, his movements powerful but hurried as he drags him through the water.

“Head for the shore!” Henry calls, his voice strained.

You nod, the weight of Ellie in your arms almost too much as you kick and fight the current. Somehow, the beach feels impossibly far, but the sand finally brushes against your knees as you stumble onto the shore.

Collapsing onto the wet sand, you lay Ellie down, your hands trembling as you tilt her head back. “Come on, come on,” you mutter, pressing your hands to her chest and starting pushing with all your might. With a steady rhythm, you push into her over and over, hands intertwined over each other on her soaked body.

Henry drags Joel onto the shore a few feet away, his body slumped and unmoving. “Joel?” Henry calls, shaking his shoulder, but there’s no response.

You keep working on Ellie, your panic mounting with every second that passes. “Breathe, Ellie. Please, just breathe!”

Finally, she coughs, water sputtering from her lips as her chest heaves.

“Oh god,” you cry, pulling her into a tight hug, your tears spilling freely now. She clings to you weakly, her small arms trembling.

“H–holy shit,” she sputters, pulling away to look you in the eye, “You’re alright!”

“ Me? ” you nearly let out a laugh that sounds nearly hysterical, “I can’t believe you made it!”

She cracks a tired smile, then looks over at Joel laying in the sand nearby. He still hasn’t moved, his body eerily still as Henry kneels beside him, his hand pressing to Joel’s chest.

“Come on, Joel,” you whisper, your voice tight with emotion as you kneel nearby, Ellie still clinging to your side.

Henry exhales, leaning back slightly. “He’s breathing,” he says finally, glancing at you and Ellie. “Just out cold.”

You nod slowly, your body sagging with relief. Ellie releases a shaky breath beside you, her small hands gripping Joel’s sleeve tightly.

Minutes pass in tense silence, the sound of waves crashing against the shore the only backdrop. You and Ellie stay close to Joel, her wide eyes watching his still form. She doesn’t speak, but the way she shifts nervously beside you makes it clear she’s still afraid.

Henry moves a few feet away, calling softly to Sam. The younger boy approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between Joel and the water as he lingers near Henry’s side.

After what feels like an eternity, Henry turns to you. “Hey,” he calls quietly, motioning you over.

You hesitate, glancing back at Joel. Ellie hasn’t let go of his sleeve, and you meet her eyes briefly. “I’ll be right back,”

She nods, her grip unwavering as she keeps her eyes on Joel.

Rising to your feet, you move toward Henry, your legs heavy and sore from the ordeal.

“We need to figure out the next step,” Henry says, keeping his voice low. His gaze flicks toward Joel and Ellie briefly before returning to you. “We can’t stay here long. If those hunters saw them jump, they’ll be sweeping this area soon.”

Your stomach twists at the thought, but you nod. “What’s your plan?”

“There’s a tunnel up ahead,” Henry says, pointing toward the shadowy expanse of beach leading to a crumbled rock face. “Well, more like the sewer. But it should take us under all of this and out of their line of sight.”

You follow his line of sight to the jagged rocks that meet the sandy beach, dread pooling in your stomach. But before you can respond, Ellie calls out from behind you.

“He’s awake!”

“See? What’d I tell you, huh?” Henry says with a broad smile, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. “He’s good. Everything is fine.”

But as Joel rises to his feet, there’s nothing “fine” about the way he moves. His steps are slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on Henry with a dark intensity.

When Joel reaches him, he doesn’t hesitate—he shoves Henry hard, sending him sprawling onto the sand.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Henry shouts, startled as he hits the ground.

You step forward instinctively, your gaze flicking between Joel and Henry. Joel’s hand goes to his pistol, drawing it in one fluid motion and pointing it directly at Henry’s chest.

“Joel, no!” Ellie yells, scrambling to her feet.

Sam shouts for his brother, trying to move toward him, but Joel’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and unyielding. “Get back, son.”

Henry’s hand shoots up toward Joel, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to get his attention back on him, “Hey, hey, hey,” he says quickly, his voice edged with nervousness. “He’s pissed, sure, but he’s not gonna shoot me.”

“You’re sure about that?” Joel snarls, his voice dangerous The pistol doesn’t waver, the tension in his body coiled tight as a spring.

You step forward cautiously, not quite getting between them but close enough to catch Joel’s attention. “Joel, stop,” you say firmly, your voice steady even as your heart pounds.

Joel doesn’t look at you immediately, his gaze locked on Henry. “You left us to die out there,” he growls. “Took off with her without a second thought.”

Henry’s eyes flick to you briefly, then back to Joel. “You had a good chance of making it,” he says, his voice more serious now. “And you did.” He gestures toward Joel, keeping his hands raised. “Coming back for you would’ve put Sam at risk. And her.”

Joel’s jaw tightens at the mention of your name, his glare hardening.

Henry presses on, his voice firm but not hostile. “I wasn’t gonna let Sam be in the line of fire. And she was already over the top, so it was easier to keep her safe by keeping her with us.”

“You think that justifies it?” Joel snaps.

Henry lets out a short breath, his hands still raised. “If it was the other way around—if Sam and I were pinned down—would you have risked Ellie?” 

Joel’s silence is heavy, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. His grip on the pistol tightens briefly before he curses under his breath and lowers the weapon, shoving it back into his holster.

Henry exhales slowly, lowering his hands but not moving just yet. His eyes flicker between you and Joel. “For what it’s worth,” he sighs as he pushes himself to his feet, brushing sand off his clothes, “I’m glad we spotted you.” He pauses, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, shespotted you.” his voice lighter now as he points toward the cliffs. “Radio tower’s just on the other side of here, okay? It’s gonna be full of supplies, and you’re gonna be real happy you didn’t kill me.”

Joel doesn’t respond, his jaw tight as he turns away, his focus shifting to Ellie, who’s standing a few steps back with Sam. She’s watching the scene carefully, her small hands curled into fists at her sides. 

“We’re gonna search this area, meet us up at the side of the cliff over here. I know a way through.” Henry calls over as his hand finds Sam’s shoulder and they walk away. 

Joel only nods, his shoulders sagging slightly as he turns away with Ellie. You watch them go to the water’s edge, their figures silhouetted against the faint light creeping over the horizon. Ellie says something to him, her voice too low for you to make out, but her head tilts toward you as she speaks.

Joel stops, turning back. Ellie’s eyes flick to yours, her expression unreadable, before she moves to stand by Sam and Henry near the rocks.

Your breath catches as Joel approaches, his footsteps deliberate but measured. He stops in front of you, his broad frame looming, but there’s something different in his stance—hesitation, like he’s unsure of himself. For all his sharp edges and dangerous presence, discomfort seems to settle on him easily in moments like this.

For a beat, he just looks at you, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, to your heart-stopping surprise, his hand reaches out. There’s a brief pause, his fingers hovering midair as if he’s reconsidering, before his thumb and forefinger gently pinch your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze.

You stand frozen, your hair dripping down your back and chest. Your skin prickles with cold, but all of it fades into the background.

Joel’s face is closer than you’ve ever seen it. The scar across his nose, the graying strands in his beard, the faint lines around his eyes—all of it feels sharper in the stillness.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and quiet.

You manage a nod, your throat tight. “Mhm,” you murmur, the sound barely audible. Words feel impossible while his hand still holds you, his touch so unexpectedly gentle that it sends warmth rushing through your chest.

His thumb shifts slightly, brushing the corner of your jaw before he pulls his hand away. The absence of his touch leaves you unsteady, your knees weak as you try to steady your breathing.

You stand there for a moment, your thoughts spinning as you watch him walk away. Ellie glances back briefly, her expression unreadable before she turns and follows Joel, but you can’t help but notice the almost knowing smile that plays around her lips. You exhale softly, dragging a hand through your damp hair before falling into step with the rest of the group. 

[sanriobuny]

Part 2: Getting the Cross

Pairings: JJ x Reader, dark!Rafe x Reader

Warnings: Kidnapping, emotional manipulation, gun violence, mild drugging effects, swearing

You woke to motion.

The low, uneven rumble of a truck engine vibrated beneath you, your head lolling against a cold window. Every nerve in your body screamed with drowsy confusion. Your limbs felt like cement. Your tongue was heavy in your mouth.

The fog in your brain lifted just enough to register the voice beside you.

“I know you’re awake,” Rafe said quietly. “You always furrow your brow when you’re dreaming.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The edges of your vision still swam, the world shifting like waves under a boat.

“You’ll feel better soon,” he added. “I didn’t give you that much.”

You forced yourself upright. “Where are we?”

He smiled, eyes fixed on the road. “Safe.”

That word again.

“Rafe,” you rasped. “Turn around.”

“No,” he said easily. “You don’t see it now, but this is better. You’re not meant for scraps and half-assed plans. You deserve gold, baby.”

You tried the handle. Locked.

His smile didn’t falter. “We’re already too far. And even if you jumped — you think JJ’s gonna get to you in time? He’s not that kind of guy. Not like me.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “He’s exactly that kind of guy.”

Silence.

Then Rafe’s hands tightened on the wheel, veins popping in his forearms.

“We’ll see.”

He reached for you. You slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

His jaw tensed. “You used to let me touch you.”

“That was before you lost your mind.”

His eyes darkened. For a heartbeat, you thought he might explode. But instead, he smiled — that eerie, sideways kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll see… No JJ. No distractions. You’ll remember why you loved me.”

---

JJ was sprinting until his lungs gave out.

The second your body slumped in that passenger seat, something in him snapped — something primal and electric. He didn’t stop screaming your name until the truck disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“They took her,” he panted, hunched over with hands on his knees. “Rafe took her.”

John B, catching up after chasing Rose — who had dragged Sarah away — was breathless. “We need help. Right now.”

“No. We don’t wait,” JJ said, straightening with fire in his eyes. “We go after them. I’m not losing her.”

His fists trembled. He looked feral — not reckless, but fueled by something deeper. Something unshakable.

“She jumped that wall alone,” he whispered. “And I let her.”

Pope laid a hand on his shoulder. “Then we get her back.”

---

JJ was on the warpath.

He tore through OBX backroads, Pope and John B crammed in the van beside him.

“She’s strong,” Pope said. “She’ll hang on. They both will.”

JJ shook his head. “She doesn’t need to hang on. She needs out.”

They were coming.

And Rafe didn’t know it yet — but this time, the Pogues weren’t playing defense.

They were coming for war.

Because this time, they all had something to lose.

---

The truck pulled up to the pier. You saw the massive cargo ship ahead, cranes loading shipping containers one by one.

“No — Rafe, I’m not getting on that boat! You can’t take me away from here. Please!” You begged, yanking on the handle again, praying it might somehow be unlocked. You kept pulling, pounding your fists against the door, knowing your fate was sealing shut.

“This is for your own good,” Rafe said calmly. “You’ll be thanking me when you see where we’re going — and why.”

Tears welled in your eyes. You really were trapped.

Then you saw Rose’s car pull up. She and Wheezie were dragging an unresponsive Sarah toward the ship.

You scoffed. “No surprise there. You lied again. You drugged her, too!”

Rafe didn’t flinch. “That one was all Rose. I couldn’t care less if Sarah came or not. I only care that you make it on that ship.”

He came around to your side, opening the door and pulling you out firmly.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he murmured. “I told them that. You’re here because I want you here.”

Your voice was a whisper. “That doesn’t make this okay.”

He tilted his head, almost looking hurt. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to protect you.”

You looked him dead in the eye. “Then let me go.”

The steel in your voice made him pause. But only for a second. Then he gave a tight smile and stood.

“I can’t. You’ll see why.”

A foghorn blew — long and low.

They were preparing to sail.

You lunged.

Caught him off guard — you drove your shoulder into his ribs. He stumbled back, surprised, but recovered fast, spinning you around and slamming you against the railing.

You struggled, legs kicking, teeth bared.

“I don’t want this!” you screamed.

Rafe wrapped his arms around you and held tight.

His breath was ragged in your ear. “You used to.”

You twisted violently. His grip slipped — and you broke free, just long enough to run.

All you could think was: Where is JJ?

---

JJ was unraveling.

Pacing the shoreline like a caged animal, he stared out at the ship anchored just offshore. The drilling rig. The cranes. The cargo.

He knew — knew — you were on that boat.

“She’s on that ship,” he said through gritted teeth, gripping the binoculars so hard his knuckles went white. “I swear to God, she’s on it.”

“They’re taking the cross,” Pope confirmed, glued to the scope. “Probably getting ready to leave the country. They’re running.”

“No.” JJ turned, eyes blazing. “Rafe’s running. And he���s taking her with him.”

John B cursed. “How do we get on?”

JJ didn’t hesitate. “We don’t ask. We move. Make a distraction.”

---

It didn’t take long.

Rafe threw you over his shoulder and hauled you up the ramp, ignoring your kicking and screaming. No one stopped him. Probably all paid off.

You were thrown into a room — his room, judging by the open suitcase on the floor.

You tried everything. The handle. The window. Every inch of the room was sealed.

You were trapped.

You collapsed by the porthole, tears blurring your vision — and then your eyes caught it.

A flash in the distance.

A massive explosion ripped through one of the shipping containers, flames curling into the sky.

Your breath caught.

You watched the crew panic, running to contain the fire.

And in that moment — for the first time in what felt like forever — you felt it.

Hope.

---

JJ had fired into the flammable pipe.

The blast gave them cover.

And the chance to slip into a container undetected — ensuring they made it onto the ship.

They were coming.

And this time, JJ wasn’t going to lose you.

Authors note - couldn't stop writing, so I made a part 2 to the story. If you haven't already seen it, part 1 is on my page. I'm in the process of making a masterlist, so please bare with me :3

[captain-evil-bastard]

honestly i don't think mileven is endgame at all. like little to no chance. byler though is either gonna be open ended, hinted, or explicitly shown and i'm 100% sure of that, although i REALLY think the focus of s5 will be them mending their platonic relationship further. i think so there's less backlash they'll attempt to let general audiences see how they work as a pair EQUALLY unlike mileven, as well as showing that they work together on more levels than instantly getting into a relationship (ik they've been friends for years but the duffers have to make up for how mike was to will in a good chunk of s3-4).

overall i think the ACTUAL chances of the 'byler kiss' are pretty slim, but i'm not opposed to being proved wrong. we have to remember that this show has a shit ton of characters despite the focus on will this season and that they ALL need to have some loose ends tied up still as well (praying on that hopper and el duo and dustin angst arc loll)

i don't think many people will actually be upset by the implication of byler in the show aside from hardcore mileven shippers (nobody really had heavy backlash for will crushing on mike so...). i can tell you that most fans are ship neutral, if not against mileven because of their related breakups.

so overall? byler will be canon one way or another, but realistically it's not gonna be super-duper lovey dovey (considering mike is still theoretically deep in the closet). and honestly? that's still really satisfying for a mainstream show to have a significant, well built-up queer arc.

ALSO while i consider myself to be relatively objective and logical i could be wrong. argue with me! tag this when s5 rolls around and it's revealed that will is actually vecnas son and mike was a mass hallucination from stranger things fans!

[prettiestofpisces]

can’t wait to see what happens next https://www.tumblr.com/prettiestofpisces/754910199527194624/breanna-stewart-x-reader

Breanna Stewart x Reader

part 2 to this

thank you all for the love..

it’s FINALLY here🫡

⋆⭒˚.⋆smut, dildo use, geno mention loll

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

it took every ounce of you to leave breanna alone, to not call and plead for her to return.

you placed the cards in her hands.

whether she longed for your forgiveness or would rather leave your heart lonesome, all you asked for was closure.

to know if the one and only women you’ve shared your soul with felt the same sparks fly when near….

it’d been weeks, three to be exact since you last saw breanna. you didn’t know if that night was the last time you’d ever see or speak to her again, so it ate you alive how it all ended, her sad and sorry eyes lingering in your mind.

sure enough breanna had regrets of her own. seeing you however often to not at all filled her with sorrow.

she wasn’t herself, her smile faded, and negativity clouded her judgement.

lashing out ballistically on her teammates whenever she could, stomping wherever she went, she was taking her frustrations out on those who didn’t deserve it, much like you.

her friends, teammates and most importantly coaches saw the anguish in her eyes and geno took it upon himself to solve it.

sitting down in his office breanna huffed, sighed and rolled her eyes, geno sitting across from her.

“did i do something?” she says.

“well you curse out your teammates every practice so i’d say so…” very blatant in his approach, breanna looks around the room.

“…and i can’t run a team like that, the fighting has got to stop but i need to know why it started.” still unable to look geno in the eye, her leg starts to tap. thinking of what to say and where to begin, she takes a deep breath.

“this girl, she means a lot to me but i think i lost her…” her words start to tremble.

“…i guess i was scared to commit but now that she’s gone, i-it keeps me up at night, i’m miserable coach and i don’t want to be.” tears cascaded down from her eyes that were now locked on geno. she looked deep searching for an answer he could give.

his heart softened, rarely did he see his gentle giant in such despair. she would sometimes doubt herself or forget where she was but never succumbed.

“kid, there’s a simple solution, tell her how you feel!” he said it slow yet stern.

“tell her you need her and want to be with her, she’ll know you mean it! you can’t let silly little thoughts keep you from being happy, okay?”

“okay.” she whispers. wrinkling the skin of her cheeks, as she takes the back of her hand to wipe her tears.

“thanks you coach” she smiles.

in the locker room after cleaning herself up breanna sat infront of her bench highlighted “b. stewart” with the number thirty.

pulling out her phone she scrolled through her contacts, eventually landing on yours.

the first ring sounded and breanna prayed you picked up.

then the second, and her hopes plummeted.

when on the third she heard a soft voice say “hello?”

“oh- god tell me you’re in your room? i just want to talk!” breanna says.

“i am but seriously b i don’t think it’s a good time” you said in attempt to keep her away but still, she persisted.

“five minutes is all i ask, please?”

you knew you couldn’t stop her from making amends or at least hear out so in an instant she was at your doorstep.

when you heard knocking on your door, you of course knew it was breanna.

opening it she stood tall, with her hair a mess and eyes as red as roses.

“hey” she says breathlessly.

“hi” you say in return.

once again finding it hard to make eye contact she looks at her feet.

“b have you been crying?” you ask subtly.

“it uh- that doesn’t matter, i wanted to speak to you on where we stand.” she stuttered.

“i hated how things ended up you know?”

“right, so where do we stand?”

“i’m not exactly sure but i know that i’m sorry…”

“and i know i want to stand where you are, i want to be with you and for you.” although sounding so poetic, all you noticed was breanna on the verge of tears again.

you looked at her with empathy in your eyes. you knew she meant it but until she proved herself, there was nothing for you to do.

“to answer your question, yes, i’ve been crying. you make me emotional.” chuckling, she bit the inside of her cheek.

“c’mere” you say welcoming breanna into your arms. hugging you oh so tight until she speaks indistinctly in your shoulder.

“i missed you, so bad. it hurt me to not have you around.” a beat of silence taking over.

“yeah?” you said almost seductively in breanna’s ear.

the breath of your voice just barley tickled the hairs on her skin, yet it set flames off in breanna. pulling away from the hug, arms still entangled, she stares at your lips.

not wanting to move too fast she places her hands in the curve of your back while yours rest on the nape of her neck.

the only thing that could be heard was your heavy breathing.

“we don’t have to-“ she says.

“i know.” being your reply.

playing with the dark curls left out of her ponytail you then guide her lips to yours.

slowly molding to one another you remember just what she tasted like, sweet mint.

next place you guide her is to the bedroom. your roommate nowhere to be found meaning you had the freedom of being as loud as you liked.

the golden fairy lights twinkling all over made breanna look sun-kissed, you wanted her more than ever before.

undressing and settling on your bed you notice breanna rummaging through your nightstand only to pull out a sparkly, lilac dildo.

“you use this plenty, don’t you?” face stoic.

“only when you’re not around” you tease.

breanna stripping to just her boxers, she makes way between your legs that are spread wide.

on her knee between your pussy she takes the dildo leveling it with your mouth. inserting it in slowly, it fits down your throat perfect.

now coated in spit, she shoves it in your cunt and your mouth falls open immediately.

in shock your pussy has been filled to the brim you close your legs.

“breanna!” you exclaim.

ignoring your outburst she aggressively plies your legs apart.

“no, you can take it! you’ve clearly been using it all this time..”

breanna takes hold of the dildo that’s deep inside you, and begins to pump it in and out. the more your moans fill the room the faster she goes.

“keep going bre, don’t fucking stop!”

to which she doesn’t. she fucks you till your eyes are rolling in the back of your head.

wishing she could feel your walls clenching around the lilac toy. instead she watches the creamy fluid spill out of you as you cum around the dildo.

snatching it out your hole breanna takes her tongue and collects every last drop but she doesn’t stop there either.

sucking and fucking your clit with her tongue, she spells her name in it.

“bre fuck me like you love me!” you scream undoubtedly knowing your neighbors hear every word.

taking a break from eating you out she tells you what you’ve been yearning to hear.

“god i do, i fucking love you so much”

attaching herself back to your clit she makes you cum for a second time, directly in her mouth.

���── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

we ended on a nasty note but did we like???

speaking of nasty, i’m going to step away from smut for 2 seconds but feel free to still send in whatever your heart desires.

i can’t help but think when writing smut “they just might read this” …LMAO anyways

love you all💋

bye<3

[annievrse]

iced caramel macchiato

eren x reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: you have a run-in with eren; a man you hate from the moment you see him. w/c: 1.8k c/w: eren is a dickhead but we love him for it ok we are all in agreeance a/n: was debating if i should rewrite this for eren & i did. enjoy!!

Service had been slow. So terribly slow that you were sure your head would roll off your neck from the number of times you'd looked at the clock on the wall behind you. The copper hands of the round object ticked obnoxiously, making you rub your temple firmly.

Closing your eyes, you lolled your head back to stare at the grainy ceiling, praying that the bell above the glass front door would chime. When that didn't happen (shocker), you moved your head back to stare blankly at the door before you ran your hands over the brown apron on your hips, the fabric harsh against your fingers. 

Antsy, you bent down to lean your head on your palm in a bored manner. You tilted your head as you watched the countless pedestrians walk past the coffee shop. Just one customer, please!

The light reflecting off the glass gave you a headache, but you refused to look away. In your state of utter boredom, anything would be exciting, even if that meant burning your corneas.

Your gaze had begun to blur when the glass door opened, and a man stalked in. He was mumbling low into his phone, telling someone named Connie that he didn’t know where Jean was. You silently cheered at the sight of a customer, pleased to be productive on the slow workday. 

The man had half of his hair pulled into a bun in the middle of his head and looked borderline intimidating with his cold stare as he scanned the shop.

You were slightly concerned at the sound of him not knowing where someone was, thinking he would simply move off to the side to finish his call before ordering, but he didn’t. He walked up to the counter, eyes focused on the menu behind your head.

You seethed slightly at the blatant disrespect of the man. How were you supposed to catch someone’s order in between a string of conversations they’re having with someone else about something completely different? You never understood how someone could be so rude. 

Nonetheless, the man stood there talking aimlessly before glancing down at you with an apathetic look. You furrowed your brows at him before your eyes flickered to the cash register. You picked at your nails before the man paused his phone call to order. But clearing his throat caught you off guard, and you lifted your eyes to meet the man’s hard stare. 

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

Your eyebrows flew to your hairline as you stuttered. “W-What?” 

The man huffed as he shifted his weight to his other foot and swapped his phone to his other ear simultaneously, his eyes wide with irritation. He waved his hand in front of your face as you stood in shock at his rudeness. The man rolled his eyes before speaking to the person on the phone again. You plucked a plastic cup from the stack and the Sharpie pen rolling on the counter, ready for his choice. However, you soon had a death grip on the cup as he continued to talk to the person on the line. 

“A cold caramel, whatever.”

You caught what he mumbled before he continued whispering into his phone, grumbling bitterly to yourself that that wasn’t a drink. But, not wanting to have to interact with him any longer, you asked for his name. 

“Eren.”

And with that, he dug into his pocket for a $5 note, threw it onto the counter, and stepped to the side, laughing into his device. You blinked in disbelief, holding the black Sharpie marker in your hand.

How can his demeanour shift so quickly?

Pulling yourself together, you scribbled quickly, ‘E-… Ethan’.

You cocked your head at the spelling but shrugged one shoulder, sliding it onto the metal bench beside you, and turning to grab the ingredients to make his sickly sweet drink. 

When you called ‘Ethan’, the man either wasn’t paying attention or didn’t care because he took his drink and left, not even glancing at you, who had said the wrong name. 

The next day’s rush was far more fast-paced. The chatter around the coffee shop made it nearly impossible to hear the customers' orders at the counter—but it was how you liked it. The more customers, the faster the day goes. And at this pace, you swore your shift was almost over. 

As you finished taking the order of a young girl, your mood instantly dimmed when said girl moved to the side. With his head down, Eren stood before you, typing on his phone and murmuring his order. You couldn’t hear him. You tilted your head to the side as you huffed. The plain disrespect, again. 

“Excuse me?” You said while leaning closer to him. 

He glanced at you before sighing.

“A caramel cold, no cream,” His irritated expression made you stare blankly at him. 

His bleak response earned a quick eyebrow raise from you, who struggled to understand his order but grabbed a cup anyway and scribbled ‘Egor’ on the side and a whole bunch of jargon on ‘caramel cold’. You assumed he meant the same drink as yesterday.

And as the same as yesterday, his hair was pulled back, leaving his forehead bare and the crease between his brows evident.

Why is he always so angry?  

Over the next few weeks, you continually and deliberately got Eren’s name wrong. You had become quite creative with ridiculous nicknames when he ordered his boring ‘cold caramel’ drink and thought he deserved it from how rude he was to you. As much as you disliked the man, you found fun in getting his name wrong. 

Edgar, Earl, Ren, and even Egg. At this point, you could yell ‘erection’, and he’d just accept it. 

You had the luck of not running into him anywhere outside of the coffee shop, saving you the embarrassment of confessing why exactly you got his name wrong.

But you couldn’t help it. You hated it when people were distracted whilst they ordered, along with asshole men who waved their hands in front of your face when you were simply waiting for them to finish their call to tell you their order. 

No matter how much you despised it, Eren never failed to walk into the shop without being on his phone. And he never once looked at you when he walked out with his drink, only sparing you a glance when ordering. You just didn’t understand this man! 

It was Friday, and it was raining. The dark clouds hung in the sky like a bad smell, and you couldn’t shake the feeling in your gut. It was 15 minutes to closing time, and Eren hadn’t walked in today. A weird disappointment washed over you as you gazed out the glass door. 

The bell chimed for the last time that day at 5:55 pm, and as you wrote down the abbreviations of a latte on the top of a white coffee lid, you were disappointed. It was subtle, but it was there. And you didn’t know why it sat at the bottom of your stomach for so long, but it wasn’t pleasant. 

But as you went to close the register, the bell at the door rang. Your head shot up from looking at the numbers on the buttons, and you were met with Eren — no phone in sight. As much as you looked forward to writing down your new nickname for him, you were caught off guard at the new development.

Eren looked you straight in the eye and smiled. You were shocked, nearly dropping the black Sharpie hanging from your fingertips when he leaned on the counter. The cup in your hands was close to falling on the floor when he nodded towards it. 

“Iced caramel macchiato. And get my name right this time.” 

You felt your cheeks heat up, scrunching your nose in embarrassment. “So you did notice.” 

The man hummed in confirmation before he reached over the register to snatch the cup from your grasp. “Of course I did, and I’m gonna show you how to spell it right.” 

You quickly bit back the urge to comment that you knew how to spell his fucking name but patiently waited for him to return it. 

He handed the cup back to you, holding it teasingly above your head before he dropped it onto the counter. You caught the cup before it rolled onto the floor, confused at the scribble of numbers on the cup instead of his name.

You lifted your head to meet his gaze and saw his mouth drawn into a large grin. Your features softened at the expression, and you gave him a soft, closed-lipped smile. You turned your head to look toward the menu behind you, the numbers next to the orders catching your attention.

“Are these all of the orders you want?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows while you looked back to the cup.

Oh. 

Eren bit back a giggle and shook his head at your expression. “It’s my number.”

As shocked as you were, you managed to keep your grip on the cup despite it nearly falling from your hand again. 

“W-Why?” You mumbled, body tingling at the thought of Eren even thinking about you that way. 

Eren sighed. “Only the people I’m dating can call me Ren.” 

And then he spun around and walked back towards the door. You were frozen as Eren threw a glance over his shoulder.

“This place closes in 5, right? I’ll wait outside while you finish, and we’ll get dinner together.” 

His statement lingered even after he left. You still held the plastic cup in your hand as you stared at the spot he was last in. Your heartbeat was all you could hear when you finally blinked. 

No… I can’t. He’s— 

You shifted your eyes to the cup and the haphazard writing, and your heart skipped. 

As soon as you stepped out of the shop, your apron in the bag that was on your shoulder, you spotted his figure leaning against the side of the bookshop next door—typing on his phone. You scoffed a laugh as you approached him. 

Eren lifted his head at the sound of someone nearing and smiled when he saw you. 

“Ready?” He asked, offering you his elbow. You rolled your eyes at his gesture, nodded and placed your hand on his bicep. 

No matter what happened in the past, you were willing to see where this went… with Egor- I mean Eren. 

[superblysubpar]

Happy Friday! Could I request prompt #22 with Steve and shy!reader?

Steve’s mouth trails down your neck, the scent of spearmint on his lips hits your senses as his breath warms your skin. He drags one finger through your folds, a slow and teasing circle on the edge of your clit before he dips lower again. 

“St-Stevie-please, I-” you whine, cut off by a quick kiss as your fingers tug on his collar. 

“Hey.”

Steve smiles against your jaw, fully clothed and eyes roaming over your naked body spread out on your comforter. It should be embarrassing, the way you’re on display for him, but it’s just hot. Your eyes glaze over as you watch his keep devouring you. 

His fingers slip too easily up and down your slit, coating your thighs in more slick as he hums. “She likes it when I take my time with her, huh?”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” Body squirming underneath him as your teeth dig into your bottom lip, nodding frantically - desperate for the burning in your stomach to keep building. You feel crazy, greedy for his fingers to finally give you what you want. 

But not yet - you don’t dare give up this teasing and what it’s doing to you. You need it to last.

“Honey, wake up…”

Your head lolls to the side, eyelids fluttering as you make another sound. Louder, and one that shoots little sparks across his brain, neurons firing and lighting up a very specific spot. 

Jesus fucking christ. 

He knows that sound. Steve Harrington has made other girls make that sound. 

You’re having a sex dream. 

“Steve.” Your hips shift and roll against the couch you’re draped across, his name leaves your lips clearer than the first time he only thought he heard it. Your forehead wrinkles and your lips form a soft pout. 

Steve’s mouth drops open, his grip on the paper sack of greasy take out and the strawberry shake he brought over as a surprise slipping. 

You’re not just having a sex dream. You’re having a sex dream about him. 

Steve’s tongue licks over his bottom lip and he takes a deep, calming breath through his nose, eyes roaming over your figure. Your little cotton sleep shorts and a ratty band tee he’s seen you in hundreds of times seem teasing, cruel, fucking downright sinful now. 

It’s not like looking at you this way is like, uncharted territory, he is a man with eyeballs and a dick who really likes that one top you wear. Sue him for maybe having your face creep into his thoughts a handful of times while he’s jerked himself off. It’s not that weird for your best friend to turn you on occasionally.

His head tilts as you sigh in your sleep, his cock straining in his jeans. 

Okay, maybe a little more than occasionally. 

He curses under his breath when your hips roll again, squeezing his eyes shut. 

What does he do? Keep watching you? No, Harrington, that is so pervy. Think with your brain and not your dick.

 Leave the food and run home and replay this moment in his head forever in the privacy of his bedroom? Yeah, that’s a better idea. 

“Steve?”

Your best friend’s eyes shoot open, a strawberry milkshake in his hand coating it in condensation and you avert your eyes, looking back up at his face quickly. You’re disgusting, thinking about his wet fingers in your dream - pull it together. 

“He-” he clears his throat and looks down, deepening his voice, “Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh, um, that’s okay. You brought me food?” You sit up and pull your legs to your chest, suddenly aware that you definitely got more than a little aroused while sleeping. 

Steve sucks in his breath at the way your shorts reveal the start of the curve of your ass and looks up at the ceiling then the doorway, praying you can’t see his erection. “Uh, yeah. You said you had a bad day yesterday.”

“That’s really sweet, wanna eat with me? We can watch a movie or something?” Dropping your legs back down, you preoccupy yourself with finding the remote, body heating up as his weight makes the couch bounce when he sits next to you.

Right next to you. 

His thigh brushes the bare skin of yours, your shorts ride up slightly and Steve’s eyes track the fabric’s movement slowly, wishing he was wearing only his boxers so he could feel his skin against yours, stupid fucking jeans, why is he wearing-

“Steve?”

Your question derails his thoughts, and he turns his head, almost smacking his nose against yours. “Oh, shit, sorry, I’m…kind of close, huh?”

He doesn’t move away though, and you watch his adams apple bob, watch his eyes move slowly over your face until they meet yours. His voice comes out in a soft murmur, “I can…”

Maybe dream you is still occupying your brain, taken over, you’re not quite fully awake or something, because no way in hell would you normally have the confidence to do what you do next. 

Your lips brush his, parting over his top one in a short and over too fast kiss. You barely feel it, you want more. But you’re an idiot who just sort of kissed her best friend. 

Steve’s heart is thumping in his ears, he’s not sure he’s ever been more nervous in his entire life. He’s kissed loads of girls. He knows what he’s doing, he really does. But before his brain can sort out what’s happening, you’re already pulling away. 

“So-sorry,” you stutter, eyes going wide. 

He drops the food and shake on the coffee table, hand reaching towards your jaw, cold fingers cupping it as he pulls you back in. Steve’s mouth moves over yours patiently, like he’s tasting and memorizing. Softer than you expected, plush and warm, and so so so slow. His thumb brushes across your cheek, buzzes of electricity jolt through you, your stomach flips, your arms have goosebumps forming. 

Holy shit you’re kissing your best friend. 

Steve tries to relax, he wants to remember this, this isn’t like kissing other girls. He wants to take his time, but your lips fit with his like no one else's, his stomach is doing this thing that he can’t even explain and he almost busts in his jeans when you make a little gasp into his mouth when his tongue licks over your top lip. 

Holy fuck. 

Your fingers tug around his collar, soft cotton under the pads as you pull him even closer and Steve’s fingers curl around your chin, tugging down with his thumb so you open more for him. His other palm lands on your hip, and he actually can’t keep it still. He wants to map you out with his fingers and tongue, trace every curve and dip. His hand curls around your back, taking the hem of your shirt with a finger and now his skin touches yours. 

You pant against his mouth in an attempt for air but you can’t stay away, lips meeting again as your noses squish harder together. His tongue flicks against yours as his hand moves up your spine. Heated skin that reacts to his touch, your body actually shivers as his hand moves higher and his tongue works over yours a little messy and more than a little dirty.  

When Steve meets nothing the higher and higher he climbs on your skin his eyelids flutter and he gasps, “Are you, you’re not wearing-fuck.”

You laugh into his lips, and it’s like the sound pulls him back like a magnet. He hasn’t made out with someone like this since he was 16. Actually, he’s never made out with someone like this. He falls backwards on the couch, stretched out across it, taking you with him. Lips parting over yours as he squeezes at your sides, not daring to touch your boobs yet, sliding back down to your hips which you roll against him and he sees stars. 

When you breathe his name into his lips, gasping when the denim of his jeans hits you in just the right spot, you remember your dream and this isn’t it. This is real. This is your best friend.

“We, we should slow down,” you pull away, gasping for air. 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, tongue licking over swollen and tinted red lips as he nods. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

You hold yourself up, palms flat to the cushion on either side of his head, but your hips remain pressed to his, swearing you feel the bulge beneath you twitch. Both of your chests heave in attempts for deeper breaths and when he opens his eyes, your body heats up under his stare. 

Golden eyes taken over by his blown out pupils and you clear your throat, embarrassed you came onto him so aggressively after years of friendship. You try to ignore the ache in your stomach as he reaches up and tugs on your chin. Steve kisses you once, just a sweet and soft kiss, before his forehead knocks to yours and he wraps his arms around you in a hug with a groan. 

“Okay, I-I know we should slow down. We should talk about this.” He kisses your temple, your jaw, moving to your neck because he really, truly can’t keep his hands or lips off of you. Years of repressed feelings and what if’s bursting out of him. You hum an agreement and your hips roll again and he groans into your neck, his scruff scratching and tickling you as he gasps out, “But, um, I need to, fuck, promise you won’t laugh?”

Steve takes your silence as agreement and he speaks into the sweat kissed skin of your neck, inhaling your perfume he wants to fall inside of the bottle of and drown, squeezing his eyes closed, “I gotta go jerk off or something cause I think I’m gonna be in actual physical pain if I don’t.”

Your laughter shakes over his whole body and he has to ignore how the movement sends another wave of euphoria through him straight to his dick. He squeezes you, fingers digging into your ribs, making you laugh more as he accuses and whines, “You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

You push yourself up again with your palms, eyes sparkling, “I did not! I said literally nothing.”

He narrows his eyes and yours soften as you kiss him again, sighing long and heavy before you pull away. You nod and clear your throat, “Okay, but really, if you need to…”

Steve’s tongue licks out over his lip again, eyes bouncing between yours as he rubs his palm up your spine. You watch his cheeks begin to twinge pink, and then his ears so you ask, “What?”

He clears his throat and looks at your lips instead of your eyes, still rubbing up and down your back. “Were you, uh, having a sex dream earlier? About me?”

You try to fold in on yourself, tucking your chin down, trying to curl and hide away forever. How does he know?

Two of his fingers tap on the bottom of your chin, lifting it, his voice soft, “Hey, come on, talk to me.”

Unable to form words, you only nod, peeking one eye open and his cheeks flush darker. Steve’s hands move from your back to your arms still propping you up, rubbing up and down them as his hips flex, still painfully hard. “Have you, um, thought about…this, that, a lot? Like you and me?”

“Yeah,” the word is quieter than a breath and if your face weren’t right in front of him he may not have heard it. 

He nods and rolls his hips against yours, fighting a smile when your eyes flutter again. You watch his eyes continue to travel over your face, dark pupils still at the forefront as his voice drops into something raspier, gruff, deep from his chest after his neck extends and he clears his throat, “Have you…have you thought about me while touching yourself?”

“Steve,” you’re not sure if it comes out more as a scolding, embarrassed word, or more a plea for him to keep talking like that. 

Your entire body is on fire as he swallows loud enough for you to hear, hand moving up your neck and cupping your jaw again. Both of your bodies slide against one another as each of your breathing picks up again. His lips part over yours, other hand curling around the back of your neck. He breaks the kiss though and speaks against them before returning their movement. 

“Will you touch yourself? Show me how you do it?”

He nips at your bottom lip when you gasp at the question. You never thought Steve would be talking to you like this, not like the dreams you’ve had, not like what you imagine when you do exactly what he’s asking you to. 

His nose skims over your jaw when you don’t move away, when you don’t say no. His stomach flipping as he speaks quietly, “I wanna take my time, but I literally am gonna explode and if you didn’t finish in your dream I was just thinking-”

“Yes.”

[shih-coulda-had-it]

stormverine | rolo week! day one | mission

wc: ~1700

a/n: I'll post the full fic when the week's done with! Things to take note of...

Claremont-era (The Uncanny X-Men 99-167, for the most part)

It's mostly canon compliant, but all the extra Logan and Ororo ships are background/in the past by the time they get together. (This includes Jean, Mariko, Arkon...)

Third-person Limited POV alternates between Ororo and Logan per chapter (of which they'll be four)

Not a glowing review of Cyclops's early approach to leading the X-Men, I gotta be honest

//

Deep in Lang’s space facility, along the way to the prison cells, the hallway splits into two. Cyclops is already on his way to confront Lang and rescue the Professor and Jean; between Storm, Colossus, and Nightcrawler, Storm holds the most authority as the eldest and most equipped to fight any potential battles on her own.

“Should we not be sticking together?” Nightcrawler asks, alarmed.

“Time is of the essence,” she reminds him. “Go!”

The men take the left, she flies down the right, and eventually, Storm finds Wolverine collapsed in a cell, face-down and silent. He still has his mask and uniform on, which is a strange mercy.

She studies the door and its single glass window. It is locked not by key, but by keycard. She does not have the time to search for it; Storm, instead, flattens her hand over the panel and fritzes the circuits into submission. As it opens, she steps inside and asks, “Wolverine? Are you awake?”

Nothing.

Wolverine’s proven time and time again that his reflexes rest on a hair-trigger. Storm unlatches her cape and experimentally flutters it over his prone form, making sure the fabric brushes against his skin.

No reaction.

She hisses under her breath, considers her options. There’s no time to wait for the men. And though she encountered no one on the way here, she does not like the idea of guards stumbling upon them either. Briskly, Storm pins her cape into place, kneels beside Wolverine, and prays that he does not awaken violently.

Then Storm rolls him over, adjusts his hands so they point away from her chest, and braces herself for a deadlift. One arm under his legs, the other for his upper back. She overcompensates—Wolverine is lighter than previous fastball specials have made him out to be, and Storm staggers before she regains her balance.

She looks at his slackened expression. Mostly, the loll of his neck.

“Really, my friend,” she mutters, and she jostles his head to fall forward, to rest against her collarbone. Wolverine snuffles and does nothing else. Not even his arm twitches. “Well. Off we go.”

They at least make it out of the cell and down one hallway before Wolverine comes to. And because Storm is unfortunate, it is not a gentle and soft rise from unconsciousness.

“Cripes!” Wolverine yelps suddenly, explosively, and he tries wriggling out of Storm’s arms, but the effort feels half-hearted. Or like his mutant healing ability hasn’t yet metabolized the drugs. Regardless, Storm does not drop Wolverine. She readjusts her hold to be firmer, and she does not slow her stride. “Lemme down, lady!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says.

“Ridiculous?! My flamin’ dignity’s on the line! I ain’t some doll to be carried over a threshold! Just drag me along the floor!”

Storm rolls her eyes, and Wolverine clearly sees it, because he splutters and revives his attempt to fall face-flat. It is not stronger than the previous effort. Clinically, she says, “It’s not a burden to hold you aloft. I expected you to be… denser, I think.”

He huffs. His face is pink; Storm glances down and sees that his face is turned miserably away. “‘Cause of the adamantium and muscle, huh?”

“Yes. There is also the fact that you can punch a grown man through a wall.”

A disgruntled snort from the back of his throat. “Maybe the walls are just weak. Structurally speakin’, that is.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” he fires back, and he twitches in her arms before exhaling a harsh breath. “Couldn’t you’ve done a fireman’s lift or somethin’?”

Storm sighs too. “My friend, I admit I was thinking about the likelihood of your claws accidentally unsheathing themselves. This particular hold keeps your claws as far away from my person as I can safely manage.”

“… Oh,” Wolverine says, blank. “Uh. Shit. Alright, guess that figures.” After a second, he adds a hasty, “Sorry for flippin’ out at first.”

“It is not a position most men would appreciate finding themselves in,” Storm graciously says, and half her attention is spent reading the circulated patterns of recycled air, her own rudimentary radar, but she’s present enough to hear the distinct lack of argument from Wolverine. 

However, Wolverine evidently tests his range of movement again. His leg muscles, the ones pressed against her arm and the ones cradled by her hand, bunch together and then go limp. Storm lets her unimpressed silence speak for itself.

“The heck did they down me with, elephant tranquilizer?” 

“It does not seem to have affected your mental faculties.”

“Fancy way of sayin’ you wished I were a droolin’ vegetable,” he snaps.

“Circumstances being what they are,” Storm responds, just a tad more testily than she would have wanted to sound, “I am glad that you are awake. But the more you complain, the less likely you are keeping watch for any potential soldiers.”

Wolverine hisses a breath through his teeth. “Like you ain’t payin’ attention on your own. Don’t patronize me with busy work, Storm. I’m useless ‘til I metabolize this tranq, and the fastest way to do that is to get my blood pumpin’. So I’ll complain ‘til the cows come home if I need to!”

“That your recovery method involves needling me seems counterproductive.”

“I’d be spittin’ acid and shrapnel at anyone, broad, don’t think yourself special.” Bitter amusement and that familiar desolate tone of Wolverine’s whenever he feels self-conscious about his behavior. It is impossible not to sympathize with a wounded animal, but Storm tries not to let it slip into pity.

Instead, she tries to meet him where he’s at. Storm breathes through the frustration and worry—the X-Men are scattered throughout this facility, and it seems to be taking forever to find them—and she fires back at Wolverine, “Be angry if you must, but you ought to expect pushback if you direct those comments towards me.”

“Don’t I just? Difference between you ‘n Cyke is that you won’t sock me in the face, you’ll cut me down to size with just your words.”

Storm refuses to comment on that. It’s occurred to her, as Wolverine’s continued testing of Cyclops’s limits has progressed from idle mockery to deliberate challenges, that Cyclops treats Wolverine differently compared to the rest of the X-Men. Banshee is also older than their team leader, but he does not chafe at following the orders of a junior. So he does not need to be cuffed like a disobedient animal.

What does it say of Wolverine, then, that he accepts the violent treatment and continues on with the X-Men? And the Professor must be aware that Cyclops’s tolerance runs dangerously thin around Wolverine.

“Only Nightcrawler is consistently ready to forgive your bullying,” she says, attempting to distract herself. It’s not her responsibility—or is it? Storm is the one who threw herself in Wolverine’s way after he tried to claw Cyclops for the offense of being backhanded (like, she grimly remembers, a disobedient animal) at the Kennedy airport.

“Elf’s heart’s as big as yours,” he grumbles. “Twice as soft, maybe.”

“Is that a fault?”

“In my previous line of work, he’d’ve been dropped two missions in.” The confidence is devoid of warmth. It’s pure cold calculation. “And you, lady, wouldn’t have been hired.”

She matches his tone. “Because of my heart, or because of my skin?”

“Because you would’ve dropped the recruiter with a lightning bolt the instant you understood what his pitch was sellin’ ya.” It’s phrased like a punchline, but Wolverine seems deadly serious. Before Storm can correct him—or, at the very least, clarify that she wouldn’t have killed a government agent—Wolverine continues, “And, ‘course, you ain’t Canadian. So they can’t even lean on patriotism.”

“Is that how they convinced you?”

He barks a laugh. “I was already in the Armed Forces. Nah, they got me ‘cause I wasn’t exactly keepin’ on an even keel. I was gettin’ written up for lack of discipline, in-fightin’, and comin’ out of ev’ry fight I got into as fresh and wild as a spring daisy.”

“So they promised you control,” Storm guesses. And in committing himself to their care, found himself leashed. Her hold on Wolverine tightens, almost protectively. She remembers his desperate outburst the night Kierrok terrorized the mansion. Ten years of psycho-trainin’, of hypnotism, of drug therapy, ten years of prayin’... and I cut him to pieces without a thought.

His eyes are hidden behind opaque white lenses, but his jaw is set. He curls in on himself, like he’s hiding a wound. “Worked like a dream, huh?”

Storm processes a multitude of things at once. The disturbances in the air ahead, the crackle of her micro-transceiver finally getting back into range of the other X-Men. Wolverine’s quiet vulnerability, his recovered range of movement and his apparent unawareness of it. It’s a weighty feeling, to be trusted.

She considers her words. Wolverine disdains pity, and he’ll read pity into whatever reassurance Storm offers him. At the same time, Storm does not want to be pithy and dismiss Wolverine’s unspoken concerns with a joke.

What a narrow path to navigate. Storm comes to a full-stop in the middle of an empty wide corridor. They have encountered zero security guards, but Colossus, Nightcrawler, and Banshee are rapidly closing the distance. Whatever she can say, she must say it now.

“You sense somethin’?” Wolverine asks, jolting at the sudden stillness.

“Yes,” Storm says, and kindly, unhurriedly, sets him to his feet. He instinctively balances himself. He turns his head, just slightly, as though he’s waiting to hear orders. “You have a right to your pride, my friend. I trust you.”

“As far as you can throw me?”

“To the extent that I put my life in your hands.” Wolverine’s teeth click with the force of shutting up, and Storm dares to set a hand on his stiff shoulder. He’s gearing up for a furious snap about sentiment, she can tell, so Storm adds, “We have a space station to escape from, Wolverine. I am not eager to rescue myself from outside the facility again.”

“What? What d’you mean?”

She is saved from explaining the previous incident as Banshee’s sonic flight becomes apparent, along with the sound of Nightcrawler’s cheerful running report and Colossus’s heavy gait. Wolverine looks mutinous, but he doesn’t persist.

[kitybur]

𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 | 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐲 2

⌦ in which you and tommy have just hopped into your car and hit the road to meet up with two minecraft streamers. the feeling of mixed nerves grow as they navigate through the post-apocalyptic world, all in the hopes of making it to the safe spot.

— warnings: swearing, gn!reader, zombies, murder, guns/knifes, mature themes, mention of drugs

| quackity apocalypse au part 2! |

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

you had been on the road for longer than you could remember. you hadn’t realized how far away this safe spot would be, and we’re already dreading on the long, twisting roads. you hadn’t seen anybody else on the roads, maybe a few people walking with their things out, which you ignored.

it had been nearly reaching two hours, and your foot was starting to hurt from pressing on the gas for so long. it was a miracle you hadn’t ran out of gas yet, but tommy had been prepared, stuffing a singular gas jug in the back. you had to give him props, he was handling this situation better then you were. and he was just a kid.

your eyes shifted from the straight road to the passenger seat, where tommy laid with his head lolled back and soft snores escaping his opened mouth. you gently smiled, reaching in the back to grab an old green blanket you’d left in your car months ago, covering him up ever so slightly.

you moved your eyes back to the road as a left turn came up, avoiding the red light that had just appeared on the traffic light. as you continued driving, you could faintly hear the sound of sirens. looking in the rear view mirror, the outline of a cop car came into sight, the red and blue flashing lights navigating the cement in the dark.

“are you fucking kidding me?” you mumbled. were you seriously getting pulled over right now? you lightly pressed on the accelerator, hoping, praying the cop just turned on the lights to be able to see better. it was only when they started pounding on the horn you knew it was for you. you cursed under your breath as you slowly started to move off to the side of the road, and put the car in park.

you were in the middle of nowhere by this point. there were no houses and no stores to be seen in a 15 mile radius. you forced your eyes everywhere you could, before jumping at the sound of glass knocking. it was so hard that the sound alone had woken tommy up.

you rolled down the window half way and when the male cop gave you a look, you rolled it down the rest. “good evening, officer.” you nodded. “can we help you?” you spared a look to tommy from the corner of your eyes. he groaned and sat up fully. the blanket falling off his shoulders and landing on his lap.

the officer looked between you and tommy. “you ran a red light. did you know that?” you cleared your throat, uncomfortable with the way he was inspecting the vehicle with his eyes.

“i’m sorry, sir. we’re trying to get somewhere safe before anything happens. I didn’t think I’d be a big deal right now…” you explained, pausing and cringing at the silence.

“officer, i’m sure it was a mis—”

“shut up!” he yelled, startling both you and tommy. you glared at the officer for yelling in such tone to tommy. “there is nothing going on, are you guys on something?” he took a step closer to the car, leaning down into the window. “i’m going to need you guys to step out of the vehicle.”

“but sir!” tommy yelled, obviously annoyed. he just wanted to leave and meet up with his friends. to get him and you safe, he couldn’t do that if this bitch officer was in the way.

“sir, step out of the vehicle, now!” by now he was angry, his cheeks turning red as his tone was sharp and evil. you and tommy shared a quick look, debating in your head if you should step out or not. of course the logical answer would be to step out, it was the law you were dealing with. but you knew better. in a world where it was life or death, you chose life.

“no.” you quickly said, shaking your head. “we will not get out.” you swear you could see steam come from his ears, blood come from his eyes by how appalled and angry he became.

“excuse me? you’ll get out of this damn car if I have to make you!” he wiped a bead of sweat off his head before reaching for the handle. it seemed to be in slow motion the way you watched him get pushed to the ground, screams filling the car.

it was only when you came back to your senses did you look what had happened. someone — or something — had tackled the officer down, pinning him under their body weight and taking a bite out of his thick neck. you held back your own scream to not make attention to yourself or tommy.

“y/n, we need to go. now!” tommy says, breath wavering as he continued to watch the grey monster eat at a living being. you nodded, tearing your wide eyes away from the blood that had now splatted on the side of your car, and the lowering screams of the officer. the growling of the now identified zombie only intensified with its feast.

you put the car in drive glancing around you momentarily before speeding off. tommy pushed his elbow into the seat to look out the back window. he eyed the zombie, watching how it turned its bloodied face to watch the car take off. it stood up, tilting its head as if to challenge the car, and followed.

you let out a breath with a tight grip to the steering wheel. you enjoyed the breeze the open window gave you, feeling the cold air on your face as you drove through the deserted town. it had been silent between you and tommy for mere minutes before he spoke up; “that was fucking awesome.”

silence.

“what!?” you pushed on the breaks, not hearing him quite correctly. he screeched, hands reaching out to stop himself from flying through the windshield. “what about that was awesome to you?”

he dryly chuckled. “that was the first zombie i’d ever seen that wasn’t in minecraft!” you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help your own smile to come out. the moment lasted longer than you’d expected it too, because the moment you went to drive away, something grabbed you through the window.

you let out a scream, looking at the zombie in the dead eyes as it latched it’s brittle but strong hands against your sweater. you screamed has it tugged and spit blood at your face. you screamed as tommy worked quickly to roll up the window, cutting off the zombies arm leaving it attached to your sweater as you wasted no time leaving.

you thanked tommy mentally for taking the arm off of you and throwing it in the backseat (you weren’t thankful for that part, but it was tommy). you continued to drive with shaken hands at a high speed, desperate to get away from the nightmare you were experiencing.

you couldn’t wrap your mind around what really just happened. who else can say a zombie gripped their sweater and tried to pull them from the car? you can! you didn’t know how you haven’t driven off the road yet from how your mind was spinning, the smell of blood was rancid, and when you wiped it it smeared down your face more.

“that wasn’t as awesome.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

guys idk it’s a filler ig 😨 I wrote this at a daycare.

[snugglywugglysocialist]

Dégagé

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" You manage to sputter after choking on your drink.

Casey shoots you an arrogant grin after seeing how flustered she'd made you.

"It's not like we have anything to lose, we would both benefit from blowing off some steam." She says before taking a sip of her drink.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" You quiz, still in shock, but slightly amused.

"A few days." She quips over the rim of her glass.

"I don't know if I should be offended or flattered." You laugh, fidgeting lightly with your hands.

"I would prefer you choose the latter." Casey responds, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

"You're so convinced I'm interested in your proposition, why is that?" You ask cockily, a small smirk playing on your lips.

"You would've kicked me out the second I asked if you weren't interested, don't lie to me and tell me you've never let it cross your mind." She rasps, leaning over your desk so closely that you can feel the warmth of her breath.

"Touché." You mutter quietly, lowering your head.

"You know our asses are had if this were to ever come out, the DA's office leaks like a broken sieve." You say, your eyes falling upon the ajar door of your office.

"I can keep a secret if you can." She states lowly, and you feel the urge to clench your thighs together.

"No strings." You reiterate, bringing your palms up to press into your eyes, still in disbelief with yourself for even entertaining this thought.

"Touché." She remarks, mocking your earlier words.

The older woman downs her drink stands suddenly, making her way towards you after pushing aside her chair. You stare at her blankly as she walks over, her fingertips grazing across the leather of your chair as she makes her way behind you.

A small noise escapes your throat as her hands run through your hair, pushing it over to one shoulder. She leans down, leaning over top of your chair, and aligns her lips with your ear.

"Y'know, I've been thinking about this for a lot longer than a few days." She chides, and you smile vainly at the concept.

She braces herself on your chair as she leans in to make contact with the sensitive skin below your ear, nipping and sucking bruises into the flesh.

Your head lolls to the side as she continues her regards, and your arm comes up to encircle her head, willing her further into you. She bites one final mark into the skin just below your jaw before she stands, leaving you void of her lascivious ministrations.

"Stand up." She demands, and you oblige without hesitation.

She saunters over to the door and closes it, locking the deadbolt and closing the blinds. You watch silently as she walks back towards you, fitting herself snugly between the desk and your body, her hands moving to clear papers off your desk. She stacks them neatly to the side, and your mouth falls slightly agape when you finally realize what she plans to do with you.

"You're seriously trying to fuck me in my own office?" You ask, praying your voice doesn't reveal your desire for her to do exactly that.

"Somehow, I don't think I'll have to plead my case too ardently." She responds, a shit-eating grin painted on her face.

She tosses aside the final folder from the desk, and takes her position behind you once more. She presses into you, and your knees nearly buckle when you feel the appendage hidden beneath her slacks graze against your ass.

She lurches forward until your hips make contact with your desk, causing you to bend over it slightly. You steady yourself on the surface as she snakes her arms under yours, roughly untucking your blouse from your skirt.

Her hands slide upwards, and she laughs wryly when she feels the lace garment cladding your chest. She takes your breasts in her hands, and you bite hard on the inside of your cheek to prevent her from hearing the noises that threaten to spill out of you.

She slides her hands down your body, her nails nearly tearing the skin as they scrape across your ribcage to your waist. Her hands continue running over your body until you're panting.

She drives her right hand up across your spine before entangling it in your hair, pulling back as she uses her left hand to push you down, fully bending you over the desk. The cold wood sears into the skin of your cheek, and your stance falters when she moves to hike up your skirt.

You tremble as her hands slowly begin to peel your matching lace panties down your legs, and she clicks her tongue knowingly as she bends over you. Her weight entraps you against your desk satisfyingly, her hips angled so you once more feel the strap she dons.

Her lips find the nape of your neck, the work of her skillful mouth wearing your resolve thin. Her legs force you against the desk so firmly you feel bruises forming atop your hip bones, and you groan at the sweet pain of it.

You drive yourself against her in attempt to make contact with her length, but she angles backward, stopping you from doing so. You writhe beneath her in disdain, and you feel her smile into you in response.

"Please, Casey." You whimper, and she straightens herself promptly, leaving you void of her weight.

You hear the noise of her zipper being undone, and you silently thank her own growing avidity for saving you from the humiliation of having to beg beyond what you already had.

You feel warm silicone begin to slide through your folds, and you curse under your breath. She laughs deridingly as you squirm in front of her, reveling in the reaction her taunting was causing. She pushes into you gradually, and you whine as she continues to the hilt.

Her left hand perches on your lower back to steady you as she begins to drive in and out of you slowly. Your walls flutter as she scrapes against a particularly sensitive spot within you, and you know you won't last much longer.

Her thrusts become quicker and more languid as she relaxes, and her right hand moves to find your clit. You moan loudly at the double stimulation, and your body begins to come up off the desk. She shifts her left side so her forearm lays across the length of your back, keeping you harshly pinned.

You unravel after the unexpected contact, and your legs tremble aggressively, barely able to keep you upright. Her name tumbles from your lips unintelligibly as she continues fucking you through your climax, only slowing down when you cry out in pain.

You drop to your knees when she steps backwards, leaving you with no support to continue standing. She lifts you up, sitting you on the desk gently, and fitting herself between your legs.

Your hands find her face, and she moves downward to meet your lips; she moves against your mouth placidly, taking you by surprise. You bite down cruelly on her lower lip, causing her to groan loudly, and you laugh as blood pools into your mouth. You pull away from her lips before bringing your arms around her waist, preventing her from moving before you speak.

"So, how long have you actually been thinking about doing that?" You ask, looking up at her, and she smiles as she turns her head away from you.

"Would you believe me if I said since I met you?" She rasps quietly.

"Wow, pining for that long? That's just pathetic." You say smugly, pawing at the swell of her ass.

"Yep." She responds, scoffing lightly at your arrogant affect.

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Empty Chairs At Empty Tables

So this is inspired by the song for my favourite musical Les Misérables ‘Empty Chairs At Empty Tables’ where the character Marius sings about loosing his friends during the French Revolution. I feel that this song fits a lot of characters from the HBO war fandom but I was just drawn to writing this fic for Eugene Sledge. Warnings: themes of war, loss, grief, death, death of a beloved pet, PTSD

Thank you so much @georgieluz for proofreading it.

Deacon watched the couple, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as sat with a lopsided grin. Eugene never saw him move but every time he turned around he was right in his heels. Eugene reached down to scratch his dog's head affectionately, watching as he smiled up at him.

“The way he looks at you, sometimes I wonder whether he’s the love of your life instead,” Y/n joked, laughing as Eugene stuck out his tongue at them.

“You’re just jealous that he got the last sandwich.”

“Not at all, you know I’d do anything for him,” Y/n began scratching Deacon’s arm which caused the dog to flop down onto their lap.

“Which is exactly why I’m not worried about leaving you with him. I know you’ll both look out for each other,” Eugene sat down, a solemn look on his face.

“We’re gonna be just fine, right Deacon? Your Dad has nothing to worry about,” Y/n spoke to the dog and Eugene felt his heart swell for the hundredth time that day as he realised just how much he loved them.

“Gene, please don’t be sad,” Y/n reached over, cupping his cheek. “We’re going to be just fine.”

“I know,” Eugene mumbled, his lip wobbling as the tears began trickling down his cheeks. “I just don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want you to leave either, but I know you have to. It doesn’t make it any easier though,” they admitted, running their fingers through his red locks.

“I love you, Eugene Sledge. Come back to me.”

“I promise.”

To my dearest Y/n,

How I wish I was at home with you. I want nothing more than to be back in that field, on the red-checked picnic blanket with you and Deacon. Those days were so simple. If only all of life could be that simple.

Today I saw a man have his whole leg blown off and he just stood there looking at us, it was as if he didn’t realise what had happened to him until the medics were trying to get him on a stretcher. How does that even happen?

I hope everything at home is going well. Thank you for visiting my parents, it means a lot to them when you visit and Deacon always loves your visits, he tells me so personally. I wish I was there with you. All I want is a hug. It seems silly really, childish even, but to just have your arms around me, even for a second would be enough.

I love you always my darling,

Your Eugene

————————————————————————

My Eugene,

I’m sure by now you have received the news of Deacon’s passing from your parents. I am so sorry, my love. Just know that he did not suffer. His old body carried him well right until the end and I spent the last three days and nights of his life by his side. We sat out under the apple trees and I read to him just like you used to. He was comfortable when he passed. The house is quieter without him. Now that I am without either of you I do feel truly alone, not even Sidney is here to support me.

I pray every night for your safe return to me my love.

I love you forever and always

Your Y/n

Eugene felt his legs shaking as he stepped off the train onto the platform, his hands shaking as he held onto his kit bag tightly. He could see Sidney, leaning against his truck, a cigarette hanging limply from his lips. It was the reunion he was excited for but not the one he had been yearning for. Sid talked all the way back to his house, talking of his fiancée, life since he’d been home, and his family but Eugene barely registered any of it, his mind too preoccupied with the image of Y/n.

“Drop me here, Sid,” Eugene spoke up as the view of the driveway came into sight.

“You sure, I can drive you up to the house?”

“No, it’s okay. I need the walk. I’ve been stuck on the train for hours.”

Sidney pulled up to the end of the driveway, cutting the engine.

“It’s good to have you back, Gene.”

“It’s good to be back. Thanks for the ride, Sid.”

Eugene slung his kit bag over his shoulder, leaving Sid behind him as his legs carried him up the driveway in long strides. As he approached the house he could see them, arranging one of the flower baskets by the front door, their sleeves rolled up and looking just as lovely as the day he’d left. Eugene felt his heart swell at the sight of them and he promised he would tell them every day.

He dropped his kit bag in the lawn chair, approaching them slowly so as to not disturb them.

“Y/n?” He spoke, his hands shaking a little at his sides.

Y/n dropped the flower basket, oblivious to the terracotta shattering across the decking.

“Eugene?” They squeaked, their hands coming to their mouth. “Is it really you? Are you really here?” Y/n stepped down off the decking, moving to stand in front of him. Their hand reached up to cup his cheek, Y/n’s fingers grazing at the soft flesh and Eugene sighed.

“It really is you,” they whispered, tears trailing down their cheeks to match Euegne’s.

“I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“It's so quiet, isn't it?” Euegen turned his head to look down at Y/n, as they smiled sympathetically at him.

“You'll get used to the peace again, my love. I promise.”

“It’s not that,” Eugene sighed, shifting to sit up on his elbows, “Deacon always used to snore on the end of the bed. He was so noisy when he slept.”

Eugene could feel the tears starting to trail down his cheeks being brushed away and a chaste kiss placed on his lips. “I miss him every day,” Eugene cried, a sob escaping from his lips as he was enveloped in Y/n’s embrace.

“It’s okay, Gene. We’re going to get through this together.”

“NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. YOU WEREN'T THERE!” Gene screamed, throwing another vase across the room and watching as it smashed on the floor, glass shattering like icicles across the hardwood floorboards and the flowers cascading amongst the disarray.

“I know I wasn’t there for you then, Eugene but I’m here now and I am never leaving your side,” Y/n cried, “So don’t keep trying to push me away because I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you have no idea. They’re all dead, they’re all gone and I came back. Why did I deserve to come back? There are houses all around the world with empty chairs where they should be sitting right now,” Eugene slipped down onto the floor beside the smashed vase, his head hanging low as he sobbed.

Y/n couldn’t take it anymore and was by his side in an instant, cradling him close, comforting him. “Shh Eugene, please don’t talk like this. I need you. Your family needs you. I am so glad you came home.”

“But why did I deserve to come home and they didn’t,” Eugene glanced up at them, his large tearful eyes breaking their heart further.

“Because I love you, that's why. Because it wasn’t your time and quite possible because you deserved to come home.”

“And they didn’t.”

“No. You all deserved to come home. What you must do now is decide what you want to do with your second chance. You were given a chance to come home and you must live each day to the fullest for all of those who didn’t make it home. Okay?” Y/n looked down at him and Eugene nodded, resting his head against their chest. Y/n reached down, cradling their fingers through his ginger hair, soft, soothing strokes. Eugene’s breathing soon settled into a more normal rhythm as Y/n heartbeat calmed him.

“I’m glad I came home,” Eugene whispered, “because I have a very important question to ask you.”

“You do,” Y/n replied, looking down at the man they loved.

“Will you stay with me? Always?”

“Of course I will Gene. I’m not going anywhere.” The couple sat on the floor of Eugene’s room, no longer aware of the time or space around them. The only thing that mattered right now was that Eugene was home, and he was safe and with time he would heal from the horrors he had seen.

Tags: @georgieluz @iceman-kazansky @yeahcurrahhe-e @msmercury84 @blvestxr @dustyjumpwjngs @theflyingfin @jump-wings @kafka-ohdear @kmc1989 @mads-weasley @docroesmorphine @liptonsbabe @lena-basilone @sweetxvanixlla @hesbuckcompton-baby @ronsparky @allthingsimagines @whollyjoly @bucky32557038ww2 @panzershrike-pretz @malarkgirlypop @hanniewinnix @inglourious-imagines @l13bg0tt @samwinchesterslostshoe

[turnin9pag3]

its 3am and i cant sleep again.

its 3am and im tossing and turning.

its 3am and my mind is my own enemy.

its 3am and my mind is my best friend.

its 3am and i want someone to talk to other than myself.

but everyones asleep.

either that or they just dont care enough to answer.

id rather the prior.

actually id rather them talk to me.

no i wouldnt i take that back.

i do not know what i want.

is this my fatal flaw?

i want to talk to someone to pull me out when ive sunk under again.

but i know i cannot tell anyone.

i am a coward.

i am a coward and everyone is asleep so it doesnt really matter anyways does it.

everyone is asleep and the stars on my roof have long since gone out and my bed is on fire and my brain is melting and my head is in purgatory and thom yorkes voice streams from my record player and i scream for it to stop but i cant bring myself to turn it off.

i miss when that sound brought me comfort.

now all it brings is painful unwanted memories.

but i have to want them to some extent because even after yelling for it to turn off i still get up when it goes dead and flip the vinyl around just so i can start screaming again.

and as all this goes on i question to myself- is this insanity.

have i gone truly purely insane.

lolled over on my flaming mattress while i grab these awful thoughts and smother myself in them.

maybe im a sadist.

or a masochist.

im not sure which to define myself because when your inflicting your own pain from outside your body which can you be accredited for?

the victim or the culprit.

i am the result of my own creation.

i am my own demise.

but its 3am and i dont see any stars so maybe ill try to go bed.

but i guess i wouldnt be up at 3am if i could so ill sit in the dark with radiohead softly singing me to insanity til i drift away or rip my hair out.

i guess we just have to wait and see which will come first.

and lord i pray its not the latter.

[r-eds]

ACKNOWLEDGE ME

Marceline Kazmira (OC)

Authors note: Hiihii! this is my first time sharing my writing on an online platform I'm proud of my writing in this^^ this is a short story about my OC Marceline, NICE critique is always welcome, and any questions are as well:3

Cold air filled her secluded cabin, enough to cause a shiver. The warm scented candles provided a nice contrast to the temperature coming from outside. The long candles flickered, causing the fire to sway along the long wooden table, casting shadows on it. A dedicated lacy blue table cloth-frayed at the ends but neatly arranged-dropped from the sides over the surface, hiding the dark imperfections underneath. At each place setting sat a porcelain plate, a matching teacup, and a gold fork polished to a dull shine. She had spent all morning preparing. Everything had to be perfect, her love deserves nothing less than perfection.

She adjusted one of the puppets, tilting its stiffened head so it faced her properly. There. Now it looked attentive, as it should. The others sat eerily still, dressed in fine garments she had stitched together over the years—laces, silks, and velvets draped over bodies that no longer felt the chill of the room.

"Pray, forgive my impertinence in having gazed upon what is most sacred and intimate. Yet, decorum must be upheld and one must be adorned appropriately for such a momentous occasion. It is, after all, my beloved's anniversary, and perfection is the least she deserves, Worry not shall see to it that you are returned to your customary attire once the night's festivities have drawn to a close.”

She clapped her hands, surveying her work with satisfaction. A twisted smile curled upon her lips, her feature betraying a fleeting tremor, as though her expression wavered beneath the weight of something unspoken,

"It is a special day, my love," she murmured, smoothing the delicate fabric of her gown. Her voice was light, lilting, touched with an air of wistful reverence as she reached for the porcelain teapot. Though the vessel held no liquid, she poured with careful precision, watching as the emptiness spilled into her beloved’s waiting cup. "As the guest of honor—nay, as the very heart of this gathering—you must have the first sip. I have taken great pains to replicate your favored brew… Tell me, dearest, is it to your liking?"

She gazed across the table, her eyes fixating upon the figure seated in its place of honor. The one who had begun it all. The one who never answered, never left.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she raised her own teacup to her lips. The air was stale, the taste of nothingness settling against her tongue. Still, she hummed in quiet satisfaction.

"Are you truly so displeased?" she whispered, tilting her head in mock chastisement. "I had thought you would be delighted… You have always adored our little gatherings, have you not? Have I erred in my efforts? Do my preparations fail to meet your expectations?"

Silence.

The puppets did not answer. They never did.

Her smile faltered, just for a breath, before she swiftly banished the thought. How foolish of her. Of course, they were happy. Why would they not be?

Setting her cup aside, she leaned forward, her voice softening into a tender murmur. "After all, we are together, are we not? Just as I vowed we always would be."

A hush settled over the room, thick and suffocating. Her gaze lingered on the puppet nearest to her, tracing the stitches along its jawline, the delicate ribbons that adorned its waxen locks.

"You always did lament the early mornings," she mused, fingertips ghosting over the puppet’s face with a feather-light touch. "How you would grumble and plead for just a moment more of rest… How you would pout so terribly if I dared unveil a surprise before its proper time."

A breathless chuckle escaped her—a sound laced with something fragile, something fractured.

At the far end of the table, a puppet slumped forward ever so slightly, its head lolling at an unnatural angle. A frown ghosted across her lips as she rose, gliding toward the offending figure with measured grace.

With delicate precision, she straightened its posture, her fingers deftly tightening the stitches that held it upright.

"You disrupt the ambiance, my dear," she murmured, her tone one of gentle reprimand, though devoid of true displeasure. Once satisfied, she smoothed the creases in its garments, allowing herself a quiet sigh. "There now… that is much better, would you not agree?"

A wistful exhale left her lips as she took its hand, stroking the cool, rigid fingers with an almost doting affection.

"My sincerest apologies… That was most discourteous of me."

She returned to her seat, folding her hands in perfect poise. "Now, shall we indulge in song?"

Silence.

Her fingers twitched.

The stillness stretched.

The candle flames flickered, casting long, wraithlike shadows upon the walls.

Then, so faint it could have been but a figment of longing, a voice stirred—a teasing murmur, lilting and achingly familiar.

"You know I detest your off-key singing, dearest."

A sharp inhale stilled in her throat. The air in the room seemed to shift, the darkness coiling closer, as though drawn by the weight of something unseen.

Her lips trembled. "How dreadfully cruel of you," she whispered, voice laced with brittle laughter. "To spurn my efforts so."

She reached across the table, fingers brushing against the cold rigidity of preserved flesh. She grasped the puppet’s hand, cradling it within her own, her grip tightening as though she might warm back into the lifeless form.

"Indulge me, my love," she implored her voice, a fragile thing, quivering beneath the strain of yearning. "Speak to me."

Nothing.

The silence loomed, unyielding.

Her fingers pressed harder, nails biting into the unfeeling skin. "Do not be so cruel as to leave me wanting," she pleaded, her breath shallow, unsteady. "Say something. Anything."

Still, there was nothing.

The candles burned lower, their weary flames casting feeble light against the encroaching dark.

And at last, when the weight of absence grew unbearable, she allowed herself a single indulgence.

Her grief spilled forth, silent and unrelenting, her tears vanishing into lace and longing alike.

Her voice, when it finally broke the hush, was a choked whisper of betrayal.

"Why must you all sit in your gilded silence and cast me aside, when I have given you everything?”

The silence gnawed at her, insatiable, sinking its teeth into the fragile threads of her patience. It coiled, it festered, it seared like molten iron in her veins.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing deep into her palms. The quiet stretched on, a suffocating thing, pressing against her ribs like an unrelenting vice.

"Enough."

The teacup trembled upon its saucer. Her voice, though scarcely above a whisper, slashed through the hush like a blade honed to cruel precision.

"Enough!"

With a violent sweep of her arm, the porcelain shattered against the floor, a shrill cry of fractured elegance. Tea-stained lace, delicate and pristine, lay desecrated by jagged shards.

She shot to her feet, breath ragged, chest heaving. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the meek flicker of reason that begged her to still, to compose, to remember herself.

"Why?" Her voice cracked, raw and laced with unbidden fury. "Why must you sit there, unfeeling, ungrateful, when I have done everything—" her hands shook as she gestured wildly, as though willing them to see, to understand, "—everything for you?!"

Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling with each shallow gasp. The candlelight flickered, casting restless shadows along the grand dining hall, painting twisted figures across the walls.

Her eyes darted from one puppet to the next, their painted smiles mocking her, their empty eyes piercing through the brittle remains of her restraint.

She grabbed the nearest one by the shoulders and shook it, teeth bared in something neither a sob nor a scream. "Say something! Say anything! A single word—just one!"

She wobbled under her grip, head lolling lifelessly to the side.

That was enough to push her over the edge.

With a snarl, she ripped the puppet from its seat, sending it crashing to the floor with a hollow, sickening thud. Its limbs twisted unnaturally, its painted lips still frozen in that infuriating, placid smile.

She turned on the others, hands trembling, teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. "You all mock me," she seethed. "You sit there and mock me like I'm some fool, pretending as if you do not see what I have done for you!"

Her fingers found the edge of the table, and before she could stop herself, she flipped it.

A deafening crash.

Plates shattered, silverware scattered, candle wax spilled across the embroidered cloth in molten trails. The force of the impact snuffed out one of the flames, leaving only the dim, wavering glow of the remaining candles.

She stood there, breath ragged, chest heaving.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Her eyes locked onto the beautiful, delicate figure at the head of the table.

The only one who truly mattered.

Dressed in the finest silk, adorned with the most careful craftsmanship. Every stitch, every ribbon, every preserved inch of flesh a labor of devotion.

And yet… not a trace of joy graced those lips.

Not a whisper of gratitude lingered in those lifeless eyes.

Her breath stilled.

A different kind of tremor overtook her, creeping up her spine, pooling beneath her skin like ice.

"Why do you not smile, my love?" The words fell softer now, yet they carried a venom far deadlier than before.

She stepped closer, slow, deliberate. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Not a whisper of gratitude lingered in those lifeless eyes.

Her breath stilled.

A different kind of tremor overtook her, creeping up her spine, pooling beneath her skin like ice.

"Have I not done well?"

Another step.

"Have I not pleased you?"

Another.

"Is my love… not enough?"

The question lingered, a brittle thing, so delicate it might shatter under its own weight.

Her hands found the puppet’s shoulders, trembling as they gripped the fabric of its gown. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, a desperate, uneven rhythm.

"Do you not understand how much I have given?" she whispered, voice thick with something raw and unraveling. "How much I have sacrificed?"

The puppet did not answer.

It did not smile.

Her hands snapped upward, grasping its face, forcing it to meet her gaze. Her nails dug in, leaving pale indentations against the too-cold skin.

"Smile for me."

Silence.

"Smile."

Nothing.

“Baby please… I want to know that you care…. Please, even a smirk, please my love” She got down to her knees, pleading with her dead partner with their hands cupped in hers, her other hand threatening to grip tighter.

Silence, as always

"SMILE GODDAMMIT!"

The force of her scream sent the candles flickering, their fragile flames wavering beneath the weight of her wrath.

She shook the puppet, desperate, pleading, "Why—why do you deny me this?! After everything—I did ALL OF THIS for you! And I can't even get a thank you?"

Her voice caught.

Her fingers loosened.

And just like that, the anger drained from her, slipping through the cracks like sand through an open palm.

Her breath hitched—once, twice—before she crumpled, falling to her knees, clutching at the fabric of the puppet’s dress as though it were a lifeline.

A sob wrenched itself, from her throat, raw, broken, uncontrolled.

"No… no, I didn’t mean that… I didn’t—" She hurriedly rushed up and reached for her checks, the imprint of her grasp now permanently placed on her partner's cheek.

Her forehead pressed against the puppet’s lap as she slid down to rest her head, her trembling hands fisting into the delicate lace.

"Forgive me," she whispered, voice barely more than a breath, a shattered thing on the edge of nothingness. "Please… I have ruined it, haven't I? Our moment… our perfect night…"

Tears streaked her cheeks, darkening the fine fabric beneath her.

Her arms wrapped around the puppet’s waist, clutch as though it could offer comfort, as though it could feel her sorrow and absolve her of it. But there was nothing—nothing but the silence, thick and suffocating, pressing down upon her like the weight of a hundred unspoken regrets.

Her breath trembled against the puppet’s cold skin, her sobs tapering into uneven gasps. The candlelight flickered, casting unkind shadows across the wreckage of her outburst. The shattered porcelain, the overturned table, the silent witnesses with their painted, unfeeling eyes—they were all staring.

Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of the dress.

"I didn’t mean to ruin it," she whispered, voice fragile, on the edge of breaking. "I only wanted… I only wanted you to be happy."

Her shoulders shook, her body trembling as if the weight of her own grief was crushing her.

"Was it too much?" Her voice was barely a breath now, as if speaking any louder might shatter what little remained of her composure. "Did I ask for too much?"

She pulled back, just enough to look at the puppet’s face, to search desperately for something—anything—that would tell her she hadn’t failed. But the painted lips remained still, the glassy eyes vacant, and electing only the flickering light of the room.

Mocking her.

A fresh wave of despair surged through her, and she reached up, shaking hands and rushing against the puppet’s face as if she could will it to move, to respond, to love her back.

"I did this for you," she murmured. "For us."

Her fingers traced the delicate features, the preserved skin beneath layers of a and ce and silk. Once warm. Once filled with life. Once capable of smiling, of speaking, of loving her back.

And now—

A choked sob tore from her throat.

"I gave you everything," she rasped, pressing her forehead against the puppets once more. "Why won’t you give me this? Why won’t you just… just smile?"

The silence stretched, unbearable.

And then—something inside her snapped.

Her head jerked up, eyes wild, fingers gripping the puppet’s arms so tightly the fabric wrinkled beneath them.

"You should be grateful!" Her voice cracked with hysteria, the last fraying thread of control slipping from her grasp. "I saved you! I kept you with me! I gave you a life—no, I made you beautiful! Was that not enough for you? Is my love not enough for you? Do you not love me anymore!?"

Her hands shook, breath ragged, caught between fury and grief.

"I allowed my heart to bleed in your hands, yet you won't give me anything in return."

A bitter laugh clawed its way from her throat. It was empty, hollow, sharp enough to cut.

"Fine."

She let go.

Her hands dropped to her sides, the sudden absence of contact sending a violent shudder through her body.

She sat back on her knees, staring—really staring—at the puppet, at the perfect, lifeless shell of what once was.

And the realization sank in like a slow, merciless poison.

"You’re gone."

The words barely made it past her lips, buried in the suffocating stillness of the room.

Her vision blurred.

"You’ve been gone this whole time right? During this entire Party you've been gone.”

A fragile breath. A trembling hand pressed to her lips, her sarcastic remark held truth she wasn't ready to face.

She had been talking to a corpse dressed in lace and ribbons.

She had been waiting for a response that would never come.

"No." Her voice cracked, hoarse, desperate. "No, no, that’s not true— baby I'm so sorry…"

Her hands reached out again, but this time, they hovered just above the puppet’s face as if touching it now would confirm the truth she had refused to acknowledge.

The truth she had buried beneath silks and stitches and painted smiles.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, darkening the pristine white fabric of the dress.

With a trembling hand, she brushed away the tears that stained her cheeks, a futile attempt to regain some semblance of composure. "I thought… I thought if I made everything perfect, you would see how much I care," she murmured against the lifeless figure, her voice cracking with the weight of her sorrow. "But all I've done is… is ruin it.”

The puppet remained unyielding, its porcelain face betraying none of the emotions that surged within her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the bitter truth that gnawed at her heart: no matter how elaborate the preparations, no matter how intricately crafted the garments or the settings, it would never fill the void left by the one who truly mattered.

"Please," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need you to forgive me. I need you to be here with me, to feel… to live again."

The world outside her secluded cabin continued on, indifferent to her pain. The wind howled against the walls, rattling the windows as if mocking her efforts. But within those four walls, she remained ensnared in her own misery, desperate for a sign of life that would never come.

In a moment of wild desperation, she turned her gaze to the other puppets, each one a reminder of what she had lost. "Look at what I've done for you!" she shouted, her voice rising once more, raw and frayed at the edges. "Can't you see? I’ve brought you back to this world! You are here, with me, and you can be whole again!” Hey tears soaked her cheeks as she tried to force a smile, trying to hide some of that pain she had that was leaking out.

Her fingers danced over the delicate stitching of the puppet’s gown, seeking some connection that had long since faded. "I made you beautiful, just as you were. Please, I need you to smile… just a flicker of joy, just a hint of approval.”

“Baby please just look at me, acknowledge my efforts, acknowledge me.” She extended her arms out, making herself take up more space to be seen.

Her body crumbles down, her head resting in the lap of her dead partner, gripping the fabric of her vintage dress, the smell of dust and her partner's favorite fragrance.

"I just… I just don’t want to be alone," she whispered.

Her hands finally made contact, cradling the puppet’s face with the gentleness of a grieving lover.

"Please… don’t leave me alone."

The candlelight wavered.

The puppets around the room sat in perfect stillness.

And the corpse in her arms did not smile.

She had once been the only warmth in my cold, desolate world. Now, she was still here—wasn't she?

She traced her fingers along her cheek, the once-soft skin now stiff beneath her touch. “I had done my best to preserve her. Stitch by stitch, I held her together, sewing love into every seam.”

"You understand, don’t you?" She whispered, brushing strands of brittle hair away from her hollowed-out eyes. "I couldn’t let them take you. Couldn’t let them bury you, nothing good happens to a buried corpse."

She had been everything. They never understood that.

Her silence stretched between them, but she knew what she would say. She swears she could hear her even now, the voice taking the place of the wind surrounding their home, her “voice” as gentle as it had been before they stole her breath.

A shiver crept down her spine as her grip tightened, careful not to break her fragile skin. “I wouldn’t cry—not when I had already lost so much. Instead, I'll hold hand, let her delicate fingers rest in mine. I had done well preserving them, though the skin threatened to slip. But that could be fixed.”

She had always been good at fixing her.

"You’re quiet today," She murmured, completely disregarding her previous melt down with a slight cough to clear her throat. Her forehead rested against hers. The faint scent of decay lingered, but she had long since grown used to it. The lavender that was dabbed onto her wrists helped—though, lately, it was getting harder to mask.

“I needed to work faster.”

Carefully, She reached for the needle and thread beside her nightstand, hands no longer shook the way they once did. The first time had been the hardest—piercing her flesh, pulling the thread through skin that had once been warm. But it had done it out of love. Love was patient. Love was enduring.

Love made it worth it.

“I will do my utmost to mend you, my dear," she vowed, pressing a gentle kiss to her cool forehead. "Just as you were before.”

“She would never leave me—never like they had. Never like the others. She was mine, and I would keep her perfect. And I will never abandon her. We will be together. Forever.”

“"I hope that one day you'll recognize my efforts, my dear, but until then, I’ll wait patiently.”

A soft hum to her partner's favorite tune helped pass the time of sewing, hands interlocked as Marceline whispered sweet affirmations, consoling her wife of the pain of the needle.

She always hated needles.

[cactushugger]

my spn finale:

we open on a black shot. dean’s voice: “jack…”

dean is praying to him every day. he apologizes for how he treated him, he confesses that he has anger issues, he tells him he wants to be better. but mostly, he asks for jack to bring cas back. please please please, bring him back. I know you said you wouldn’t interfere but please make an exception. or take me in his place. please jack, please.

in the meantime, he tries to be better. he stops drinking, a few times — it’s hard. he applies for a part-time mechanic job, gets hired, makes a friend there. he takes walks. he talks to sam, and gives sam space. he keeps in touch with claire. he never stops praying.

one day, out of nowhere, jack shows up in the bunker. dean bolts out of his chair, knocking it over. he hugs jack, tells him he’s happy to see him. jack smiles. but as soon as dean can, he blurts, “so can you bring him-“

jack looks to the side, shakes his head. “dean … I promised, I can‘t interfere with matters on earth.”

dean tries not to show that his heart is tearing open. “… okay, kid.”

“dean,” jack says, and the way he says it is exactly how cas says it. “I can’t interfere on earth. but … if you were able to open a door to the empty …” he catches dean’s eye. “that wouldn’t be on earth.”

dean smiles at him, feeling something suspiciously similar to hope start to stir in his heart. the kid is just like his dad.

sam calls rowena, who says she’ll help, bc she always liked “my tweety-bird.” they go through all of their books, and find a way to open a door. they call up claire, kaia, eileen, jody, and donna. they gather around the table in the map room, and dean debriefs the plan.

“the empty is awake. all the angels, monsters, and ugly sons-of-bitches we ever killed are in there. but cas is too. and I think it’s about time we saved him for a change.” they all nod.

jack can feel cas’ presence, so he will lead them to him. they’re bringing shotguns filled with salt, the demon blade, cas’ angel blade, the colt, everything they have. and they’re gonna do one last fight, all together.

the door opens, they all line up. we get a close up of each of them, dean last.

“okay. let’s go get our angel.”

they fight through the empty, slaughtering tons of baddies. rock song playing (welcome to the jungle would be cheesy and fun). claire and kaia are a well-oiled machine, working back-to-back, watching out for each other. rowena takes out a whole bunch with some rolling fog witch shit, making the baddies all choke and crumple. jack is in step with dean, and takes out a ton with his powers. dean winks at him, and jack gives him a toothy grin. dean takes special joy in killing naomi (I’m retconning that at some point he learned that naomi was the orchestrator of cas’ torture/brainwashing by making him kill copies of dean and he is capital P Pissed). sam and dean are excellent fighters, of course, but we see how the younger hunters are faster, more agile — a new generation is ready for them to pass the torch.

they finally find cas, trenchcoat and all, lying prone, brow furrowed, in a restless sleep.

dean breaks into the brightest grin we’ve seen on him in years. whispers, “cas,” like it’s a prayer.

he runs to cas’ side, kneels, grabs him by the lapels, lifts him up, gets an arm under him. cas’ head lolls, his eyes flutter.

“cas, come on, come on, sunshine. it’s me. wake up, please.”

cas flickers into consciousness slowly. his eyes squint open, his brow furrows, his signature look. dean is so giddy he breathes out a laugh.

“… dean?”, he rasps. his hand reaches up weakly, clasps around dean’s shoulder (THE shoulder). he looks behind him, sees everyone there. his eyes fall back to dean, as they often do.

dean smiles softly, eyes flickering over cas’ face like he’s trying to memorize it, tears wobbling. he hitches in a breath, steels himself, and blurts out what he’s been dying to say since cas left: “I love you too, you idiot.”

cas’ eyes widen. “de-“

dean hauls him up by his lapels and kisses him full on the mouth.

cas looks shocked, then his eyes shut and he kisses him back, sweetly, deeply, desperately, clutching into dean’s jacket like a lifeline.

they break, both with tears on their faces. dean crushes him into a hug, and says, softly: “let’s go home.”

jack gets them out of there, and they close the door to the empty. they all hug cas, who just keeps saying thank you, tears spilling. he can’t believe that everyone came just to save him. he’s so grateful. he has a family.

montage: dean and cas retire to a house in the forest. dean works his job, comes home greasy but smiling. cas gardens. they move stuff into their house and kiss in the stairwell. sam and eileen move to a cute little suburb house. we see that sam is working on a codex of all of his research, a digital database. he has phones set up in the kitchen, just like bobby, marked FBI/CIA/cops, etc. eileen says something and he laughs, full and uninhibited, happy.

everyone comes to visit dean and cas for dinner. sam and eileen show up first, tell them they have news. eileen holds up her left hand, ring sparkling. dean whispers, “sammy,” and hugs them both so hard they can’t breathe. they’re all crying a little.

jody, claire, kaia, and donna come over together. they’ve brought a bunch of side dishes, and claire has brought a bunch of movies for cas to watch. he is touched, she rolls her eyes but is smiling. jack pops in right as dean is serving the main course, and cas almost topples him with a bear hug. everyone is happy to see him.

after the meal, everyone is chatting and laughing. claire and kaia are good-naturedly bickering about something. jack is looking between them, smiling — it looks familiar to him. sam and eileen are snuggled up on cas’ big comfy chair. jody is plucking out a song on dean’s guitar and donna is laughing at her fondly.

we cut outside on the front porch, where dean has moved for a minute of quiet. he looks out at HIS yard, filled with the cars of all the people he loves, his found family. he closes his eyes, leans on the railing, listens to a peal of laughter from inside, smiles.

the screen door closes, dean looks up to see that sam has joined him. they stand there in companionable silence, side-by-side, after all this time.

“I didn’t think we’d ever get here,” dean says after a moment, laughing a little, shaking his head in bewilderment. “sometimes I don’t think it’s even real.”

“yeah, me too. but I’m really glad it is.” sam smiles at him. they get quiet. sam is picking at the label of his beer, fidgeting in the way that dean knows he wants to say something. he waits.

“dean, you know ... I always thought we’d die bloody. but now … I want to fight for something more. and I don’t think I ever told you — you’re the reason I can. you taught me everything I’ve ever known. and you shouldn’t have had to, but I’m really grateful that you did. thank you.”

dean starts to scoff, but catches himself. he’s trying to get better at talking. he’s trying to get better at seeing himself as worthy of love. “thanks, sammy. I tried.”

a deep voice from behind them says, “you did well, dean.” dean smiles. cas comes up to stand beside dean, hands him a soda. he takes it. cas puts his hands on the railing. dean covers one of his hands with his own.

dean says, “we all did.”

we watch the three of them, looking out into the night from their safe haven. for once, the night doesn’t look scary to them. it looks peaceful.

the camera moves back inside, to the warm, happy scene. jack is trying to perform something in charades and no one has any idea what it is. everyone is smiling. we move past them, their voices fade. we pass through dean and cas’ kitchen, dirty dishes everywhere, drinks open, evidence of company. there is a grocery list on the fridge. we move, lastly, to the stairwell, where photos are framed. a couple still lay on the ground, not yet nailed up. there are four on the wall, and we see them each in order:

the picture of mary and dean, from his room in the bunker. this reminds us of the pilot, the reason for the start of this story. it’s been framed. this house is permanent, no need to keep everything packed up anymore.

the worn, faded picture of sam, dean, cas, bobby, ellen, and jo, from the night before the apocalypse. a reminder of their hardships, the friendships forged and lost, the things they’ve been through together.

a small picture of dean and cas, leaning against the impala, at some undetermined time, probably taken by sam. they’re both smiling. there is a distinct fold down the middle — someone was keeping this photo hidden in a wallet for a long time. it doesn’t need to be hidden anymore.

lastly, we see a new print of a photo of the whole found family standing in front of the house they’re in now, all smiling — moving day. this photo hasn’t been through wear and tear, it was just printed and proudly displayed. claire’s arms are around jack’s shoulders. we see they have matching friendship bracelets. sam and eileen stand next to dean in the center, eileen leaning back into sam’s frame. dean holds up keys in one hand, the other arm is around cas’ shoulders. cas is the only one not looking at the camera. he’s looking at dean. of course he is.

a soft guitar plays the tune of:

lay your weary head to rest

don’t you cry no more.

the end

[pbaz7]

Yayyy new chapter! I’m currently hyperventilating because Azzi is in Dallas and they are too adorable for me to handle. Excited to read!

Paige had never thought she'd see the day where Jasmine was sitting in her living room, legs crossed on her couch

- with a gun pointed at her head right? Right?

The same couch her and Azzi had just—well, no

- wild

We were toxic from the jump, it was just fun because we were in college.”

- hear hear to that

Paige let out a quiet laugh, gaze dropping briefly to the girl's lips. “I got a bum knee, not a bum mouth.”

- now Paige you got a girl

Lemme take you home then…so I can taste like you instead.”

- I mean that was a BAR

The one who used to bullshit around with her in the gym until all hours of the night, laughed with her like they had all the time in the world.

- memories hurt, espeically when it’s a good person

She makes me want to be better in every aspect of life. Makes me want to give her the best version of me. I want her to feel safe with me. I want her to know she’ll never have to carry anything alone—not while I’m breathing.”

- I hope someone caught that lovey dovey shit on tape cos Paige down bad damn

She paused again, catching her breath a little.

- she’s still going? Jasmine I respect your patience

Eyes glassy, cheeks damp with tears…but actually smiling.

- eh maybe she’s not so bad

As far as she knew, Azzi hadn’t done anything legal with Lukas—wasn’t listed on anything official.

- AS FAR AS SHE KNEW????

Azzi tapped the edge lightly, a silent request that Paige had learned meant lay down for me.

- Ok patient

But I’m not insecure, and I’m an adult. So I’d be fine.”

- so damn healthy

Azzi leaned against the table with a smile. “You’re in trouble when he starts asking for tattoos.”

- pazzi tattoos when.

Paige’s jaw tightened as she shook her head. “I swear, you be sayin’ shit like that like I won’t take you upstairs right now.”

- Paige has never heard the saying a time and a place

Paige leaned against the counter, still grinning. “She can pray for me too, if it helps.”

- you take that mouth to church on Sunday Paige bueckers

honestly I don’t even use my full salary.

- Paid Bueckers indeed

My sweet angels I love them so much they are so special to me. I’d love for you to write about them going on a vacation or something, something about the routine of travel days and vacation days when in love is so endearing. Loved this bestie! Update soon

- 🫂🫂🫂

now Paige you got a girl

ehhh not quite

memories hurt, espeically when it's a good person

that’s why it’s better to leave on awful terms 🙂‍↕️

eh maybe she's not so bad

loll that my effort to humanize her

Paige has never heard the saying a time and a place

doesn’t exist

ily bestie i hope you’re doing well

[daintyduck99]

one giving the other their jacket / covering them with it when they fall asleep + Rulie

Also tagging @innytoes, who asked for the same prompt!

Reggie shoulders his way through the sorority house with his heart hammering in his ears. It could be the bass—but he wouldn't bet on it. 

The cacophony had started when he'd realized that Julie wasn't with Flynn. 

He finally spies her wild mass of curls between the banisters of the stairs and leaps over the couple sitting at the bottom, deaf to their indignant cries. 

Some hulking asshole is leaning right up in her face, all but pinning her to the wall, but her eyes slide over to Reggie before anyone can do something stupid, and she visibly melts with relief.

"Reggie!" 

As soon as the asshole crowding her turns around, she stumbles past him and crashes right into Reggie’s chest, tucking her head under his chin and her arms into his jacket. Reggie's arms come around her easily, automatically, and she sighs, snuggling into him.

"Figures," the asshole mumbles, shoulder checking them as he passes for good measure, which makes Julie whimper and Reggie grit his teeth.

He rubs Julie's back, where he's met with warm skin because she's wearing a cute, strappy little black tank top. 

Which he isn't going to think too hard about because he's better than that asshole, Julie's more than her body—

And her well-being is the priority.

"Julie, are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"No," she mumbles into his shirt, and he's suddenly ready to do something really stupid, like punch that guy to death, when she adds, "I mean…yes. I'm fine, not…hurt. Just. Gross feeling."

"Do you want me to take you home?" 

She makes a sad sound, nuzzling her nose into the curve of his neck. 

He has to suppress a shiver, especially as her lips brush against his throat.

"Take me to your place? I don't…wanna be alone. Please?" 

"Of course," he says softly, pressing his lips to the top of her head, which usually makes her grin and giggle. 

Julie's an affectionate drunk—when she's with her friends. Giggly and sweet, and he hates that she's not laughing, that some asshole ruined this evening, that experience, for her. 

She does let out a little contented sigh, though, lolling her head back to hit him with the full force of her puppy-dog eyes, which are warm and wide and—

Just—lethal levels of adorable. 

"Reggie…carry me?" 

He knows that one of the guys is going to see, and they're all going to give him more shit than they already do, call him out on being whipped for a girl he hasn't even bothered confessing to— 

But it's not Reggie’s fault that it's never the right time. Especially not now, when she's drunk and feeling gross.

Reggie hums. "If that's what you want."

So she clings to him like a koala, and he keeps his arms secure around her back, glad that it does make her giggle.

To him, that's way more important than any of the weird looks they get. 

With some difficulty—mostly stemming from the fact that she doesn't want to let go, even in the slightest—he manages to get her out of the house, down the block, and into his truck. 

She wriggles in the seat as he clicks the seatbelt in, pouting at him expectantly all the while. 

He laughs quietly. "What?" 

"You're out there and not up here." 

Understanding makes him flush.

"I can't climb in the seat with you."

"Why?" She pouts harder. "It's cold." 

"I know. But I have to drive, Jules." 

And she looks so crushed that he's quick to add—

"We're not going far, though. We can cuddle all you like at my place, okay?"

A smile slowly spreads over her face.

"Hmm…okay." 

He closes her door as softly as he can and goes around to hop in on the driver's side. He lets the engine idle for a moment, wishing he could put the heat on, but it's never not busted. 

By the time he glances over at Julie, she's curled up in the seat, drowsing.

He slides out of his jacket, debates sniffing it, decides that would be weird, prays it doesn't smell bad—

And drapes it carefully over Julie's balled up form, heart hammering again. 

She sighs and snuggles into it, much like she had when she'd run right into his arms, and he melts at the sight. 

God, but she's so fucking cute. 

He ends up carrying her into his apartment, too—in for a penny, in for a pound, as his grandpa always says—but when he tries to take the jacket away to give her a proper blanket, she refuses to give it up. 

"Mine," she says sleepily. "Don't…" 

He brushes some curls out of her face, smiling as she nuzzles into his hand. 

"You can't keep it forever, Jules." 

"But you gave it to me…mine, now." 

As with everything else, he's quick to acquiesce, but he does make sure she has some proper blankets nearby—just in case—before he grabs one for himself and makes up the couch.

And after that night—

She never really gives his jacket back, first holding it hostage to make the time to confess, then stealing it from him every opportunity that she gets, but it and his heart are both happily hers.