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sprout-fics · 5 months

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First Day of the Rest of Your Life

(TF141 & Reader Old Guard AU)

Call of Duty Masterlist

Rating: 16+ Wordcount: 4k Tags: Old Guard AU, Immortals AU, Newly Immortal Reader, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Open Ending, Rescue Missions, Shadow Company, Major Character Death (non permanent) Warnings: Forced Drugging, Character Death (and revival) A/N: A silly little idea that I won't be continuing, but others are free to build off of

They’re not known by anyone but themselves.

Things like them shouldn’t exist. It goes against all laws of nature, to rise from dirt and to return. Yet somehow, the men you come to meet defy death itself, unable to be killed, to die a death that lasts long and forever.

And…

You come to realize you’re just like them.

But first, you have to die.

A “Shadow”, you’re called. One of many, under the authority of Commander Phillip Graves and his company. It’s a reluctant job, one that you took with little other option to settle old debts and to escape from a life that haunts you even now. Even so, you share a camaraderie with the men and women around you, bonds forged under mortar fire and bullet wounds.

Graves himself takes you under his wing, reluctant as you are, makes a point to check on you after missions, to tease you when he can, needling you and trying to make you roll your eyes at him. He likes getting under your skin, cracking jokes so your mouth twitches up as you suppress a smile. It’s hard not to like him with his charisma, but you can’t even shake the little bit of guardedness that remains ever present when you’re around him. You’re not friends, but you certainly aren’t enemies either. Comrades, perhaps.

That changes when you die.

You’re supporting SAS forces in their hunt for a known AQ leader, in a remote village, when your squad is ambushed. The desert sun bores down harshly on you all, and you find yourself squinting upwards when the first shot echoes out.

Graves is not far behind you as bullets begin to rain down on your position, leaning into his comms and barking orders. His eyes are focused with trained intent, finger on the trigger of his weapon, and when you catch his eyes he shoots you a wild grin.

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as you return fire- a woman and a child, hidden behind a low wall as she tries to cover him from the firefight. Her eyes are different. Scared, full of tears, her shoulders tight as he holds back her cries.

You shout for cover, instantly on your feet moving and diving for the pair. You shield her as you aid them both to safety, only for one of your squad to shout for you a moment too late.

The bullet goes straight through your heart.

You fall forward into the arid earth, watching the woman and her son be quickly escorted to shelter. The pang of relief you feel is stifled by the agony that laces through your veins, wet and viscous and much too warm. As you gasp, dying and bleeding out, the last thing you see is Graves’ face hovering over yours, steely and grim as your life gushes out onto his hands.

“Breathe, darlin’, breathe.”

You can’t. With every pulse of your heart you feel the sickening ooze of red spill from the gap in your chest. You wheeze, try to speak, but it’s too late. You hear him call for you as you go under, and your last thought is that you wish just had more time.

There’s a flash of something then- brief and vague, like the shimmering outline on the horizon. Four figures standing tall, turning to gaze at you before it all goes dark.

You wake up in the infirmary an hour or so later. Staring up at the medical tent and trying to process the fact that you’re alive.

Remarkably, you feel…fine?

A hand smooths over your chest, and you find no bullet hole at all. No gaping wound where your life force bled out of you. Perfectly healed.

It doesn’t make any sense, and you try to reconcile the sudden, agonizing pain and darkness with your unscathed state. You died. There’s no way you should be alive right now, much less without a horrible, life altering injury.

Graves pushes aside the tent flap and paces to your bedside with long strides. You expect him to look relieved, to smile and offer a joke to cover his concern. Instead, he appears guarded, cautious, like he no longer trusts you.

You flinch.

Graves watches you with wary eyes, and when you ask him if perhaps you dreamt it he doesn’t show any indication of shock. Instead, he crowds closer, gets in your personal space, and asks you what you remember. You tell him. You died…and then…and then…

Nothing.

This doesn’t satisfy him, and you can tell by the harsh light in his eyes. He smiles anyways, but you feel something curl in your stomach at the fact that it feels so sinister. Graves pats your shoulder and tells you to rest up, offers a little murmur of relief that doesn’t reach your ears.

You’re too busy looking at his eyes.

On his way out of the infirmary, Graves whispers something to the medic, who pales and tries to protest. Yet then Graves goes icy cold, and you feel a shiver run up your spine. He vanishes after that, and after a moment the medic appears with a syringe.

“This should help with the pain.” He offers with a wobbly smile.

“But…I’m not in pain.” You offer, brow knotted in confusion, but before you can offer anything else he holds out your arm and presses the needle to the inside of your elbow with practiced ease.

“W-wait-”

You look at the medic in confusion as he pulls back, and somehow when he presses on your shoulder you go flat on the bed with sluggish limbs.

“What-” You try, feeling something dark and liquid descend over your senses slowly.

“I’m sorry.” He offers, face pinched. “Please don’t die.”

You grab at him then, recognizing the injection too late for what it is, a lethal dose. You try to raise your voice, try to beg, but the soldier above you hushes you, murmurs apologies even as the newly familiar grip of death settles over you.

…And then, you wake up again

This time, however, you’re restrained. Your arms are above your head, shackled to the metal bars of the infirmary cot. There’s a dull ache that colors your senses, and when you try to raise your hand to rub at your head you find it immobile. Panic instantly rises within you, doubled by your prone position.

As you panic and struggle Graves appears and hovers over your bedside

“Feel like talkin now, soldier?” He asks, gaze cold.

He had you killed, you realize. He sent the medic to drug you, to test this newfound ability of yours to come back after apparent death. Now, he has you trapped under his mercy, eyes dark as he scrutinizes your restrained form.

You try to tell him you don’t know, you don’t understand, but you know he doesn’t believe you. Even after your babbling protests and attempts to explain, he remains unmoved.

At last, he sighs in frustration and turns away to the medic once more.

“Put em’ under.”

Terror grips at you. You scream, thrash, a primal fear screeching through your veins as you’re approached by the grim faced medic.

Then, the medical tent shakes with the force of a nearby explosion. Graves spins, eyes wide. Instantly, the base alarm begins to roar, nearly deafening the instant chatter of his radio. Graves is moving, barking order, growling at the two shadows who stand nearby.

“Prep for transport. We’re takin’ em to the general.”

Shepherd.

They’re moving you. They’re going to give you to Shepherd because of…whatever this is. Your instincts scream danger, and it only renews your effort to escape, thrashing at your restraints and screaming with all your might.

The two shadows press down on your struggling limbs- a hand snaking up to cover your mouth. You plead with teary eyes, desperately afraid, whimpering as the medic pushes the needle down into your arm once more. The overly warm rush of morphine slinks through your veins, draws your eyelids heavy against your will.

It’s at that moment that you see them.

Four armed figures sweep into the tent, and as the two soldiers spin and reach for their weapons. They're taken out before they can even shout for aid, two of the men instantly subduing the two guards, choking them into unconsciousness with heavy, muscular arms. A third points a weapon at the medic, growling as the man cowers.

A face hovers into view- Brown eyes a deeper color than his skin, warm gaze concerned even as he smiles. He’s handsome, a delirious part of your brain realizes as unconsciousness begins to descend over you.

“Nice to meet you, mate.” He tells you as you begin to fade. “Name’s Gaz. Don’t worry, we’ll be here when you wake up. We got it from here.”

You try to ask him what he means, but you’re gone before the words can pass your lips.

- - -

“I’m getting kind of tired of this.” You think as soon as you wake up for the third time in twelve or so hours, flat on your back and looking at the ceiling of a plane.

There’s a jacket covering you, and as you sit up your groan, feeling the remnants of morphine clear from the uncomfortable haze of your brain.

“Easy.” A gruff voice tells you, and your eyes dart up to take in the sight of a man sitting on a bench beside you, the airplane rattling around you both. “You’ve had a rough go of it, take it slow.”

“Who…?” You manage to ask, pressing a heel of your palm to the center of your eye to dispel the lingering headache, looking around to take in the other three men who sit in various stages of alertness. You take them in one by one, starting with the man beside you with the beard and the hat. He looks older than you suspect he is- the age showing in his eyes.

Beside him sits a man in a mask, the hard plastic of it in the shape of a skull. He blinks at you slow like a cat, and with his arms crossed he seems to take up so much space on the tiny aircraft.

Across from him sits a younger man with a mohawk, blue eyed and bright. He smiles at you, gaze twinkling as you blink in confusion.

Your eyes land on a familiar face. “...Gaz.” You offer uncertainly, and he beams at you.

“Right’o.” He tells you, and then nods to the man beside him. “And Soap-” The man in the mohawk gives a grin and a wave. “Ghost-” The man is the skull mask, arms crossed, regarding you coolly. “And Price.” The man who sits beside you, elbows on his knees, blue eyes staring keenly down at you.

You reply with your name purely out of politeness, but are unable to stop the tensing of your limbs as you slowly and cautiously press away from the four men who have kidnapped you.

The questions pour out of you before you can stop them. Who are they? Where are you? Where’s Shadow Company? Where are they taking you? How did you get here?

…Do they know you died?

The men before you exchange some looks of concern, before at last it’s Price who moves and settles on his haunches before you with a reassuring smile. He sits just out of reach, trying to respect your personal space as much as he can in the tiny plane.

“You’re safe.” Is the first thing he tells you, voice firm but soft. “We’ll make sure your commander can’t find you, so don’t you worry about that.”

“The rest will have to wait.” He goes on, offering you a hand to stand and helping you to a seat beside Gaz. “We’ll wait until we’re at our safehouse to tell you the rest.”

You swallow nervously, hands bunched in the jacket draped over your lap. Your mind desperately tries to understand what has happened, how you could have ended up here.

“He…killed me.” You manage shakily, remembering Graves standing over you as you woke up from the lethal rush of morphine. “Graves.”

Price looks grim as he nods silently.

“But…” You trail off, confused, scared, trembling. You look at him, wrapping your arms around yourself for comfort. “I’m…alive?”

“That you are.” Price replies with grave seriousness. “And you’re not dying anytime soon.”

You find out later that ‘soon’ doesn’t begin to describe what your life will become.

You have no option but to trust these men, you realize. You think about running, but you have no idea where you are, where they’ve taken you. As you’re gently escorted off the plane on an abandoned runway somewhere in the desert, you think about climbing back aboard and forcing the pilot to take you home.

There’s nothing back there for you, you realize. Not with your outstanding debts and mistakes, not when Graves will be able to track you down.

You curl into a corner of the safehouse- skittish and forlorn as you lose yourself in your thoughts. The others busy themselves disposing of their gear, talking in low voices, and you ignore the sympathetic looks they offer you.

Gaz settles in front of you, pushes a steaming mug of something warm into your hands, and you manage a grateful glance.

“Where are we?” You ask him quietly, and he gives you a worried little smile.

“A few hours outside Cairo. A safehouse. An old one.”

You hear Soap sneeze in another room, complaining about spiderwebs. It summons a weary smile to your features.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” You ask quietly, and Gaz stands, offers you a hand so you rise with him.

“Of course.” He tells you, and places a hand on your shoulder to guide you in the direction of the brightly lit kitchen. “But first? Dinner. Can’t have you starve to death.”

“Will that actually kill me?” You think, but offer no other reply

Dinner is a mix of MREs and canned fruit from one of the cabinets. You watch as Ghost passes his pineapple pieces over to Soap, who swallows them down happily. Price leans over to murmur something to him, and Soap huffs a little sound of amusement around his fork. You observe them, realizing that there’s a warm familiarity between all of them, a trust that runs inherently deep and profound. It summons a little pang of longing inside you, wishing that maybe you might find something similar one day

You pick at your dinner, not really hungry. The food sits uneasily in your stomach with your anxiety, and as the plates lay scattered across the table the others finally turn to you.

“You died.” Price begins, startlingly direct.

“Yes.” You tell him breathily in return. He nods, pauses before his next words.

“So did all of us.”

You blink at that, trying to process- before Soap finally chimes in.

“Aye, your commander shot me straight in the neck, the bastard.” He grins sunnily. “Shoulda seen his face when I got right back up, fit as a fiddle.”

You do smile at that, imagining Grave’s utter shock at a dead man walking. It fades as you fidget with the cooling mug in your hands.

“So…what?” You ask quietly. “I’m some kind of…immortal?”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You look up, meet the blank stares of the men before you, and feel your stomach turn to ice.

“You’re kidding.”

Price shakes his head slowly, and you watch as he reaches for a cigar in his jacket.

“Those’ll kill you.” You want to tell him, but you wonder if it truly is a moot point.

“We were all like you, once.” He sighs as smoke spills from his mouth. “Soldiers, young, trying to do some good in a war we didn’t ask for.”

They tell you their stories, and you sit transfixed as the tale of their lives unravel before you.

Gaz and Soap are the ‘youngest’ they claim, both in age and in the time they first died. World War 2, they tell you. Gaz was a pilot shot down in France, and Soap was an infantryman only a few hundred miles west.

“Price found me.” Gaz tells you, smiling fondly at the older man, who returns the expression.

Price tells you of the vision he had- of Kyle terrified, tugging at his straps as his plane burned and spiraled out of control, only to wake up completely unscathed in a pasture. Of course, he’d been killed twice over by German forces before Price managed to find him. Gaz had been the same as you- flighty, scared, uncertain. Price had hauled him to an abandoned farmhouse, had explained to him the same they explain to you now- that one day you just stop dying. You don’t age. You can’t be killed. You blackout, bleed out, and then you just wake back up.

“Soap had it less easy.” He nods to the Scot, who grimaces. Ghost tilts his head in Soap’s direction.

“You want me to tell em, Johnny?”

Soap grumbles, and explains the story of waking up downriver, having drowned, with his entire squad dead after a charge across the Rhine. He tried to find his way back under the cover of night and found a man in a mask instead. He thought he was the reaper coming to collect his soul, but when Ghost started trying to explain immortality and becoming ageless, Soap had stared at him in complete disbelief- and then ran.

“You pitched a fit when I finally caught you.” Ghost remarks smugly, and Johnny’s frown deepens.

“Couldnae help it.” He grouses. “You did a shite job of explaining. Plus-” He jabs a finger in his friend’s direction. “You shot me.”

You blink at that, looking at Ghost, who shrugs, completely unrepentant.

“You tried to escape.”

“But still-!”

“And they’ve been trying to kill each other ever since.” Gaz adds cheekily as the two bicker.

“No killing each other.” Price reminds them sternly, and it quiets down the squabbling.

“Wait-” You try, looking to Soap and Gaz. “So you’re…what, like 100 years old?”

“Give or take a few years.” Soap offers. “I’m the older one.”

Gaz snorts. “You are not.”

“I got found first.”

“I was literally born before you.”

“By eight months.”

“Still counts.”

You turn to Ghost. “So then how old are you?”

“I stopped counting.” He replies plainly. “16th century.”

Your jaw drops. Ghost looks smug at your expression as you try to run the numbers.

“You’re leaving out the part where you were in the Anglo-Scottish War, Simon.” Soap bemoans, displeased. It sours Ghost’s expressions as he turns to the Scot.

“I didn’t even know you yet.” He remarks, mildly annoyed, and it does little to ease Soap’s vague irritation.

“So then Price found you too.” You comment, and Ghost turns back to you.

“After years of chasing him.” Price interjects. “There’s a reason we call him ‘Ghost’.”

You learn later about the things Ghost doesn’t tell you- about being buried alive by his enemies, of suffocating and dying over and over as he clawed through the dirt on his way to freedom. An inevitable, stifling death where he didn’t understand how he kept coming back, only to suffocate once more.

All eyes then turn to Price, who regards you with a knowing smile.

“Old.” He responds to your wordless question. “Too old.”

You want to press him, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes you bite your tongue.

“So…do you…we…” You correct slowly. “...get sick? Starve? Drown?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been sick.” Ghost provides. “Been starved and drowned, though.”

“Starving is a fool’s death.” Price says, oddly grim. His cigar burns down to ash, and he sighs.

There’s a solemn silence that settles over the safehouse then, and you feel the heavy weight of unspoken words sink between you all.

“There’s rules for us.” Price states then, once more reigning in his air of authority that draws you all a little straighter, attentive.

He goes on to tell you the rules that these men live and die by.

Don’t be seen. Don’t stay in one place for more than a few years at a time. If you die, move on. Stay together. Always communicate. Never leave a man behind.

They’ve spent decades, centuries trying to find ways to use their time to the best of their ability- and the only thing they’ve come to is to stay as soldiers, trying their best to scrub the scum off the face of the earth so the world stays clean. Illegal drug trade, weapons smuggling, extremism, genocide, doing whatever they can to help the innocent and the blameless from violence, and dying to do so.

What else is there to do with all the time? They tell you. Money, luxury, empires, it doesn’t matter when you live forever. So instead they fight, do what they can to save humanity from itself. It’s not an easy job, but it must be done.

They’ve seen things that haunt the shadows of their eyes, witness to the worst villainy and grotesqueness humanity has to offer. They’ve all had to take years off when the burden of the world became too heavy for their souls.

You don’t learn of the time when one of them, and they’ll never say who, tried to give up entirely, had become lost as he desperately tried to rid himself of his immortality. They don’t speak of the decade it took to bring him back, to mend his soul back to fullness once more. It’s a gift, they’ll tell you, but you too will come to learn it’s a curse.

The silence is broken by Soap.

“Can be fun, sometimes.” He offers. “Kyle and I have a runnin’ bet over who dies first in whatever year we’re in.”

“No killing each other.” Price reiterates, scowling at Soap and Gaz, who look guilty. “Not even for fun.”

You make a note to ask about that story later.

“And most of all…” Price goes on, voice grave. “Don’t get captured.”

You remember the infirmary, the cuffs, Graves standing over you with his cold, calculating gaze as fear mounted higher inside you.

You shudder, and Soap lays a warm hand on your shoulder in reassurance.

“They won’t find you.” Ghost provides, and his voice is softer, eyes kinder. “You’re with us now.”

“Simon is right.” Gaz adds seriously. “We’ve been doing this for decades. Your commander has nothing on us.”

You offer him a grateful smile, and remember his warm eyes in the moment you first met him.

“We’ll be here when you wake up.”

These men saved you from a fate that was out of your control. They rescued you, kept you safe, and refused to leave you behind. They brought you to safety, comforted you, and even now they take care of you from your own fear of the future.

“You’re one of us.” Price offers quietly, strangely tender. His hand settles on yours, squeezes it hard for just a moment. “We don’t leave behind one of our own.”

You smile at him through the tears, more grateful than you can express. You’re still scared, and in the years to come you’ll still have nightmares of the man who killed you twice over, who had once been your ally. His betrayal sits in your heart as distant terror, and when it becomes too much your new family holds you, comforts you once more.

You’ll grow with them, fight with them. You’ll hold them as they breathe their last, cry with them over the things you couldn’t accomplish in your never ending fight against the worst of humanity. You’ll lament the agelessness between you all, but will help each other to stand once more. You’ll stand beside them for the centuries to come, and you’ll die alongside them.

And then you’ll wake up.

#cod x reader #cod x you #cod x gn!reader #cod x y/n #141 x reader #oneshots #old guard au

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wheeboo · 8 months

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lucky | lee jihoon

SYNOPSIS. in which jihoon realises just how lucky he is to have you. PAIRING. lee jihoon x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, established relationship WARNINGS. none, jihoon is just deeply whipped and falling hard for reader (🫵) WORD COUNT. 1.3k

notes: ive been addicted to a new song recently called lucky by crying city n wanted to write it abt w someone. i havent written for jihoon in a while so enjoy some domestic jihoon brainrot :')

Jihoon had always told himself to be patient when it comes to being with you. He likes it this way𑁋the steady and slow incline of his feelings towards you. It's like a delicate flower in bloom, or watching a sunrise over the horizon, each day bringing a bit more light and warmth to his heart.

You like it this way too. Because when time seems to be going by fast around you, it only seems to slow down when you're with him.

He likes the way he seems to discover something new about you every time you went out on a date. It can be a distant memory from the past that you remember that reminds you of him, or something miniscule like a quirk when your eyes grow big when you're amused or when you reach for the nearest object to grab when you're excited. In most of these cases these days, it's the sleeve of his shirt or his wrist. Jihoon really likes it when you do that.

And amidst the things he notices about you, he doesn't dare to realise the subtle shifts of himself. Like the way he now anticipates your laughter before it even escapes your lips, or the way his smile grows just a little bigger each time he gets to walk you home with your arm comfortably wrapped around his. Or maybe when his gaze seems to linger a little longer when looking at you as if trying to imprint every detail of your face into his mind, or when the thought of your absence becomes an ache in his heart that he can't ignore.

Just like right now.

Jihoon recognises that he's no longer just patient; he's become truly invested in your life, your happiness, just you. You're the first person he's ever truly liked, and he ponders whether this feels right or not𑁋to miss you this much it feels merely incomplete to be home alone right now, because he'd much rather be with you. The thought scares him a little. He's never imagined himself to feel this way.

It isn't due to uncertainty about his feelings; it's more about the vulnerability that comes with caring so deeply for someone. The idea that his happiness has become so entwined with yours is both thrilling and overwhelming that even his members seem to notice a particular glow to him lately. But then he remembers just how easy it is to be Lee Jihoon around you. Not just Jihoon. Lee Jihoon. Himself, and nothing more.

What he feels isn't just fleeting𑁋it's real, it's profound, and it's worth embracing.

Jihoon trudges to his bedroom, placing himself down at the edge of his bed with his thumb hovering over your contact. He contemplates sending you a goodnight text, but it feels lackluster to send such a simple message when there's so much more to be told. He could also send you a paragraph for you to read, but that also doesn't feel enough.

He wants to see you instead.

With a determined yet slightly nervous exhale, Jihoon taps on your contact and selects the video call option. His heart quickens in an instant as the call connects after a few rings, and he's quickly greeted by your surprised face.

"Hoonie?" You call to him, and Jihoon swears his heart melts into goo each time you call him that.

"Hey," he greets you warmly, noticing how you were scrambling to prop up your phone properly. "I'm... not interrupting anything, am I?"

You shake your head, offering a soft smile. "No, not at all. Are you okay? You usually don't call."

Jihoon bites his bottom lip nervously because you're right. He's always been more comfortable texting than calling, but there's just something about this moment right now that makes him want to change that fact, especially if he gets to see a glimpse of your face for one second.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I just... wanted to see you," he admits, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You lift an amused brow, finding the smile to your lips hard to resist. "Shouldn't you be asleep by now? You have work in the morning with the guys."

Jihoon runs a hand through his hair sheepishly. "I know, I know. But I... I wanted to see your face."

Your face softens. "Well, I'm glad that you're here. You can get ready for bed with me."

Jihoon's smile grows, and he shifts slightly on his bed, propping himself up against the pillows. The warmth in your voice is enough to make his heart flutter, and the idea of sharing this domestic moment with you, even through a screen, feels comforting. It makes him imagine himself unwinding for bed with you without a phone call separating the two of you.

"I'd like that," he replies, gaze fixed on you bringing your phone into the bathroom. "It's been a long day."

He listens to the sounds of running water as you wash your face, and seeing your pretty bare face gives him all the more reason to hope that one day, he'll be able to cherish it in person. It's as if he's there with you, a silent presence in your room, a part of your everyday life.

He stands up as well, bringing you along into his own bathroom. Jihoon sets his phone on the counter, giving you a view of his bathroom as he goes about washing his face as well. You shake your head with a smile as you watch him dry his face, already standing with your toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, silently gesturing to him once he catches sight of you.

Jihoon chuckles softly and he picks up on your unspoken cue. He reaches for his own toothbrush and toothpaste, mirroring your actions as you both start brushing your teeth together, occasionally exchanging shy glances here and there and letting the domesticity of the moment take over.

Once you're both done, you watch as Jihoon rinses his toothbrush and puts it back in its place. He dries his hands and faces the phone's camera with a soft smile, seeing that you were already walking back to presumably your bedroom. He does the same as well, collapsing onto his bed and settling under his duvet, the soft glow of his bedside lamp casting a warm light on his face. You've also settled back into bed on your end, the dim lighting in your room making you appear extra cozy under the covers.

As you both settle into bed, he can't help but imagine a world where he's right there with you. It's a thought he often entertains: a dream of being able to hold you close, to feel your warmth against his for the first time. He imagines being able to live that quiet life with you.

One day, I'll hold you like this for real, he thinks.

There's a yawn that leaves your lips that Jihoon overhears through the phone, and it tugs at his heartstrings in the sweetest way. It's a small, ordinary sound, but to him, it's a reminder of the most mundane and heartfelt moments you've shared. As he continues to watch you, he notices the telltale signs of weariness in your eyes, and he can't help but feel a twinge of protectiveness.

"You should rest," Jihoon suggests, voice carrying the same warmth he feels.

You give a small pout. "I don't really want to sleep just yet."

"I'll fall asleep better knowing you're getting rest too," Jihoon insists gently.

Your pout turns into a contemplative look at his words. "You've... got a point."

There's a few moments of silence that passes, and Jihoon takes it as an opportunity to watch the way your features gradually soften before finally relaxing.

"Okay." You let out a sigh, reaching out to readjust your covers before giving Jihoon one final look through the phone. "Promise me you'll get some rest too?"

Jihoon only nods. "I promise."

You grin sleepily. "Sweet dreams, Hoonie."

"Sweet dreams, Y/N." I hope you dream of something beautiful tonight.

The call stays connected for a few moments before Jihoon finally gives in and ends the call. He lets out a breath he feels he's been holding in for a while as he lays there. The glow of his phone's screen slowly fades away, leaving his room in peaceful darkness. He shifts under the covers, getting comfortable and closing his eyes.

And in that moment, it hits him just how lucky he is have you.

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#kflixnet #k-labels #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #woozi imagines #woozi fluff #woozi x reader #lee jihoon imagines #lee jihoon fluff #lee jihoon x reader #svt imagines #svt fluff #svt x reader #svt

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leighsartworks216 · 4 months

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57 perhaps? If inspiration happens to strike. I love a little desperation or uncertainty or pretty much any possible cause of trembling kisses. Can be nsfw or not. Thank you for all that you do, and please feel free to disregard entirely if it’s not your thing!

57 - kisses with trembling lips

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

OH BOY DID THE INSPIRATION STRIKE. IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE. I saw this prompt and my mind immediately went to the most painful idea. I legitimately almost started crying multiple times writing this, as someone who very rarely cries over fics at all. Soooo let that be a solid warning and good luck 👍

Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST

Word Count: 578

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Kiss Prompts

It felt wrong to see you like this. You were surrounded by flowers from all your friends; Astarion despised the damn things more than ever. The only good thing was their potent fragrances masked the scent of death.

He took a deep breath, biting his cheek to force back his tears. It wasn’t working very well.

He stepped forward, leaning over the sides of the wooden coffin to peer down at your face. You looked peaceful. Much, much too pale, but peaceful. The thought of lowering you into the ground rubbed him the wrong way, but there was some comfort in knowing you would be laid right next to his own grave. When his time comes, however long from now, he’d be by your side once again.

He inhaled shakily. The tears burning his eyes broke free. He didn’t have the energy to wipe them away.

His hands shook as he reached in and cupped your cheek. The wrinkles and creases of age still felt exactly as they had a week ago, when you were scolding him for hovering over you. “I’m not helpless yet, Star. I can make it to the couch on my own.”

The thought of that house. Of going back to the emptiness… Gods, what would he do without you?

“Live. Live for me. You have so much life to live, my love. My star.”

He wished you’d open your eyes. Tell him it was all a joke. Come back to him, lay in his arms just one more time.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest was too damn tight, choking on half-contained sobs. The sun would be rising soon. He’d need to leave before then. For you. Gods know he was all too tempted to stay here, holding you one last time as he’s reduced to ash. But your voice rang all too clearly in his mind, as though you were commanding him on a battlefield. Live.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine you were still alive, merely fast asleep in your armchair by the fire, book slipping from your fingertips. But the smell of death flooded his nose too strongly. It was not the warm scent of the fire, or the soaps and oils he would bathe you with.

His lips trembled against your skin. His chin shook as emotion overwhelmed him. His entire body shuddered with the power of his sobs. His tears hit your skin; a holy aspersion from a lifetime of being loved. He reluctantly pulled away, vision blurred to hell as he delicately brushed them from your brow.

The horizon slowly grew pink and yellow. He had to leave.

His heart ached with the thought, now more than ever. He would never see your face again, not outside of portraits or magic mimicry. And he couldn’t even see worth a damn to be absolutely positive he would never forget it. He forgot his own face so long ago; he wouldn’t forget yours.

He tried to speak, tried to tell you he loved you, to thank you for spending your life with him, for never giving up on him despite it all, for being you. But the words never came. A golden beam creeped over the opposite edge of your coffin. The flowers came alive in the sun. He wished you would, too.

He passed from shadow to shadow back home, sobbing out his grief with every step.

---

Tag List:

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#request #requested #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #angst

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beneathstarryskies · 1 year

Text

For @actuallysaiyan because you're my bestie and deserve the world! ❤️

A/N: Just some soft/fluffy drabbles for Dante, Vergil, Nero, and Sparada x reader

Warnings: lots and lots of fluff, slight angst, mentions of pregnancy in Sparda's drabble, suggestive themes but nothing explicit, fem!reader

Dante

The setting sun lowers against the horizon. The bedroom slowly grows darker and darker. The passing time doesn’t bother you because right now you’re suspended in the most loving moment you can imagine. It wasn’t difficult for you to talk Dante into sharing a lazy day spent mostly in bed with you. He didn’t have any pending missions today, and the one time the phone rang he blissfully ignored it in favor of pressing the sweetest kisses on every inch of your exposed thighs, enjoying the trembling muscles and the soft gasps that left you every time he inched closer to where you needed him most.

Now, as the sun goes down, he’s hovering over you. Your hands card through his messy white hair, and you admire the way the evening sun reflects on his snowy eyelashes. The blue of his eyes shines even brighter in this light. His lips curl into a mischievous smirk when he notices the softness of your features as you look up at him.

“You like what you see, sweetheart?” he asks.

“So much,” you giggle. “You’re beautiful, Dante.”

He turns his head, the thick curtain of hair concealing the blush on his cheeks. This gives him time to seek solace in the soft curve of your neck, and he takes the chance to kiss your skin softly to make it seem like this was his intention all along. You massage his neck and shoulders, and all the while you can hear him purring softly. Finally, he looks at you again.

“Baby, can I make love to you?”

You’re surprised he’s only just now asking. His body is burning to finally make love to you. All day long, you’ve been caught in this haze together. You turn each other on over and over, but neither wanted to break the spell by suggesting you finally take him inside of you.

“Please, baby,” you kiss him softly. “I want you.”

Dante lines himself up at your entrance. He takes his time teasing you both by prodding your hole with his leaking cockhead. As he slips into you, inch by inch, you’re both panting and gasping over how good it feels. Your walls just open up to him with such ease. You can tell by the slow roll of his hips, that Dante doesn’t intend on rushing things at all. You spent all day laying around together, touching each other, and kissing. Now, he’s quite happy to make love to you all night long.

Vergil

You’re happily seated on Vergil’s lap. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist and the other is holding his book open as he reads to you. The poetry falls from his lips like honey. As he turns the page, he kisses your temple softly. You’d found him sitting in here reading happily by the window. You’d slipped into his lap, and he was so enraptured by his reading that he’d barely noticed. His arm went around you almost by instinct, and he continued reading. It wasn’t until you’d looked up at him with your wide eyes and a sweet smile, and asked oh so nicely for it, that he began reading to you. Hours have passed now, with him reading quiet, romantic poetry to you. Your eyes are heavy and you let out a soft yawn.

“Do you need a break, sparrow?” he asks softly.

“No, keep going,” you smile up at him.

“As you wish,” he kisses your forehead softly.

He starts a new poem, and you’re hanging on as long as you can. Vergil holds onto you a little tighter as your body goes weak against him. He’s barely made it to the third stanza when he realizes you’ve fallen asleep. He chuckles softly at the sight of you sleeping in his arms.

“I suppose that wasn’t one of your favorites,” he quips to himself.

He closes the book and sets it on the small side table. He lets you sleep on him for a little while, then gently carries you to your shared bedroom. He lays you down on the bed and kisses your forehead before tucking you in.

When you wake up hours later, you pout at the prospect of being alone in bed. You get up and wrap yourself up in a blanket. You can vaguely smell something cooking in the kitchen. As you walk in, you’re greeted by the sight of Vergil wearing the light blue apron you’d playfully bought him that says “Kiss the Cook” on the front. He has a cookbook open and propped up on some cans. You realize he’s trying to make your favorite dish.

Nero

Nero has been away from home much longer than either of you would’ve liked for him to be. Finally, one morning, he makes the phone call you’ve been waiting for. He tells you he’s on his way home, only interrupting once to tell Nico to “can it” as she teases him for how soft he is for you. He’ll be home by the end of the day. You decide to call in to work so you can be home when he arrives, then you set about making all kinds of preparations. Starting with making him a cake, chocolate with raspberry swirl. You put a roast chicken in the oven and put a bottle of wine in the fridge to chill. Then, as it gets closer to time for him to arrive, you take a long shower and slip into his favorite of your silky nighties and a long robe. You put on a bit of makeup to look your best for him.

However, you wait and wait for him. The chicken gets done, and you don’t even know if you should bother waiting for the sides. With a sad sigh, you wrap up all the food and put it away. You make yourself a sandwich and munch it down before going to bed.

It’s past midnight when the front door opens. Nero is sheepish as he walks into the living room, expecting you to be worriedly waiting in the living room Instead, there’s no sight of you. He goes to the kitchen and sees the table all set for a romantic dinner that didn’t happen, and his heart drops.

He goes upstairs and sees you sleeping peacefully in the bed you share. As quietly as he can manage, he undresses before sliding into the bed beside you. He’d tried to tell himself he wouldn’t wake you, but now that you’re in reach he’s not sure he can resist. He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. You feel his lips against your shoulder as you begin to stir awake.

“Baby?” you ask softly.

“It’s me, angel. I’m sorry I was so late,” he cuddles against you, pressing his face against your neck. “The van broke down and we were fixing it.”

“Oh! Baby,” you roll over in his arms and begin kissing him so sweetly. Nero just melts into your soft touch. You cup his cheek, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I’m home now, angel. That’s all that matters.”

Sparda

Your eyes are wide as you take in every detail of the vast castle. Sparda’s large hand envelops yours completely as he gives you the grand tour. Sparda can’t remember the last time he invited someone here, although he guesses that’s to be expected. It’s been centuries since he stayed at the Fortuna castle last. After his sons found him in the underworld, he came to this place. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find in Fortuna. Perhaps just a peaceful place to die if nothing else. Instead he found you. You’d begun by delivering him supplies. One rainy day, he’d invited you inside to warm yourself up by the fire in the large entrance hall. He’d served you tea and cookies, and found himself genuinely enjoying your company. As time went on, he invited you in more and more often when you stopped by for your deliveries. Like most on the island, you’d been raised to view him as a god. However, you’d quickly moved past that when you realized how much you enjoyed his company.

A little at a time, the Dark Knight began to fall in love with you. You shared his feelings in abundance. When the time came for him to invite you to move into the castle with him, he’d felt quite nervous about the whole ordeal. You’d accepted with a kind smile and a sweet kiss. Love was in the air. Today he was giving you the tour, and tomorrow you would call this castle home.

He walked you through the vast libraries and gallery halls. Then, he walked you into the residence halls. He showed you the master bedroom first, then the nearby guest rooms. They were furnished so beautifully, but the emptiness of them hit your heart with sadness.

“We can find uses for them,” he says as he leans down to kiss your cheek.

“Maybe we could turn one into a nursery?” you suggest with a playful wink.

For a moment, Sparda is truly flabbergasted. His eyes widen as he stares down at you, trying to piece together if you’re serious or not. He hadn’t considered having more children. Would he only let them down the way he did Dante and Vergil? You cuddle against him and giggle.

“Only when we’re ready, of course?”

“So,” he smirks, “You truly wish to carry my child?”

“Of course!”

He hoists you up in his arms and begins to carry you towards the master bedroom once more.

“There’s no harm in trying,” he says.

#dante x reader #vergil x reader #nero x reader #sparda x reader #devil may cry fanfiction #dante dmc x reader #vergil dmc x reader #nero dmc x reader #sparda dma x reader #devil may cry x reader #devil may cry #dante #sparda #vergil #nero #🌟written in the stars

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peachesofteal · 1 year

Text

Banana Pudding

Same pairing as Cupcakes.

GIF by hbothelastofus

Joel Miller/reader One shot - 2.3k words - AO3 Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, mentions of blood, violence, gore. Joel is bad at feelings. Protective Joel, pining, kissing. Very brief mention of Joel thinking about sex. You're late.

“It’s just for the day.” You said this morning as you shifted the backpack around. Joel unzipped the top compartment, packing it tight with replacement first aid supplies. “Just the day, and then I’ll be back. We can play go fish tonight.” The kid, the one you rescued a few months back, had been crying, standing by your front door, making a fuss. When you bent over to wipe his face, the curve of your ass pressed directly into Joel’s hips, and his hand darted out to lay on your side, like you were unsteady or needed comfort. You looked back at him with a wink before you wiped the kid’s nose with your sleeve and said, “Keep an eye on the old geezer for me, okay?”

You were one hour past due. He wasn’t worried, not yet. It wasn’t unlike you to get distracted by something, veer off onto a different path, go crashing through the woods because you swore you saw a discarded sweater caught in a tree somewhere. One time, you followed a bushwhacked trail to where someone had carved out a little hovel. Didn’t find much, but you did find the electrical tape you’d be looking for. And a half-drunk flask.

“For you.” You tossed it to him, mischievous smile on your face, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Your favorite. Smells like gasoline.” You teased him, and he had thought about what it would feel like to hold your face between his hands.

When you went out for the day, he could always count on you being a little late coming back. He wasn’t worried, not yet. You’re alright. You’re fine.

You were two hours past due. You and Alex, the new guy, hadn’t been spotted on the outskirts of the area either, and worry was starting to burn in his stomach like bad liquor. It was hot as hell today, and he wonders if you brought enough water. John swore he vetted that guy. Swore he could hold his own. Swore he could handle it. Joel fixes his eyes on the horizon, waiting. Watching.

“C’mon sweetheart. Where are you?”

You were three hours past due. The kid is hovering near him now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Joel hates this kid. This kid almost got you killed, almost got you infected. He’s also come to realize that the kid really likes you. Follows you around, running away from the group of orphans he’s supposed to stay with to knock on your flimsy front door all hours of the day. You sit with him at dinner, you take walks with him in the morning. He doesn’t like it. He hates how he feels when he sees you walking next to him, his little hand clutched in yours, big wide eyes trying to take in his surroundings. He hates how he feels when he watches you teach the kid how to play go fish at your kitchen table, Joel’s skin sweating under his clothes. He hates how you crouch down in front of him, smile on your face, your voice murmuring to him in low, soothing tones. The kid trusts you. He stares at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

It’s the same way Joel stares at you, and the thought pulls at him. Scratches at the surface of his skin, tugs at the things he’s buried so far down, they’ll never see the light of day.

“He has a name, you know.” You said one day. Yeah, he knew the kid’s name. Grey. What kind of a name is Grey?

“I know.” He matched you step for step, whacking through the long grass that’s grown over the interstate.

“Wouldn’t kill ya to use it.” It might.

“Sweetheart.” You turned, your face all sweet and smiling. “I don’t think you should get too attached to the kid.” The grin faded from your face like the setting sun.

“Go on home.” Joel tells the kid, and he pouts.

“But I wanna wait.” The boy whines, and Joel clenches his fist.

“I said go on.” He points, putting a little more authority behind his voice, and the boy scurries off. You’re alright. You’re fine.

You were four hours past due. He hates this. Hates this feeling. Hates the idea that you’re out there, with someone he didn’t know watching your back. He’s started packing a backpack, just in case. John tries to talk him down, but he can’t shake the sinking feeling in his gut. Could the new guy handle a Clicker? Could he handle a Bloater? He thinks about last time, only a few weeks ago, when the two of you stumbled upon one during a routine run.

You heard it first. Your body tensed like a deer in headlights, and then you immediately stepped into a crouch. He followed suit, noticing how you raised your hand behind your back, fingers waggling out in invitation. You wanted him to hold your hand, he realized. You wanted to know he was there. When he reached for you, your fingers stretched outward, feeling for the band of his watch, and his heart sputtered in his chest.

Bloaters are huge. They were a bitch to kill, their weird scaly skin more like armor, and they’re as strong as ten men. Fortunately, their echolocation was not nearly as good as Clickers, and they were slow as molasses. That didn’t always save everyone though. Last summer, you both watched Kelsey get her jaw pulled apart like a banana peel, her brains splattering on the wall like some overpriced canvas of modern art. He didn’t want to take this one on. He wanted to sneak away, with you, and hole up in the run-down house a few hundred meters up the road. The idea of you getting close enough to a Bloater to lob a Molotov at them made his skin crawl, so he squeezed your fingers twice to get you to turn around, and then he jerked his head in the direction of the shack. You looked at him like he was crazy, glancing down at the bottle already in your hand. He shook his head. A clear no.

“That Bloater.” You said later, absentmindedly while the two of you passed a cup of whiskey back and forth. “Got me thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“About Kelsey. When her head got peeled like a banana.” You used the same analogy that he did when he thought about it, a symptom of the truth. You two spent entirely way too much time together.

“Yeah. That was rough.”

“Yeah… Makes me want banana pudding real bad.” He surprised you by laughing, a deep chuckle that started in his chest, and you looked at him bewildered for a second before laughing too, the sound of your voice sticking to his ribs like sugar.

You were five hours past due. It was dark now, pitch black, and he was pulling his backpack onto his shoulders.

“Joel, it’s late. I’m sure they’re just layin’ low somewhere for the night, if you just wait-“ He doesn’t bother to listen to the rest of John’s plea. He can’t leave you out there. You’ve never told him, but he knows you hate the dark. Anytime you get assigned to do something after sunset, he watches your face flicker and change, the sweet, happy nature of your eyes tightening with a sprinkle of fear.

Once, he was the one who was late. Three hours late to a promise he had made you, a date with Egyptian rat screw. By the time he got back, the sun had well set, and you were standing on the little porch, lantern by your side. You were standing in the dark, waiting for him. The sight of it made his breath catch in his chest.

“Hey-“ He started to say when he saw you, but you cut him off immediately.

“Where were you?” your voice had been a higher pitch than normal, off key, like you were afraid. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that was rude. It’s just John said someone got held up and when you didn’t show I started to think maybe you were the one who got held up, but that doesn’t make sense because no one in their right mind would hold you up and-“ He grabbed your flailing hand with his, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles, and watched the tension drain from your body, bit by bit. I’m here, baby, he wanted to say. I’m right here.

“I think I owe you a game.” He said instead.

He remembers when you got that pack of cards, when you went back inside a building crawling with Clickers, just to pluck them from the pocket of some rotting corpse. He was furious. The feeling of rage in his chest was so strong that he wanted to scream at you, scare you bad enough that you never did anything that stupid again.

It wasn’t until later in the day that he realized it wasn’t anger at all, but fear.

He doesn’t let anyone else know you have them, because he remembers when Rich found out, that night when you drank just a little bit too much and let it slip. He remembers watching the gears in Rich’s head turn, eyes staring daggers at your bag. He tried to snatch it from you the next day, shoving you on the ground to tear your backpack away from your body. He gave you a black eye, but you rolled over on him with a knife pressed to the vein beating under his jaw. He ran away scared after that. Joel will never forget the disappointed look in your eyes as he scampered off. “That’s what I get for trying to be nice, I guess.”

Rich was dead two nights later. Everyone assumed it was a Stalker.

You were five and half hours past due. Joel’s walking out of camp now, flashlight shining on the road ahead. He would find you. You’d be alright. You’d be fine.

Something snaps in the dark of the trees to the right and he whirls, shining the flashlight in that direction, working it in a pattern across the ground. He hears a cough, and then-

“Joel?” It’s your voice, your soft, sweet voice saying his name, and when you come closer into the light splattered in blood, he nearly falls to his god damn knees.

“What happened?” he barks, his tone aggressive and edged in fear. “Where are you hurt? What happened?” He runs his hands over your body, your shoulders, your arms, your waist. He could run you back to camp faster if he carried you, he had a good amount of first aid in this pack, he could certainly staunch the bleeding if it wasn’t an artery, fuck if it was an artery, he didn’t think he had anything, probably could make a tourniquet, what if it’s a bite, what would-

“It’s not… It’s not my blood.” His mind stops racing and he blinks.

“It’s not your blood.” His hands come up to hold your face, one palm on either cheek. You’re shaking. He’s shaking.

“Not my blood.” You repeat again, fingers coming to wrap around his wrist, right below his watch. You stroke the spot where his pulse races with your thumb. “I’m alright. I’m fine Joel, I’m just a little-“ He doesn’t let you finish. Instead, he presses his mouth to yours, a fever rising in his own blood when you open for him, soft whimpers slipping from your lips. You taste as good as he’s imagined, and he wants to devour you. His blood is racing beneath his skin, and he wants to bury himself so far inside you that you can’t go anywhere without him again, wants to ruin you and lock you up, so no one can even so much as touch a single hair on your head. He wants to rewind time and kill the fucker who put that scar on your face. He traces a finger down your neck, across your collarbones, and your skin is so soft, so warm, he can’t stop touching it, his fingers moving over every inch of bare flesh available to him until you let out a little moan and it jolts him. He pulls back abruptly. He shouldn’t. He wants to. You blink at him in surprise, and then a smile stretches across your face. “tired.” You finish your sentence, and then without hesitating, you lean your body into his, arms coming around his waist in a hug. He lowers his head until his nose is in your hair, and he’s so relieved, so fucking relieved his brain is having a hard time working. His hands rub your back slowly, slipping behind the backpack, stroking up and down until a thought occurs to him.

“Whose blood is this?”

“Oh uh. It’s Alex’s. We ran into some trouble. He didn’t make it out.” You chew on your lip for a second before you speak again. “I had to get back, you know. Wanted to get home. I couldn’t… I couldn’t help him.” Home. You wanted to get home.

“That’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” He cradles your face again, rubbing a thumb across your cheek. You give him a sad smile, and then he brings you into his chest, where his heart is pounding against his ribs, a hand wrapped around the back of your head.

Your feet drag along as you walk next to him, fingers curled around the inside of his elbow, head leaning against his shoulder. You’re exhausted, covered in blood and who knows what else, but all he can think about is sliding his arm behind your knees and lifting you off the ground.

“You know what-” You start to say before your sentence is cut off by a yawn, and you press your face into his bicep. “You know what I could really go for?” you mumble into him.

“What’s that?”

“I could really go for some banana pudding.”

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #female reader #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x oc #peaches writes

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beanghostprincess · 3 months

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Transfem auntie buggy ideas again bc AAAA BRANROT I LOVE WOMEN-

Ya know,,,,, how Oda said,,,,,, Buggy COULD be really fucking powerful if there was effort put in? What if in transfem Buggy world, the effort was due to dysphoria-fueled depression and anxiety. Coming out ((and having such blatant and unrepentant support, from her lovers AND the Guild in its entirety)) leads to her actually... feel okay-ish. It's not a sudden in-all-fix-it ((she needs a PLETHORA of therapies)), but it starts her on a good path. Thay first step was difficult, but it was made... so much easier. Which leads to the second step. The third. The fourth.

And now that Buggy isn't having seventy four panic attacks every three minutes, she can devote some Brain Space to other things - her weapon making has become a sort of fidget toy type of situation, and she's.. actually really gotten a knack for this, over the years. She'd never call herself prodigal ((lowkey even if she is, with chemistry, physics and spatial awareness, she's so deep in the I'm A Liar hole that she doesn't clock that just.... Getting It isn't normal)).

Croc and Hawk are very supportive, even if they bully her (consensually).

And eventually, they even deign to try teaching her Haki - just to realize she's... been using it constantly almost her whole life. Her Observation is innate, acute, and one of the reasons she's so charismatic and able to reign in a crowd. It's both a talent for manipulation and also a form of reactive observation haki - by shifting her own energy among her followers, prospective or otherwise, she can encourage a specific reaction. It's a mix of Skill, Natural Talent and smoke and mirrors.

Learning that makes her wonder - if Haki can be so dynamic and THEN SOME, what other places has she not considered such an approach? Her weapons? Training? Her... her devil fruit...?

It's a paramecia. It affects her body, and she's gotten some rather decent control of it. Do paramecias awaken like zoans? Do logias? New Fixation Hours. She goes a little feral with the possibilities.

Suddenly, it seems like all of these little walls she never noticed before have fallen away, leaving a vast horizon of possibility.

Shanks will take a bit to arrive at Karai Bari, and he's expecting a specific version of his former best friend (or former love or former sibling, depending on Preferred Shuggy Flavor). He is anticipating the Buggy he saw a few years ago, but this time Woman Mode.

Crocodile and Mihawk's protective hovering is not exactly smth he anticipated, but he's willing to roll with that! His lovely Bug is just so pretty, he HAS to tell her, see her for himself, it's not even a want, it's not a desire, he needs it the way hee needs sea salt in his hair and a hilt in his hand and air in his lungs.

Buggy, meanwhile has skipped right tf over many emotions, instead Fueled By Hyperfixation, and while part of her is absolutely REELING at Shanks showing up unannounced on HER island, another part is cackling in mad scientist and saying "convince him to guinea pig, 'for old time's sake'." Shanks is WEAK to Buggy Begging Eyes, and Croc and Hawk ((while also weak but not exactly as weak as Shanks, they can pretend)) are watching and honestly laughing internally bc....

Well. Buggy's on a ROLL. And Shanks is her newest toy.

Poor Redhair has NO IDEA what he's in for...

SHE'S A QUEEN SHE'S A PRINCESS SHE'S LITERALLY LIVING IN MY HEAD RENT FREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is actually canon to me. Okay. Okay? She was just insecure and dealing with dysphoria and now she's the queen of the world. She owns it. Shanks is such a simp he's gonna let her do anything lmfao. And Mihawk and Crocodile absolutely love her and it's even funnier to bully her this way. And she's,,, She's so powerful. Queen. Absolutely amazing. Sexy but also really cute. Prettiest clown you've ever seen. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT HER CLOTHES??? Because I have so many outfits in mind I am going INSANE. And I can't stop thinking about Luffy and her getting along and Luffy being extremely happy (not to mention Sanji, Don't- Don't let Sanji see her because maybe he dies. Me too).

#I LOVE WOMEN TOO ANON #<- a very normal lesbian obsessed a normal amount with fem buggy #one piece #buggy the clown #fem buggy #transfem buggy #cross guild #red haired shanks

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bellysoupset · 25 days

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It's @lisupanddown with a MINI fic request - we haven't seen any motion sickness lately, and I'd love a little, loving drabble with sick Leo and caretaker Jon in a situation where they have to travel, and maybe Jon was in charge of bringing the anti-nausea meds and forgot, and feels so guilty about it because they both know Leo's going to get sick and there's no way to avoid it. Would love to see the onset of the nausea - throat bobbing, swallowing, Jonah hovering and trying to do his doctor best to help while cursing himself for forgetting the meds. And Leo both feeling so sick, but also trying to comfort Jonah because hey, mistakes happen (maybe he can start out being annoyed or stressed or prickly, but realizes eventually that that's not helping the situation). Okay, so this is awfully specific and detailed, lol.

Oh my god, Lis, this is noooot little 🙈. But I'll try anyway.

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"I'm so excited I'm almost vibrating out of my skin," Leo said, as soon as Jonah pulled over in front of his work building. They were all heading down to Doveport, or rather, just outside of it.

Vince, the overtly friendly person he was, had already stricken up a friendship with one of the older teachers, who just so happened to have a cabin by the lake and was more than happy to rent it out for the weekend for a decent fee.

It was just the weekend, so in order to better utilize their time, Jonah and Leo were leaving straight after work on a Friday. It was court day, so Leo didn't even have time to pack, trusting Jon to do it for him.

Besides, it was just two days away, even if he forgot something like extra underwear, it would be fine, right?

Jonah was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he drove, completely relaxed, even if he looked pretty tired himself after working all day and with four hours of road ahead of them.

Jon was in the best mood Leo had ever seen him lately, all smiley and soft, probably due to his sister visiting and everything falling into place as his controlling ass had planned. He was overdue a cranky moment, Leo thought with a snort, leaning his head back and planning on napping for his half of the trip as the passenger.

No such thing. The minute they were out of the city and into the open road, Leo felt a pressure between his ears, as if someone was squeezing his head. He let out a sigh, opening his eyes and focusing them on the horizon, immediately recognizing the initial signs of motion sickness.

"We should've carpooled," Leo said, just because their comfortable silence was turning into anything but, given the weird pressure in his head, "there's no reason for all of us to drive separately."

"Wendy left during lunch," Jonah reminded him, unbothered, "and I'm not sharing a car with Luke and Bell, they drive me insane."

"Uhm," Leo rubbed a hand over his face and let out yet another sigh when staring at the sun setting ahead of them didn't help at all, "where did you put the dramamine?"

"Already?" Jonah groaned, "it's in your backpack, backseat, front pocket."

"Already," Leo nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning around to grab the blue backpack. He sat back down on his seat and opened the front zipper, only to frown. Some minty bubblegum, a folded plastic bag, his phone charger... "it's not here."

"Of course it is, search better," Jon rolled his eyes, lowering his window so he could rest an elbow on the windowsil and his head on his hand, yawning, "I brought my fishing gear."

"I didn't even know you had that," Leo mumbled, removing all the contents from the front pocket and glaring at the empty space. No pills. He unzipped the other pockets, now feeling much more urgent as glancing down to search for the meds was making his nausea worse, "it's not here. You didn't pack the freaking meds, Jon."

Jonah frowned, looking away from the road, then switching his hands on the steering whell, so he could shove his right one inside the backpack Leo had already inspected, fully believing his boyfriend had done a poor job of it.

Then he cursed, "oh shit, I'm sorry, Leo- Maybe it's in my bag?"

Leo groaned, covering his face with his hands and rubbing vigoriously as if that was going to help the uncomfortable sloshing in his belly. The thought of his lunch flashed in front of his eyes and Leo swallowed in thickly, turning around once more in order to exchange bags.

It was to no avail, Jonah hadn't brought the meds.

"Fucking hell, Jon," Leo said, grabbing the plastic bag he had iniatially seen and opening it on his lap. He leaned back, breathing through his mouth and rolling down his window, hoping the cool air was going to help some.

"There's a rest stop in one hour," Jonah said in a strained voice, clearly feeling guilty, "I think they have a pharmacy. Can you hold on that long?"

Leo raised a hand and shook it from side to side in order to indicate he wasn't sure. He didn't dare speak, pressing his lips in a thin line as overly sweet saliva started to flood his mouth.

He gulped down, then startled as he felt Jon taking his hand in his, "What-"

"It's a pressure point," the other man answered, keeping his eyes on the road, "maybe it'll help...?"

"Uhm," Leo gulped down when he tried to answer, only to feel his stomach rocket up his throat. He felt cold sweat start to collect over his upper lip, glueing the baby hairs to his nape, "god..."

"Do you want me to pull over?" Jonah sounded every bit as if Leo had told him they'd need to put down the family dog. Leo ignored him, pulling his hand from Jon's hold and grabbing at the plastic bag, bringing it up to his mouth.

Vaguely he could hear his boyfriend saying something else, but Leo ignored him, spitting inside the bag. His mouth felt terrible. He had eaten risotto for lunch and the next weak heave was just spit and some fucking grains that got stuck in his throat and caused him to gag loudly.

The car swerved and Leo groaned, planting a sweaty hand to the dashboard as he felt his head swim. With the bag half open, Leo let out a sick burp, that turned frothy and disgusting at the end-

"Here," Jonah grabbed the other side of the bag since he had let go and moved it up to Leo's mouth, "I got you-"

"Gon'besick," Leo slurred, "pullovr," his words were sticking together, eyes tearing up as yet another wave of hot nausea washed over him, causing his stomach to clench again, "Jon pull over-"

"I did, baby," Jonah's soft hand suddenly was on his forehead, helping Leo support it, and the blonde leaned heavily against the touch, gagging again, "deep breaths, this will pass ina moment."

He forced a breath through his nose, straightening up and dizzily grabbing the door handle, pushing it open.

"Leo, wait-" Jon said, but it was to no avail, as the other man stumbled out of the car and immediately fell down on his knees on the grass, heaving and bringing up a gush of vomit all over the grass.

"God-" Leo whined, coughing to clear up his throat and wiping at the micro tears that had slipped out. His stomach still felt uneasy, but puking had helped some, so had standing on the ground and no longer feeling claustrophobic inside the car. He forced up a burp and it brought up a little dribble of spit and liquidy vomit, then Leo fell back on his heels, startling when his back met Jonah's arms.

"I got you," his boyfriend said, sounding terribly worried and guilty, "you done?"

"Think- think so," Leo interrupted himself with a sour burp and shivered at the taste, "help me up."

Jonah didn't need to be told twice. Now getting a better bearing of their surroundings, Leo could tell his boyfriend was pale as well, how much was sympathy nausea, how much was his nervous stomach Leo didn't know.

"You good?" He rasped, as Jon helped him towards the car. Instead of going inside, Leo collapsed against the hood and happily took the water bottle Jonah retrieved from the backseat.

"If I'm good?" Jon scoffed, stepping aside so Leo could swirl the water in his mouth and spit it on the grass. At least the headlights were not illuminating the mess on the ground just a couple feet ahead, "I'm fucking peachy, you're the one puking."

"I'm okay," Leo rubbed a hand over his stomach, pressing on it and bringing up a little burp that he blew out under his breath, "just give me a minute."

"I'm really sorry," Jonah sighed, stepping closer, "do you wanna lie in the back? Or I can drop you at the nearest gas station, then grab the meds in the rest stop and com-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Leo rolled his eyes, leaning in and planting his forehead to Jon's shoulder, "really, it's just carsickness, it's not like I'm dying. Give me a minute."

Jonah let out a scoff, but hugged him closer, planting a hand on Leo's back and rubbing up and down, "I'm sorry-"

"Please, shut up about it," Leo whined, sinking into Jon's warmth and trying to gather up courage to get back inside the car, "it's fine."

He could almost hear Jon's retort, but at least he didn't say it out loud.

Leo breathed in, measuredly, until the nausea receeded almost completely. He wasn't looking forward to the next hour until the stop, but at least it was just one more hour or so.

He straightened up, "switch with me, let me drive."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Leo nodded, "and stop kicking yourself over it, it's fine."

"I'll make it up to you," Jonah promised, getting in the passenger side. Leo got in the driver one, fiddling with the seat.

"Oh, yeah, you better. I want breakfast in bed tomorrow morning," he teased lightly, even if the mere thought of food made his stomach churn.

Jon opened a relieved smile at the teasing, "deal, breakfast and head, how about?"

"Sounds lovely," Leo snorted, starting up the car.

#mywriting #sickfic #emetophilia #carsickness #leo wagner

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iamthecomet · 6 months

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here to beg for boot worship please!!!!

ask and you shall receive.

Kinktober - Day 18 - Boot Worship

AKA: The Boot Thing, part 3.

1.4k words of Mountain finally, finally, getting on his knees for Dew to see what all the fuss is about. Dew's a little mean because that's the way I like him. Bonus, little hints of what might happen if I ever write another part to this.

Mountain would say he doesn’t know how this happened. It would be a lie. It’s been brewing. Hovering. A storm building on the horizon of his life, moving in.

Dew taps his boot against Mountain’s bare thigh and his chest clenches. He flexes his fingers against his thighs but keeps them where Dew told him to. He ignores the way his cock twitches against his boxers. Getting chubbier with each passing second.

This had been coming since the first time he made Dew cum in his pants with the toe of his boot pressed against his zipper. Mountain had been pushing it back. Telling himself that he liked it when Dew debased hismelf at his feet. Rutted his hips into Mountain’s foot until he swore and collapsed in on himself. But that was the end of Mountain’s enjoyment of it.

Even when Dew would drag his hot mouth over where Mountain sat fat in his jeans while he rocked his hips against the laces of Mountain’s boots. Mountain could lose himself in it. In the hurt noises Dew made. He’s so pretty when he begs–when he really means it, eyes wide, face red, jaw slack.

He isn’t Dew. Doesn’t crave a rough touch. Doesn’t always look for physical pain with his pleasure. The idea of grinding his bare dick on the rough sole of Dew’s stage worn boots seemed insane to him for months. Even on the days when Dew would drop to his knees and beg Mountain for just that.

But this?

Mountain shudders. He’ll say it’s from the cold, not the task at hand. But Dew will never believe him. Not with the fire roaring behind him. Dew’s backlit in orange and red. Menacing despite his stature. Dressed in black skinny jeans, no shirt. And his boots.

Mountain tries not to look too much at them, but they draw his eyes. Leather shining. Dew doesn’t take care of many things. His guitars. His boots. That’s it–but he takes it seriously. More seriousl than Mountain who threw his boots in his closet and hasn’t thought about them since they got home. Not until now.

But he’s pretty like this too. The cool toe of his boot dragging down the inside of Mountain’s thigh. Raising goosebumps as he balances on one leg.

He wonders if maybe he can convince Dew to work on them. Can talk him into some boot-blacking without actually asking for it. Mountain’s usually better at asking for what he wants. But this is harder. He doesn’t understand it himself. Why he likes it.

It’s not control. Dew has been decidedly in control of all of their encounters involving boots. Mountain floundering after him even though Dew is the one on his knees. Maybe it’s because Dew looks so pretty when he’s giving orders from the ground.

Dew’s gentle about it. Far gentler than he’d asked Mountain to be. When Dew reaches down pet at Mountain’s hair there’s softness in it that makes Mountain’s chest ache. He leans his face into the warmth of Dew’s palm when he brings it lower. Strokes his thumb over the freckled span of Mountain’s cheekbone.

Dew presses his boot up higher, shuffles a little closer. The foot he’s balanced on planted firmly on the outside of Mountain’s thigh. Leather brushing over Mountain’s skin as Dew shifts.

Dew drags the toe of the boot up. Over the underside of Mountain’s cock where it’s tenting his boxers already. Mountain chokes on an inhale. Eyes darting down to watch Dew’s boot graze over him. So shiny he can see himself in the reflection of it.

“Dew–”

“Take it out. Balls too.”

Mountain does. Shoving his boxers down just far enough to get his cock free. Bunching the fabric under his balls rather than try to shift to take them all the way off.

The way Dew looks down at him makes him feel like he’s on display. A specimen. Something to be studied. His cheeks are hot. His chest is too. He flexes his fingers again. Aches to touch Dew, himself, anything.

Dew braces himself by wrapping his fingers around Mountain’s horn and angles his foot. Pressing the sole flat against the underside of Mountain’s cock.

Dew nods sharply. “Go ahead.”

The worn treads are softer than Mountain expected. Blunted from hours on stage. They don’t give when he rocks into them–but they don’t hurt. Not jagged, or rough. It’s pleasant in a way he isn’t expecting.

He rolls his hips again, experimental. Short slow rolls at first working up into longer ones. Catching the fat head of his cock on the ridge at the toe on each down stroke. Mountain can’t stop now. Eyes pulled down to Dew’s boot, his cock spitting precum against the immaculate leather.

Dew’s fingers tighten on Mountain’s horn as his thrusts grow more forceful, threatening to rock Dew backward. That doesn’t help. Dew’s fingers grasping at one of the most sensitive parts of him. Holding on as Mountain fucks himself on his book.

He’s red down to his chest–he knows it. Embarassed about how close he’s gotten so quickly. About how much he likes this thing he swore he wouldn’t.

“Told you,” Dew taunts. That doesn’t help. It just makes the well of pleasure in his gut burn brighter. Mountain would love to answer him. To tell him it’s alright. To be like Swiss, able to play off desperation as apathy. But he can’t. Wears his heart on his sleeves at the best of times and these are not the best of times.

Dew allows Mountain the indulgence of his own pleasure for a few more strokes. Then those fingers tigthen even further on his horns. Both hands now, one on each. He pulls. Dragging Mountain’s head to press against Dew’s overwarm body.

“Don’t be lazy,” Dew admonishes. Rolling his own hips against Mountain’s cheek so he can feel the impossible heat of his erection trapped in his jeans. Mountain groans. Doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do. He can’t think beyond each rough thrust. Against the grind of his cock over the rubbery softness of Dew’s boot.

Mountain nods. Looking moon-eyed up at Dew’s face. The fire behind him makes his skin flicker, orange, red, golden. With his hair tied back like it is Mountain can see the muscle in his shoulders. Strong despite his stature. Pretty in a way that Mountain has never been able to reconcile with. Impossible, and yet still here somehow. Willing to let Mountain cum on his boots.

He opens his mouth to promise Dew that he’ll suck him off after he cums. Whatever he wants. Just give him two more minutes. But the only thing that comes out is an intelligible gurgle.

“Satanas, fucked you stupid already?” Dew laughs. He uses his grip to tip Mountain’s head up so they can look at each other. Mountain’s cock kicks, precum dribbles over the top of Dew’s boot, marring the shiny surface at the toe.

Dew leans down, bending at the waist to lick into Mountain’s mouth, held open by his slack jaw. Dew tastes like cigarettes. Like cinnamon. He smells like boot polish. Something about it drags Mountain ever closer to the edge.

“Wanna touch,” Mountain whispers when Dew pulls away and straightens back up.

The words are barely out of Dew’s mouth before Mountain’s hands are on him. One curled around the top of the leg Dew’s using to anchor himself. The other on his belly, pressed flat over his belly button. Thumb pressed over the button of Dew’s jeans. Mountain leans forward. Presses his mouth to Dew’s cock. Laving at the head with his tongue. Tasting salt, and smoke. Dew groans, low and languid. Mountain doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

“Then touch,” Dew shrugs.

His cheeks flush with hean when he sees the smears, The cloudy streaks all over Dew’s perfect boots. He swallows, he looks up at Dew. A question rattling around in his head that he doesn’t have the wherewithal to keep in anymore.

Dew shifts, he presses the toe of his boot down on the underside of the head of Mountain’s cock and rolls it back and forth. Mountain tries to warn him, but he can’t form words. Doesn’t want to stop suckling at Dew’s clothed cock long enough to bother. So all that comes out is a broken whine before Mountain is cumming. Shoot hot and thick over the edge of Dew’s boots. Splattering on the toe, the lacing, and the floor beneath them.

Dew puts both feet back on the ground. The toe of his boot still resting high between Mountain’s thighs. Mountain drags his mouth away from Dew cock long enough to look down at the mess he’s made.

“What can you teach me about boot-blacking?”

Dew grins, “everything.”

#comet writes #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #ghostober #ghostober 2023 #mountain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #mountain/dew #mounain/dewdrop #mountaindew #ghost fic #ghost fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost band fic #ghost band fanfic #ghost band fanfiction

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thefreakandthehair · 6 months

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@eddiemonth prompt, oct 21st: Hellfire | Back in Black - AC/DC | Tenacious a/n: so, I've written about Eddie inheriting Hellfire. now, it's time to write about Eddie founding Hellfire! he's a little shit in this one, and I love him so much it's nearly clinical. wrote this in the car on the way to my in-law's family party so it'll go up on ao3 later 🦇 ao3 collection | tumblr masterlist

“Mr. Munson,” the principal starts, seated opposite Eddie across the desk. “You’re a freshman. Freshmen don’t start clubs here. Why don’t you look around a little, broaden your horizons. There are some wonderful sports and music opportu–”

Eddie’s arms are crossed over his chest and he sits with both legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. “It’s Eddie, and no. Why can’t I start a club? Why do only upperclassmen get to? Or is this just because it’s a Dungeons and Dragons club?”

As if I’d wanna go and join the kids who look at me like the spawn of fucking Satan, he wants to say, but he needs to play it cool, hard as that may be. Or at least unless the principal, whose name he hasn’t bothered to commit to memory yet, doubles down on his refusal; then, all bets are off.

“Of course not, we just encourage our youngest students to expand their interests. You might find that you’re good at something surprising or–”

Eddie knows that interrupting over and over again won’t help his case, but he can’t help himself. Hearing the same bullshit over and over again is infuriating and there’s no good reason that he can’t start a Dungeons and Dragons club for himself and the other kids with wild imaginations and nowhere else to go after that final school bell.

“Or, maybe starting a new club will let students try something new, something that’s been shit on for years that they otherwise may not get the chance to try?”

The principal levels him with an exasperated look and a heavy sigh before leaning forward on his forearms over the clunky wooden desk.

“Mr. Munson–”

“It’s Eddie,” Eddie insists for the second time. Mr. Munson is his dad and the name gives him a chill. He may carry a pocketknife and know how to hotwire a car, but he’s still no Al Munson.

Another sigh. “Eddie. The day’s almost over, can we continue this discussion tomorrow? Buses will be lining up any minute.”

Now or never, he thinks to himself.

“Well, then you have about a minute to make a decision. Can I start it or not? Maybe even on a, uh, a trial basis?” He shrugs and smiles with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow.

Principal Whatever His Name Is drops his head for a second before looking back up at Eddie. “You’ve worn me down, Mr. Mun– Eddie. Trial basis only, and you need a faculty member to sponsor it. If you can do your due diligence, I’ll allow it.”

“Great!” Eddie claps once and stands. “Mr. Clarke already agreed, so I think we’re all set here. Good doing business with you.”

“Wait–”

The bell rings, saving Eddie like it has so many times in the past. He’s halfway out the door, stepping into the stampede of students running for buses, when he turns back around to see the principal shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

“You know, my Uncle always says if you roll your eyes too much, they’ll get stuck like that.”

Without another word, he slips into the tide and loads his bus, taking a seat in the back alone and whipping out his notebook and a black marker. Shades of black and red color the lined pages in the form of devils and demons and the words Hellfire Club hover above each sketch.

Good thing I didn’t tell him the name.

#eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie month #hellfire club #stranger things #eddie month prompts #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #myblurbs

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

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Firehouse Harrington - Chapter 2

fireman!Steve x f!reader/f!oc

series masterlist

warnings | 18+ SMUT, angst, toxic relationship dynamic

a/n | gonna keep writing for this pathetic, sexy, messed-up man, that is all

Steve Harrington is puzzling. That’s the only conclusion she’s really reached. He’s taken her on more than a few dates, now seeing each other for a little over two months, and the stark contrast between the simply sweet gestures - always showing up with flowers, always opening doors for her, insisting on paying for her meal - and the downright nasty, bordering on violent sex sends her head reeling. She’s having a hard time discerning where he ends and where these staggeringly high walls he’s built begin. She knows he’s the last thing she needs right now. Her last year of college, grad school tentatively on the horizon. But Christ, she just can’t seem to get him out of her system.

She’s meeting him at the station tonight since his twenty-four hour shift ends at six. They’re going out for dinner. She’s learned that he doesn’t like movie theaters, concerts, or crowds in general, only tolerating bars when he’s good and drunk. She’s learned that she doesn’t like him very much when he’s drunk. So, most of their dates have been in quiet, hole in the wall restaurants, usually leading back to his uncharacteristically nice apartment. She didn’t think firefighters were exactly swimming in cash, but he seems to be quite comfortable. He had explained to her how he’s only on shift at the station three or four days out of the week, the rest of the time working at a mechanic’s shop. She knows he served, growing quickly accustomed to his dog tags dangling in front of her face, but he’s never told her anything about it. It’s difficult to get Steve to say much about himself.

When she reaches the station, she finds the garage open, Steve just stepping down from one of the trucks, all geared up, his jacket undone to show the damp, clinging t-shirt beneath. The first thing she notices is the soot smearing across his face. She hovers just at the edge of the garage, anxiously wringing the strap of her purse, the other men too focused on getting out of their ashy uniforms to notice. Steve glances her direction before doubling back to fully take her in. He always looks her up and down when he first sees her, like he’s practically devouring her whole. It makes her squirm.

He lets out a sigh, shuffling over to her in his heavy boots. He reaches for her, but his hands flex, thinking better of it as he’s still so filthy from wherever he just was.

“Hey, doll. I’m real sorry. We got called out this afternoon. Massive blowout in an apartment building. Can you give me like ten minutes? Just gotta get cleaned up for you and I’m all yours.” She swallows around a thickness in her throat.

“I-it’s fine. Steve, are you sure you’re ok to go out?” She reaches her hand up to tuck some of his damp hair back behind his smudged face, but he somewhat unkindly swats her hand away, she flinches.

“I’m fine. Just need to clean off. Why don’t you come wait inside, huh?” She nods, feeling both frustrated and floaty at how easily he takes control, renders her meek.

He guides her into the station. It looks like how she’d expect a house full of middle-aged men to look, comfy, lived-in, if not a bit sparse. She sits down in an armchair in what she supposes could be called the living room, watching Steve’s figure retreat up the stairs.

She’s starting to regret the dress she wore as the other men start to filter through the station, letting their eyes linger on her bare legs a little longer than she’d like.

“You Harrington’s girl?” An older man with a thick mustache walks up to her, sizing her up like a piece of meat. She clears her throat, trying to make herself as big as possible.

“I suppose I am, yeah, what’s it to you?” The man chuckles before letting out a low whistle.

“He better keep a close eye on you, sweet thing.” His grin makes her stomach twist unpleasantly. Another man sidles up, sitting down on the armrest of her chair. She leans into the other side, jerking away as he takes a strand of her hair between his fingers.

“What’re you going out with Harrington for, baby? Pretty little thing like you could do a whole lot better.” She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest after flicking his hand away.

“Well, I’m really sorry, gentleman. I didn’t mean to bother you, but I’m just trying to wait for my date. So if you could, you know, fuck off, I’d appreciate it.” The men both laugh at her bite. Mustache shuffles forward, bending over until he’s level with her face. She does her best to meet his gaze, unblinking.

“Harrington better teach you some manners, honey. That’s no way to be talking to men. I suggest you show us a little more respect.” He grins again, crooked, beer-stained teeth and breath that reeks of cigarettes.

“And I suggest you get the fuck out of my face.”

“Now listen here, you little–”

“Michaels, Cahill, I see you’ve met my girl.” Both men immediately back off. Her stomach drops, knowing that Steve is not going to like what he heard one bit. He didn’t like her swearing, sure, but in the brief time they had been together, she had also learned that Steve was a violently jealous man with a very short temper. He offers his hand to her and she takes it, getting pulled into his side with his arm around her waist.

“You’ve got a real spitfire on your hands there, Harrington. Gonna have to hose that one down to handle the heat.” The two men laugh, slapping Steve on the back as they walk away, Steve’s face set in a tight smile that really looks more like a grimace. She sees the way his jaw is ticking. He pulls slightly away from her, taking her hand to lead her out of the station, a muttered “let’s go” is all she gets. What a great start to the night.

He hails them a cab outside, and when they get in, she furrows her brow at him when he gives the driver directions that are definitely not to the restaurant they were supposed to be going to. She goes to question him, but he cuts her off.

“We’re going back to mine. That ok with you, spitfire?” She swallows hard, a cold weight settling at the base of her spine. She nods, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. The hand not draped over her shoulder reaches up to grab her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

“I asked you a question, bunny. And I expect an answer.” She does her best to steady her voice, but it still comes out a little shaky.

“Yes, Steve. That’s ok with me.”

The rest of the car ride is silent, Steve’s hand coming to wrap around the swell of her thigh. She hates to admit it, but even as much as his tough guy act upsets her, it also makes something in her twist, heat already starting to build.

Even when he’s pissed, Steve is still polite. He gets out of the cab first, jogging around the side to open her door for her, holding her hand all the way up to his apartment’s floor. But once they get inside it’s a different story.

The second he closes the door, he’s got her pinned up against it, palms framing her face. Normally, she’d play along, fine with skipping the date and going straight to fucking. She liked it as much as he seemed to, the intensity. But tonight, she was exhausted, hadn’t eaten since this morning because of her stupid class schedule, running around all afternoon trying to console and advise her hopeless freshmen, and had been really looking forward to at least some quiet, simple time with Steve. Plainly put, she wasn’t having it.

She shoves lightly at his chest, huffing above his head that had already dipped to bite and suck at her neck.

“Steve, Steve. C’mon, j-just slow down a bit. There’s no need to get so f-fucking worked up.” She knows it was the exactly wrong thing to say right now, but quite frankly she’s too tired to care. He freezes in what he’s doing, letting out a low scoff before leaning back to peer at her.

“What did I tell you about that mouth, baby? Embarrassing me in front of those pricks. Tell me, is that how you talk to all your little college boys, huh?” He’s brought one hand to rest right at the base of her throat, thumb pressing up the length of her neck.

“Wha– what are you talking about? What boys, Steve? I’ve only been seeing you. You know that.” He laughs and the edge to it makes her stomach clench.

“I don’t know, doll. With a mouth like that, I find it a little hard to believe you haven’t been whoring yourself out. Spreading your legs to whoever’s looking. Such a stupid slut.” This is new. Sure, Steve can be degrading in bed, but it’s always superficial stuff, never crossing some unconsciously agreed upon boundary. But this is starting to graze bone. She shoves him again, this time successfully dipping out from his grasp before whirling around to look at him.

“Jesus christ. You need to grow up, Steve. Quit being such a fucking tough guy for five seconds,” she scoffs lightly, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I need to sit down.” She turns to walk over to his couch but he quickly grips her wrist, pulling her back to him until her forearms are crashing into his chest.

“You don’t fucking walk away from me. You’re my girl. Mine. And when you talk to me you’ll do it with some fucking respect–”

She’s doing it before her brain can even process, arcing her free hand out and slapping him clean across the face, his head jerking to the side. He lets go of her, a look of shock dragged down his face.

“You sound just like them and it makes me sick.” She storms off down the hall towards his bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her. Truthfully, she has no clue what she’s doing, or what she just did. She should have marched right out the front door, but now she’s stuck, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with her head in her hands. She can’t help the sobs that start to softly roll through her, a culmination of a terrible day.

She’s startled by soft knocks at the door.

“Baby? Baby, please come out. I’m so sorry, honey, please– will you please come out? I didn’t mean it, baby, I just– you know how I get– just still worked up from the job this afternoon, that’s all. Please, pretty baby, let me make it up to you? Please, honey.” Steve’s voice is soft, a mumbling murmur of pleas slipping under the door.

She doesn’t say anything. Wouldn’t know what to say in the first place. For now, she stays seated, counting her breaths, trying to calm down, to figure out what to do next. She can hear him let out a long sigh, and the sound of feet shuffling. It’s been maybe forty five minutes when she opens the door, finding him sitting right next to it, his back against the wall, his forehead resting on his drawn-in knees. She can’t help but notice how small he looks.

His head shoots up and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he had been crying.

“I’m sorry, baby.” She sighs, kneeling down in front of him.

“It’s ok, Steve. I-I forgive you. But you can’t get like that everytime something upsets you. What you said really hurt. You call me your girl and I am your girl, but you have to trust in what that means.” He swallows thickly, nodding, allowing her to take one of his hands in hers.

“I do trust you, pretty. It’s everyone else I don’t trust. S’just, you could have anyone. So fucking smart, and beautiful. Sometimes I don’t get why you’re with me.” She squeezes his hand, scooting a little closer to him.

“Steve, I want you. Don’t care about anyone else. But I need you to trust me when I tell you that. Need you to talk to me about what you’re feeling instead of just taking it out on me. I do want you, baby, but not enough to stick around if you keep treating me like that.” Steve nods hard at that, slowly shifting to stand up, bringing her along with him. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into a tight hug. Her cheek squishes right above his heartbeat.

“I’ll be better, baby. I promise. Be the kind of guy you deserve.” She sighs into his chest, letting herself relax into his arms a bit more. Steve pulls back just slightly to look down at her.

“You hungry, pretty?” She smiles, a bit sheepishly, nodding up at him.

…

They order chinese and have dinner on his couch. He feeds her bites of his lo mein and she can’t help but feel a sense of whiplash, looking at this sweet man who just a few hours ago was an angry mess. But he is sweet, just enough to put earlier this evening out of her mind.

He takes both their finished containers and sets them down on the coffee table, turning to look at her lazily smiling at him. He clears his throat.

“I really am sorry, pretty. Didn’t mean to hurt you. Never wanna hurt you.” She reaches out to card her fingers through his hair and his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“I know, baby. I accept your apology. Just don’t do it again, yeah?” He nods, shifting on the couch until he’s pressed up against her, his arm around her shoulders. He drops a soft kiss to her lips.

“Wanna make it up to you, doll. Will you let me? Let me make you feel good?” She takes a sharp breath as his hand on her thigh starts to skirt up, her dress riding up her legs along with it. She nods, a hummed “mmhmm,” all it takes for Steve to slide down onto his knees in front of her.

He brings both palms to splay over the softness of her thighs, dragging them up and up until he finds the band of her panties. He doesn’t even have to say anything, she lifts her hips for him as if on command, letting him slide the light blue cotton down her legs, tossing them off to the side. It’s quiet, save for her broken exhales, as he guides the backs of her knees over his shoulders, shifting her hips down to the edge of the couch. He lets his lips drag along the insides of her thighs, leaving open-mouthed kisses in his simpering wake. He keeps getting frustratingly close to her cunt before dipping back to nip and suckle at her thighs. She lets out a long whine the next time he does it. He grins up at her.

“What is it, pretty? You gotta tell me what you want.” She huffs at his teasing.

“I want you, please.”

“You got me, baby. Gonna have to be more specific.” She pulls the one card she knows will stop his toying with her.

“I want your mouth, daddy. Please, daddy, need your mouth.” She can see the corners of his mouth flickering. Got him.

“Good girl. Daddy’s gonna give it to you. Anything you want, baby, just gotta ask.” He mumbles the last bit as he dips his head down, drawing a long arc through her folds with his tongue. She preens under the sudden contact.

Steve works her over with a desperate hunger, only pulling away to spit roughly at her cunt before chasing after the pooling wetness there. There’s a lewd squelching sound as he suckles on her clit, making her throw her head back in a low moan, digging her heel into his back.

“That’s it, bunny. Let daddy hear how good it feels, give it all to me.” He dips lower, fucking his tongue into her cunt and she gasps, fisting one of her hands in his hair, earning a low thrumming groan from him that burns through her core. His nose is catching her clit just right as he continues to lick into her before he draws his mouth back up, letting two fingers slide in where his tongue just was. She lets out a broken cry when he finds that spot inside her, stroking it with each thrust of his hand. He’s panting when he comes up for air.

“Want you to come on my fingers, bunny. Can you do that for daddy? Make a fucking mess of me, baby.” She whimpers, nodding frantically, her eyes scrunched shut as she rocks her hips against his face and palm, chasing a high that’s teetering dangerously close.

“Open your eyes, pretty. Want your eyes on me when you come. Be a good girl.” She does what he says, eyes blowing wide and the sight of him, hair a mess, cheeks damp with her, his pupils blown out, is enough to send her right over the edge. She cries out, hips lifting up, pulsing around his fingers before slowly melting into a breathless mess. Steve sits up on his knees, pulling her in for a kiss and she groans at the taste of herself on his tongue.

He murmurs for her to wrap her legs around him and she does, always surprised by his stolid strength when he lifts her up off the couch, carrying her to his bedroom. He lays her back on his bed, caging her in between his forearms as they meet in another kiss. He presses his hips firmly into hers and she can feel his hardness as he shunts his hips forward, dragging along her sensitive cunt.

She fumbles for the hem of his shirt before he gets the hint, peeling away from her to yank it off by the collar before unbuckling his belt. She quickly pulls her dress off over her head and when he dives back down to meet her, his mouth goes to lick over a peaked nipple through the thin fabric of her bra. She sighs, pressing her chest up towards his mouth, giving him the space to reach around and unclasp her bra before sliding it down her shoulders. He pauses for a moment, slack jawed, as he takes her in. His hand comes to her jaw before running his thumb over her bottom lip, he sighs.

“So fucking beautiful.” She takes his thumb into her mouth, sucking on it, earning a low grumbling moan from him before he takes it from her mouth with a startling pop.

He shuffles his jeans and boxers down his legs before hovering back over her, pressing the fat head of his cock through her folds. They both groan at the contact.

“P-please don’t tease me, daddy. Need it so bad.” He scoffs at her crumpled expression.

“I know what you need, baby. Daddy’s got you, huh?” With that, he lines himself up with her entrance, pressing forward. It always has been and continues to be a stretch, a pleasure that dips into pain as he digs his hips into hers, bottoming out. She draws her nails down his back, feeling him shudder under the delicate scrapes he’s sure to be left with. He dips his face into her neck, pressing chaste kisses along her jumping tendons.

“Can I move, pretty. Are you ok?” She gasps out a “yes” and he rolls his hips experimentally, a long, digging thrust that makes her eyes roll back. He grabs onto the plush of her thigh before guiding her leg to wrap around his hip, spreading her out for him. The pace he sets is slow but harsh, punches of his hips that send her rocking up the length of the bed. They’re wrapped in the sounds of their heavy breathing, the sloppy wetness of his thrusts into her, and the headboard lightly banging against the wall.

He brings the rough pads of his fingers down to swipe across her clit and she cries out, clenching hard around him. Everytime they fuck, she’s reminded that she’s never had anyone press this deep into her, a feeling that churns her insides and sets pleasure pooling in her stomach.

“Need to feel you, baby. Need you to come on my cock. Come on, pretty, let go.” His groaned words are all it takes for that pleasure to spill over for the second time, her arms pulling him down until he’s practically laying on top of her. He continues to grind into her, fucking her through her high in a way that keeps her pleasure thrumming at an almost unbearable high.

He presses up onto one hand, the other holding onto her hip in a way she’s sure will leave bruises. His hips are starting to stutter and she can tell he’s close.

“You’re mine, right doll? Tell me you’re mine.” She gazes up at him, dragging her fingers through his hair.

“M’all yours, daddy. All for you, baby. I’m yours.” He lets out a broken moan at her words, digging his face back into her neck.

“Fuck– say my name, baby. Say my fucking name.” “Steve, want you to come for me– p-please come for me.”

“M’close, baby– fuck– s-so close. Where do you want me?”

“Inside, wanna feel you, Steve– give it to me, baby– please, wanna feel you f-fill me up.” He lets out a warbly curse before pressing his hips into hers bruisingly as she feels his warmth start to spread inside her. He sighs into her collarbone, letting his lips dance across her skin.

They lay entangled for a few moments, listening as their breaths start to slow down. She winces as he pulls out of her, immediately feeling the way his spend drips onto the sheets. Thank god for birth control. He presses a firm kiss to her lips before getting up and stepping into the bathroom, coming back with a warm towel to clean her up.

He murmurs a sorry into the soft swell of her stomach when she hisses under his ministrations, already feeling the ache settling into her hips. He tosses the towel into his hamper, sliding on a clean pair of boxers and bringing one of his t-shirts over to her. They move silently, they’ve done this many times.

She offers him a soft smile as she slides the worn-out shirt over her head. Steve settles back into bed, pulling her to rest her chin on his chest. They share another small kiss before descending into silence. There’s nothing left to say. She wants so badly for him to have meant what he said earlier, that he’ll start to let her in a bit more. But she also knows they had a very similar conversation just last week, when they had gotten back to Steve’s place with him nursing a set of bloodied, swollen knuckles from the face of the poor guy who had tried to talk to her. Everytime, she swears that the next time he pulls something like that, she’ll leave and not look back. And everytime, he draws her right back in. There’s something in her heart for him that she’s not yet ready to press on, to speak aloud. Too afraid of what it could mean.

He falls asleep before her, the gentle rise and fall of his chest underneath her cheek. She shifts slightly to gaze up at him, one of the rare moments when his features are soft, at peace. She thinks that maybe there’s hope for Steve Harrington yet.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut

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sathina · 2 years

Text

Mornings like this

Pairing - Jack Harlow x reader

Summary - in early mornings when the sun has barely shown over the horizon, you catch yourself staring at Jack.

Warnings - oral sex (fem received), domination, swearing

Strands of sunlight broke through the thick curtains. Your skin feeling warm from the morning heat.

You were laying on your side, right beside Jack as you carefully played with his messy hair. His lips sat in a natural pout, slight freckles decorating his face and the toned body underneath your sheets. Golden light sparkled over his cheekbones, illuminating his sharp features.

You were so caught up in your own thoughts you didn't even see him move. " It's not nice to stare."

" Sorry." Your gaze quickly turned back to him. Jack's eyelashes were fluttering open, his body trying to stretch as a yawn broke through. " I couldn't help myself."

" Yeah?" He asked with a smirk, you knew that the slight blush on your cheeks only boosted his ego. " You'll have the whole day to stare at me, darling. But now go to sleep, it's early."

" I can't."

" Why?"

" I'm starving."

He chuckled and rested his hand on the curve of your waist, pulling you closer and making you throw your leg over his hip.

" You know what I'm hungry for?" Jack smirked already having the general idea of what you meant.

When you saw that he caught on, you pushed yourself closer, the growing bulge sitting perfectly between your thighs. " You've just been taking such good care of me. I wanna do something in return."

" Oh, yeah? And what's that?"

" Just lay back and relax. Let me show you." You were fully sat now, hovering over his waist as you leaned down to kiss him. Placing small pecks around his lips, on them, and all over his jaw. Your hips started to slowly rock on top of his, pulling out quiet moans and groans from his lips.

As your mouth moved lower, you looked up to see the man underneath you. His head was thrown back, hands lightly grabbing onto the bed sheets, chest rising and falling.

You smirked at his shuddering breaths. " You're gonna be a good boy?" You asked in a mockery tone, and everything after that happened way too fast.

Jack pulled you up, you now sat by the headboard, his strong grip on your waist. " You think you're in charge, huh? You think you're this dominant little thing?" One of his hands moved to grab you by the back of your neck, quickly pulling you even closer to him. " I'll let you in on a little secret. You're not. You're still a little fucking slut who begs for my cock." You felt your skin set on fire, your whole body slightly shaking by the harshness in his voice. " But, if you want to act all tough, I'll let you. Come and use me for your own pleasure."

You swallowed the thick saliva in your throat, your hands moving to pull off your shirt, later on your panties. You slowly climbed onto the bed, a bit hesitant when seeing the growing smirk on his face. When you reached him, you were about to pull your leg over his body, but Jack was faster. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you over his face, you dripping pussy right in the line of his vision.

" Jack-"

" C'mon, I'm ready."

You slowly lowered yourself, your clit barely touching his lips when he latched on to it. Your grib around the headboard tightened, moans and whines spilling out of you almost instantly. You were still hesitant on putting too much weight on the man underneath you though. The thought of crushing his beautiful face not sounding so appealing at the moment.

" Baby, I know you can do better than this." And you did. You let go of the headboard, grabbing on to his hair instead. The added pressure of his nose brushing over your clit so perfectly made your mind hazy. Brain covered by thick mist that you didn't even think twice before grinding on his face.

Your hips worked in the perfect speed, hands tugging Jack's curly locks, making him groan sending vibrations through your body.

This was a completely new sensation you haven't felt before, the tiny bit of power making you even closer to your high.

You were so lost in the euphoric pleasure, tugging on your nipples, playing with his hair, suffocating him in-between your thighs. It didn't take long for your movements to get lazy. You came undone with butterflies bursting inside your stomach, your body completely halting as your legs shook.

You rolled off of him, Jack laying beside you, taking heavy breaths to catch up.

" Go back to sleep." He quietly whispered when he saw your dazed expression, eyes almost falling shut. " I'll get us something to eat."

#jack harlow #fanfic #jack harlow angst #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow imagines #jack harlow one shot #jack harlow smut #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow x y/n

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eddiediazes · 1 year

Text

broken pieces fit together

[2.7k words] [rated: teen+] [post-6x10 coda that also scraps 6x11 spoilers for parts, sorry] [hurt/comfort cuddling getting together fic]

[read on ao3]

It’s the middle of the night - the kind of late where it might actually be early, and some of the light bleeding in through the kitchen window has more to do with the sun creeping up towards the horizon than it does with just light pollution in the city.

Eddie had stopped seeing this time of the night for a while. He got lucky. He still remembers, though, and it settles in his body like a kind of muscle memory. He’s well-acquainted with the ache in his skull that spreads out from his eyes, the way fatigue spreads through every one of his limbs. He’s got a glass of water sitting on the counter, and he keeps thinking about trying to make hot cocoa, but he can barely manage to make his fingers twitch to try and grab a pan. Instead, the images from his nightmares keep flashing behind his eyelids every time he manages to squeeze them shut, and it’s all he can do to stay upright.

He’s so, so tired, but so tense he can barely move, and he feels like there’s gravel in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow.

“Eddie?” A tired, familiar voice calls out behind him.

For two very separate reasons, Eddie startles. He shakes off his fatigue enough to turn around and cross the room, and he only stops once he’s within arm’s reach of Buck, just in case. He reaches out as if he might steady him, but hesitates with his palms hovering over the bare skin of Buck’s biceps.

“What are you doing up?” Eddie asks him quietly, eyes checking over Buck’s body for any unfamiliar signs of further damage - catching only briefly on the new scar that spreads over his chest.

“Woke up and you were gone,” Buck mumbles, scrubbing at one of his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I got - I don’t know, just- I don’t wanna say nervous.”

Eddie shakes his head just slightly, and finally reaches out to wrap his fingers around Buck’s right elbow, far away from the scar. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. You should be resting.”

“I can walk, Eddie,” Buck grumbles - but as Eddie steers him back towards the bedroom, he follows the touch easily.

“I know that, but you still shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

“Don’t really think stumbling into your kitchen counts as straining myself.”

They make it back to the bed, and Buck sits down, as slowly and gently as he’s able. Eddie puts an arm behind him and supports him as he lays back against the pillows. Then he goes around to the other side of the bed to climb in.

It’s a new arrangement, and one they haven’t actually talked about out loud. Obviously Buck couldn’t sleep on the couch right now - and Buck couldn’t seem to stand the idea of Eddie doing it either, so sharing the bed had been the unspoken compromise.

Buck hasn’t really said much about it, but it’s starting to become clear that he had some kind of dream in the coma that he hasn’t managed to shake off completely. Every time he wakes up now, Eddie can see the way his eyes seek out whoever else is in the room, the way they look for familiar landmarks that he can use to ground himself.

Sometimes Eddie wonders if that’s why Buck hadn’t ended up at Chim and Maddie’s new place, and had instead ended up here, at the Diaz house. The loft’s stairs had made it out of the question until Buck was further along in his recovery, but otherwise Eddie had less space than Bobby and Athena or Chim and Maddie - but here Buck is, all the same, sharing Eddie’s bedroom.

All Eddie really knows is that he’s grateful. It soothes him more than he can put into words to have Buck here and close. Even if sometimes the nightmares do still push Eddie out of bed, it still helps to be able to wake up, roll onto his side, and to see Buck lying there next to him, breathing deeply.

Right now, as Eddie does that very thing, he finds Buck looking back at him.

“You don’t have to get out of bed when you have a nightmare, you know,” Buck whispers.

Eddie huffs out through his nose and turns properly onto his side, tucking a hand under his pillow. “I was trying not to wake you up.”

Buck huffs out a little breath through his nose. “That’s sweet and all, Eds, but I’ve been sleeping like shit anyways. I’d rather-” Pausing, Buck flicks his eyes up to the ceiling. He opens his mouth, though, and closes it again, and shakes his head.

“You’d rather me wake you up than you wake up alone?” Eddie finishes softly - as gently as he can make his mouth take shape around the words, trying to sand off any edges that might cut or puncture.

Sighing, Buck nods, just one simple move that tucks his chin down towards his chest. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Reaching over with his free hand, Eddie hooks two of his fingers over Buck’s palm, right where it’s resting open on the blankets. “I don’t know what it is that’s - you don’t have to tell me, you know. Not until you want to. But I don’t really want you out of my sight right now either, Buck.”

Another little huff - the closest thing to a laugh that Buck seems able to manage for now. “Think you and Bobby and everybody else would be happiest if you could just set me up in a glass case and keep an eye on me for a little bit.” Buck’s hand twitches a little, then he shifts so he can tangle his fingers with Eddie’s properly, and squeeze tight. “The worst part right now is, I don’t know if I’d mind.”

Nudging closer on the bed, as close as he can get without touching, Eddie pulls Buck’s hand up and wraps his other hand around it, too, curling up around it, fighting against the desperation he feels in every cell of his body to press his lips to Buck’s knuckles or the point of his shoulder. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere. We’re all in this with you.”

He tilts his head back up and finds that Buck is looking down at him, right down at his face rather than the awkward curve of his spine or even where their hands are interlocked.

“Eddie, what was your nightmare about?” Buck asks quietly.

Unable to stop it, Eddie laughs, dark and a little strangled. “What do you think? You- I don’t have to say it, Buck, we both know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do that,” Eddie urges, shifting around so he can move one hand up to Buck’s chin, nudging it towards him with just one press of his index finger. “Don’t apologize. You weren’t being reckless, we both took all the precautions, it just- happened. You got struck by lightning.” His tone edges into something desperate, and he squeezes at Buck’s hand like it’ll help emphasize his point. “I saw you dangling there - and I don’t think I can ever unsee it. I felt responsible, and I couldn’t help you, and then I couldn’t even do compressions until we got to the hospital, but - please don’t blame yourself. I’m just-”

But there, Eddie stops, because any single word he could say falls short.

He isn’t just happy or relieved or grateful or glad. He can’t make a single one of those words come out. Instead, finally, he manages to edge out, through the grip his own emotions have on his windpipe, “I don’t even know what I would have done, if you weren’t- If anything had happened to you.”

“You-” Buck pauses, and blinks at Eddie. “You sound like how I felt, when you got shot.”

“If you felt like this, I don’t know how you did it,” Eddie admits.

This time when Buck laughs, it’s a little more like a wheeze - a little more sound than the huff. “I still don’t know how I did it. I didn’t even feel like I was - functioning. But I had to be.”

Those days in the hospital, haunting the waiting room waiting for news and feeling like a hollowed out shell - Eddie remembers them well. If Buck really felt like that-

“I’m sorry I couldn’t talk about it,” Eddie says, and he sounds like he’s choking back tears, probably because he is.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like that, too.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Still isn’t your fault.”

“Still wish I could do something about it.”

“You’re here,” And that - now, out of sheer relief, and the way it’s sweeping through his body all over again, Eddie does pick Buck’s hand up, and he avoids kissing his knuckles only by pressing them against his cheek instead - by feeling the warmth of Buck’s skin pressed just there against his face, just by the corner of his mouth. “You’re alive , Buck. You’re doing plenty.”

“I felt like-” Buck can’t shift much, on the bed, but he turns his hand and brushes his knuckles more deliberately against Eddie’s cheek, down towards the line of his jaw. “Just the fact that you let me take care of you helped me so much. And you couldn’t even - you kept apologizing for not being able to do things on your own, and every single thing you let me do for you, every thing I got to help with, felt like a gift, because you were still here to ask me for it.”

Eddie nods, just once, and swallows. “I know the feeling.”

“Eddie…” But Buck trails off there, and he doesn’t say anything else.

Silence stretches out between them, but their eyes stay locked, and Buck’s fingers are brushing restlessly over the shape of Eddie’s ear.

“I love you,” Eddie says finally, shifting his grip down to Buck’s wrist, thumb pressed against his pulse. “I don’t know that I’ve ever - said it in those exact words, but I should have. When I was telling you about the will or thanking you for helping me out or just - any time you’re over here, I should have said it. I’ve said it fifty different ways without ever telling you that, and it was all I could think about when we didn’t know if you were gonna wake up.”

“I love you, too,” Buck says - and now that his hand is free, he presses his fingers gently against the mole just below Eddie’s eye. “No matter what, Eddie. I love you, and I love Chris, and I’m so - I’m so glad that I have you in my life, and I’m sorry if any of my stupid - soul searching happiness bullshit made you feel like that wasn’t true.”

That actually makes Eddie smile, a real genuine smile for the first time since he sent Buck up that ladder. “Buck, c’mon. I knew it wasn’t about that.”

“I’m not-” Buck shakes his head, and moves both his hands, reaching them over towards Eddie. “Can you help me turn, please? I need to be facing you for this, I have to do it right.”

He doesn’t even try to ask exactly what it is that Buck’s doing, or trying to do. Instead, he nudges an arm under Buck’s waist and grabs onto one of his hands, and pulls him up onto his side, holding his breath as he tries to make the movement as smooth as possible. Buck exhales with him, once they’re both settled - but suddenly, they’re almost nose to nose. Eddie’s arm is still tucked under Buck’s side, and Buck doesn’t startle or pull away, he just settles there, his hand still holding tightly onto Eddie’s, keeping him close.

“Hi,” Buck says softly.

“Hi,” Eddie says back, just a little bit breathless.

“What I realized isn’t just that I was already happy in general or that I was implying something by saying that I wasn’t, that some nebulous thing was missing. It was-” Buck pauses, and bites at his lip for a moment. “I had this dream where everything in my life was different. And I had never been a firefighter, so we were never partners. I never worked at the 118. And in some ways it was this - picture perfect postcard life, but I felt sick to my stomach, because it was wrong - it was so wrong, and I woke up and realized that I don’t want any of that. I don’t want what I thought life would be like or might be like - I want to feel secure where I already am. I’m not gonna be happy unless it’s here - with you, and Chris - and with the rest of the 118, too, because they’re my family, but my whole - the thing that was missing wasn’t a person, or some outside thing. It was just you. It was the rest of what I didn’t think I could have, with you. Some other couch and some other family isn’t gonna cut it. Someone else’s kid-” Buck finally cuts off, and he tips his head down, breaking eye contact. “I would do anything to get back to you.”

“And you did,” Eddie reminds him quietly, so awestruck it feels like he’s been staring into the sun. The room is actually almost light now, and he can hear birds chirping somewhere down the street. “You came back. And you’re here - in this house, in my bed, instead of with anybody else. And every time you let me help you with anything, since you moved in here, I want to tell you thank you for it. Because it’s proof that you’re alive, and you’re here, and you’re breathing, and I still have a chance.”

“A chance to do what?” Buck asks, tipping his head back up.

“To tell you that I have never loved anyone the way I love you,” Eddie murmurs. “Maybe even, if I got really lucky, to kiss you.”

Buck’s face lights up, and it puts any ray of sunlight to shame. “Eddie.”

“Can I?”

“Please.”

So Eddie does. He shifts just enough to close the centimeter or so that’s left between their mouths, and he brushes his lips against Buck’s. Buck’s mouth is still damp, from the way he’s been biting his lips all throughout their talk, and it means that their lips catch for just a moment, stick in a way that’s somehow both a little uncomfortable and a little perfect all at once. Eddie pulls back just to feel the drag of it, but Buck follows him forward and Eddie gives up, pushing closer again instead, pressing in harder to kiss Buck properly.

It still isn’t rough - there’s no teeth, no biting or tugging, because Eddie is probably being overly cautious in light of Buck’s recovery. The kisses are thorough, though. Slow and lush and lingering - Eddie turns his head to literally brush his mouth against Buck’s, back and forth, a kind of nuzzle. Then he ducks in and kisses Buck’s top lip and his bottom lip in turn, truly trying to feel out the lines in Buck’s lips, the texture, the feel and the warmth of his mouth. Then he opens his own mouth to taste, to lick over the salt of Buck’s skin and to press their tongue together as gently as he can.

They kiss until Buck starts to shiver, and Eddie pulls back out of concern only to find his pupils wide and dark, and they snap right to Eddie’s face as soon as he can focus.

“Eddie,” Buck says out loud, his voice still rough.

“6 out of 10?” Eddie asks, knowing full well that it was the best kiss he’s ever given in his life.

“When I’m feeling better I’m gonna hit you for that,” Buck says - and then he tips forward again, pressing his mouth against Eddie’s, kissing him again, and again, and again, a series of damp little smudges to each corner of Eddie’s mouth and then right in the center. “10 out of 10. 100 out of 10. Keep kissing me like that and it might actually cure me, I’m - 70% sure.”

“Only 70%?” Eddie repeats, wrapping a hand around the back of Buck’s neck. “I think we can do better than that.”

So Eddie tugs him close again, and slides his tongue back between Buck’s lips, and he feels the hum against his tongue, and he shivers with it.

Outside - the sun climbs into the sky, and the birds start to sing in earnest, and any lingering signs of the storm are cleared away.

#buddie fic #911 spoilers #911 on fox #buddie #sorry i went crazy and wrote myself a comfort fic before bed!#goodnight aksmdf

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angelmichelangelo · 10 months

Note

Maybe 2012 Mikey being badass? (i've got nothing else lmao)

Like most things in his life, being the klutz of his family, he discovers it by entire accident.

Raph and April are out front on the front lawn, training together, a newfound activity that the pair of them have taken to, now that Raph’s number one spar partner was currently unconscious in the tub upstairs.

Mikey’s stomach clinches at the thought. It’s something he often tries to forget these days. Wind whistles past him and he looks up from his spot on the porch, huddling down into his oversized hoodie, he feels some of that unease surrounding his chest start to ebb away.

At least Raphael was outside, doing something other than just brooding in silence. Casey had even managed to get some dinner down him last night so… maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

With Donnie on constant lookout for Leo, Mikey supposed he was on a similar kind of duty with Raph. The turtle and the girl twirl around each other, unphased by the new year chill that hangs in the air still.

Mikey taps the end of his pencil against the sketchpad. So far it was full of just quick warm up sketches that he’d done through the morning so far. One of the stretch of trees over on the horizon. A frog. One of April standing from afar during her own warm up with Raph.

He taps at the paper, little residuales of pencil shavings bouncing with it when—

“Shit!”

That’s Raph’s voice, sharp and worried that has Mike snapping his head up so fast like rubber.

He’s crouched down beside April who’s now laying in the grass, one leg stretched out, she’s grasping at her ankle, and even from here, Mikey can make out the fresh glimmer of tears she’s stubbornly holding back behind her eyes.

He pushes his sketchpad and pencil aside onto the step as he leaps up, running over to meet them.

“It’s fine,” April tells him straight away before he even has a chance. Raph’s hands are awkwardly hovering over the ankle she’s still grasping at. “Just rolled it funny.”

There’s a little bite to her words that tells him that there was nothing funny about it.

Mikey huffs, crouching down beside her, he offers her a lopsided smile when he tells her.

“Apes, I’ve had a fair share of rolled ankles in my time.” He gently pries her hands away to inspect the damage. “It still hurts like shell.”

It’s swollen already, probably nothing too serious but Raph’s face pales anyway. He never was any good with anything remotely medical. Mikey remembers when they were kids, he couldn’t even watch E.T because of that one particular scene in the med bay tents.

“I’ll go get Don,” is what he tells him, already springing to his feet and making a dash towards the house.

April sucks in a breath. Now it’s like she’s really trying not to cry and Mikey can’t help but feel bad for her.

“Here,” he says, gently wrapping his hand around her injured ankle. “I’ve been told I have warm hands. It might help.”

She flinches at first, with the sudden contact, but after a while she relaxes, no longer fisting tight handfuls of grass beneath her palm, even the glossy tears in her eyes seem to sink away.

She blinks. “It.” She says suddenly, stopping short like she lost the thread of her own sentence. “Mike. You’re—”

She’s cut off by the sound of running feet. Two pairs of running feet exactly because Raphael rejoins them with Donnie in tow. He’s got his little med kit with him (that still has the Mikey Do Not Touch sticker that’s slowly starting to peel away on the front) and when he sits beside her, he’s looking breathless and tired.

“Hey,” he says. “Can I look?”

April sniffs. She shakes her head to scoot her bangs from out of her eyes. “It’s not that bad,” she tells him. She inches her leg upwards. “See. I can move it now, really.”

Mikey’s hand stays firmly in place and… and he knew he was being trivial when he said about having warm hands but… but suddenly the skin of his palm that’s touching against hers feels very very hot.

He pulls it away when Raph squeaks in surprise.

Donnie, who was previously rattling about in his box, turns his head and stops short, a frown knitting between his brows. It matches Raph’s current expression almost perfectly.

“I thought you said it was swollen?” Donnie comments, leaning forward to inspect the very not swollen ankle. In fact, it looked in perfect shape. “You said, in your words,” he shoots April a somewhat apologetic look. “Gnarly.”

Raph squeaks again, in disbelief it would appear.

“It was!” He looks between April and Mikey with quick desperation. “Wasn’t it?”

April gulps and then slowly nods her head. “I… I dunno what happened.” She watches rather gingerly as Don packs his stuff away again. She gives her foot a twirl as if to test it out. “Mike grabbed onto it and… and it got all warm and it was just. Better.”

Donnie and Raph look up at the same time then. Gosh, they really do act like twins sometimes.

“You… grabbed it?” Raph asks, voice pitching upwards slightly.

Mikey shrugs. His hand no longer feels hot, but he thinks if he had ears right now, they’d probably be burning. “I just held onto it. Thought maybe it’d help.”

Donnie presses all along her joints and bones and once Raph’s pulled her to her feet, she’s able to walk around just fine. No wincing or secret achy bits. It’s like she never hurt it in the first place.

And once Don’s signed her off he retreats back towards the upstairs bathroom again. Raph, Mike and April watch him go when Raph turns to his brother, lifting up one of his hands between his, he says,

“Jeez, bro. You could have maybe unlocked the healing hands any other time for when we needed it other than now. No offense, April.”

But there’s no real bite to his words, not in the way his lips are curling around a knowing smile, or the way April’s bumping his shoulder with his.

He pulls his hand away with a laugh. “Ha. Leo’s gonna have a field day when he wakes up and finds out I did it on the first try. By accident, too.”

And for an icy moment, Mikey wonders if that when should have been an if. But it all bleeds out, warmth pouring in when Raph barks a laugh and grabs his hand a second time, giving it a tight squeeze.

“Yeah he is,” he tells him, eyes sparkling. Then, his voice goes soft. “And he’ll be proud too.”

And Mikey’s chest aches again, but this time, it feels a little less terrible. And he just can’t wait for his brother to wake up, just so he can tell him all about it.

#farmhouse arc my beloved <3 #thank you anon for the prompt :3 #this was fun to write! i wanted to do something different so i hope this was good #ask #anon #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2k12 #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt michelengalo #tmnt

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fearnesbells · 4 months

Text

oh HIIIIIII

jackie also writes fic sometimes

when i should have said something true | beauyasha | 4k

read it on ao3!!

Summary:

She shifts slightly where she sits, and her face comes alive with a sharp wince of pain. A single tear, lit by the fire, slips down her cheek.

It’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking right at her—if you could trust that if you looked away, she’d still be there.

Which Beau can’t. So she sees it.

Beau can’t look away. Yasha can’t hide anymore. So maybe some codes and creeds can be left behind in the meantime.

*****

Every time Yasha comes back, her features are never quite like what Beau remembers.

Her eyes are impossibly gray—more gray than a feeble human mind could ever conjure up. Her jaw is sharper than memory serves, her cheekbones more carved.

The shadows seem to collect over her expression like they’re drawn there. They find dark harbor in the hollows of her face.

Beau tries her best to commit these things to memory, every time she’s around, holding every dynamic part of her as still as she can in the noise of her mind—it never quite works.

“What are you looking at?” Nott asks over her shoulder, the complete opposite of discreet. Beau shoves her away with no real force, instantly feeling her face flush. She never used to be this absentminded.

“Nothing,” she mutters gruffly. “Just thinking.”

They’re all packed close around their dying fire for the night, having just eaten, pallets and canopies set up to rest for when the moon has risen higher.

They’re not in any immediate danger, and it’s a nice feeling. A rare feeling, she realizes, nowadays.

In their peace, no one else seems to have noticed Beau’s wandering attention. Caleb is poring over one of his texts with a devouring gaze. Jester is sitting flush against Fjord on a log. Molly is flicking cards at Nott’s head, which is hovering over Beau’s shoulder.

And Yasha is sitting directly across from Beau, staring blank-eyed at the horizon, mysterious shadows playing over her face like always.

She shifts slightly where she sits, and her face comes alive with a sharp wince of pain. A single tear, lit by the fire, slips down her cheek.

It’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking right at her—if you could trust that if you looked away, she’d still be there.

Which Beau can’t. So she sees it.

Beau is a hurt person. She has made camp with other hurt people before. She knows the old dance.

Tread lightly. Handle carefully.

Keep everything held inside of you until you inevitably tear open, embarrassingly, and then gather it all up to be stitched back inside yourself by your own shaking hand.

She knows the dance, she’s done this before. When Yasha winces, she should look the other way and pretend she saw nothing. Let her hurt be hers.

“You alright?” she blurts instead, thick-headed with ale from earlier and just general, trademark Beauregard idiocy. She bites down hard on her tongue like it can take the words back.

Yasha blinks, likely unmoored from the breach of protocol. Tread lightly, handle carefully.

My hurt is mine. Your hurt is yours.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She stands up then, less gracefully than normal, and lumbers back into the woods somewhere without another word.

“I think it was something you said,” Nott says sagely, now sitting at Beau’s side, and Beau thumps her hard on the head with her staff in lieu of a reply, eyes on the spot in the trees where Yasha disappeared to.

Guilt chews at her stomach, an unrelenting thing with too many teeth. Wasn’t her business, whatever was causing Yasha pain. She should’ve just left well enough alone.

Furious with herself, she stands up too, her own anger rendering her unable to stay still.

“Going for a walk,” she bites out, and heads into the woods in the opposite direction from Yasha.

She hears chatter immediately start up when she stands, protests from Jester and a low question from Caleb and some kind of concern from Fjord, but she listens to none of it as she storms off.

Her discomfort is a somatic thing, full-bodied and weighty, infecting her whole person.

She feels heavily restless and densely stupid and tearful.

She is so fucked. How did this happen—how did she become this weak?

Everything is changing, shifting beneath her very feet, it feels like. She never believed in the gods, even when she was young, but at least she could rely on herself, lean on her own fists and staff and unwavering soul to be her guide.

Now she’s losing herself in gazes off to nowhere and becoming a sentimental fool in front of someone she respects. She doesn’t know who she is anymore. She has nothing left to rely on.

Her eyes burn as tears well in them, unbidden and unwanted, and she gnashes her teeth.

“This isn’t who I am,” she hisses, takes her staff in both hands and slams it against a boulder. She’s found herself on a clearing that looks out at the horizon, now, and it seems to whirl around her in her anger and fear and disorientation.

Her staff spins through her fingers, moves with the jerking twists of her wrist as she whales on every tree in her line of sight, her staff making the flat sound of wood on wood with every hit.

The trees become old ghosts, old enemies, thugs from alleys long ago that left her bleeding and broken.

Beauregard, what will you have to show for yourself?

“I am not weak!” she shouts at the memory, voice gone reedy with tears. “I am as I have always been—I have made something of myself—I have—”

With every assertion, she’s bringing her staff down as hard as she can on the biggest tree overlooking the cliff.

On the last word, her staff snaps.

Her eyes fly wide. The terrible, tearful anger leaves her body like she’s been hit with a spell, and she sinks to the forest floor, unable to hold herself up anymore.

This is all Beauregard, firstborn should-be son of the Lionetts, has to show for herself. Two broken pieces of wood, in her two shaking hands, the product of her own thoughtless loss of control.

A hand touches her shoulder.

“Beau.”

Startled, Beau grabs for her staff, which isn’t there. Before she can brace with her fists, though, the voice registers as familiar, and the fight goes out of her.

At the moment that she should have something to say, nothing comes. For once, her mind feels silent where it is normally packed full of noise.

Yasha sits down carefully on the ground next to Beau, leans all the way back and props herself up with her elbows before angling her body towards the monk.

This is one of the things Beau forgets. Yasha is always more angular than Beau remembers, every time.

All angles, all tuned towards the thing she cares about for the moment with the utmost precision and clarity. Right now, that thing is Beau.

It is intoxicating to be the central, geometrical point on which all of Yasha’s angles focus. It’s making Beau’s head spin.

“This is a nice spot,” she says casually, as if mentioning the weather. She speaks as if there aren’t wet tear tracks on Beau’s face and fresh wounds on all the trees around them.

Beau’s throat tightens. Yasha is honoring the code, the same code that Beau so stupidly stepped all over before.

“I am sorry about earlier,” she continues quietly.

Or maybe not.

She says nothing further, though, just sits there, huge and unmoving and silent. A mountain of a person. Beau, by contrast, feels something like a pebble. Eroded and ground down into a smooth shell of her jagged old self.

In the core of her, though, the grain of sand around which the layers of stone form, she feels a truth ebbing, stringing itself together into words. She locks her gaze on the moonlit horizon like it can save her from herself.

“I’m sorry, too,” she responds, just as quiet. It feels clunky when she says it. She hasn’t apologized to anyone in longer than she’d care to admit.

“No,” Yasha says. Beau flinches at the harshness in her tone, especially when no other words follow it, and she pulls her knees up to her chest in a sort of unconscious defense. “I mean—no. Do not be sorry, not for what you said. No.”

Beau chances a look away from the horizon and finds bright silver eyes, twin moons staring at her. Yasha’s gaze is almost too much to bear with its intensity, but not painful. Never painful. Beau just can’t help but feel laid bare before it, a sensation she is unused to. It cuts right to the core of her pebble self.

The always-falterless gaze falters for a moment, though, and flickers with that same pain from before.

This time, with clear intention, Yasha holds Beau’s eyes, and she does not run.

Beau does not understand Yasha. She cannot remember her features when she is away for too long. There are things she will never know—that none of them will—about the barbarian that sits at her side.

But right now, overlooking the tree line, Beau understands that Yasha is asking her for help as much as she is able to. And Beau will give it to her. Beau will give her anything that she needs. She wants to give her everything.

“What’s wrong?” Beau whispers, and with the slightest movement, Yasha’s eyes look down to her chest, to her ribs. Even in the shadows, Beau can see how her chest isn’t rising and falling as it should, how her breath is stuttering on its way out and in.

“Aw, gods,” Beau huffs, maybe a little tactlessly. “Why didn’t you tell Jester? She loves to heal. Fucking thrives off it.”

Yasha doesn’t answer. Beau didn’t entirely expect her to.

“Sit up,” she commands. This is familiar. This she can do. “I have some bandages on me, some salve. I can make something to hold your ribs so you don’t pop a fuckin’ lung later.”

“Do you need my shirt off?”

The question is phrased in the same tone, flat and businesslike, but when Beau looks up Yasha is smirking a little bit.

“Asshole,” she mutters through a grin, and lobs the salve at Yasha to catch before she remembers that it probably isn’t a good idea to make the woman with the busted ribs try and reach for anything when Yasha winces at the catch. “Sorry,” she tacks on as an afterthought. Casual apologies. She’s getting this. “You were right before, though. Strip.”

Yasha’s smirk grows, and she arches an eyebrow. “Mm. All right.”

“Not like—I’m not—”

Beauregard Lionett, the monk who eats pussy for breakfast, does not stutter like this. Good gods above.

“Just take your shirt off,” she mumbles, blushing hard. “Apply the salve where it hurts worst. I’ll bandage you up.”

Yasha starts to pull at the hem of her shirt, and as Beau is rifling through her belt for the pouch she hears the familiar sound of a hiss of pain forced through teeth.

Once the bandages are in hand, Beau gets to her feet and brushes her knuckles lightly at Yasha’s elbow as a notification of her presence.

“Don’t kill yourself,” she admonishes, gently as her abrasive voice is able, and once Yasha relaxes her tensed body Beau is able to slip the shirt the rest of the way off.

Her pale skin is spotted with burns, sliced through with scars, mottled over with bruises from the day. An especially ugly one purples and darkens at the edge of the wrapping around her chest.

“Do they feel broken?” Beau asks quietly, kneeling carefully at Yasha’s side, folding the shirt beside her. She ghosts her fingertips over the worst of the bruising, and Yasha hisses again.

“I don’t know,” she responds.

“I’ll wrap it for tonight. Then tomorrow, you’re talking to Jester first thing before we get moving, soon as she can cast again. I’ll march you to her tent myself.”

Yasha smiles slightly over at her. It’s something Beau prides herself on, being able to tell when the other woman is smiling.

Nott likes to go on and on about how she can’t tell, whine about how the barbarian never cracks a grin, but Beau knows the secret. You can’t look at the mouth; you’ve got to watch the eyes.

When Yasha smiles, her eyes dance.

“Okay,” she acquiesces now, and her eyes set to dancing.

Something light and warm settles in Beau’s chest at that. She gets to work, then, unrolling the bandages and twisting them tightly around Yasha’s midsection, careful to wrap firmly, but with gentle hands. Allowing some flexion for later healing is important, she remembers.

“The last time I did this, the other person was unconscious, and we were in the back of a moving cart,” she tells Yasha without thinking. She doesn’t expect any response, but after a beat Yasha nudges her with her shoulder.

“Hey!” Beau yelps, since the movement messed up her wrapping and she has to go back and fix it. She scowls (without any real anger) up at Yasha, who is looking at her with an open and curious expression.

“What happened?” she asks, brow quirked.

Beau grins, a little surprised at the interest. “We were running away from some bootleggers in town once—we’d been taking their barrels from their stock and reselling them before they could, and they were pissed—and Tori decided it would be a good idea to jump from the bridge onto a cart below as an escape plan.”

“Tori?”

Beau feels her mouth twist, and is grateful for the fact that Yasha can’t see her expression now.

“An ex-girlfriend,” she says simply. She’s cutting a lot out. My first girlfriend, actually. She’s dead now, probably, but I’ll never really know. I look for her in every city I’m in.

“Ah.”

“She was a lot smarter than me, if you can believe it,” Beau jokes, concentrating intently on the wrapping.

“Smarter than you?”

Beau looks up. She’s smirking again.

“If your ribs weren’t fucking broken, I’d punch you right now,” Beau mumbles, smiling back. “Anyway. She jumped, I jumped after her. She landed hard in the back of this guy’s cart, and I landed on top of her and felt something kind of… I felt bone break under me. And then I sat up, right, all in a panic—” she sits back on her heels for a minute and tries to do an impression of her blind, young fear—“and I notice that she’s out cold. She had hit her head on something when she landed. We scared the shit out of the horse leading the cart, so it took off sprinting over the cobblestones. I had to set her ribs while all this was happening.”

“Did it work?” Yasha asks.

“Yeah, yeah, it worked,” Beau replies, nodding. “She was fine.”

“What happened? With her?”

“We got thrown in jail and I never saw her again,” Beau says shortly, and ties off the bandage. “I think I’m done. How does it feel?”

“Secure,” Yasha says with a nod. “I… thank you. You did not have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did,” Beau says offhandedly, shrugs. “No big.”

“I’m also sorry. About Tori.”

Beau nods. This time, she swallows hard as she stands up. “Yeah. Me too.”

She offers Yasha a hand to stand up, which she takes graciously, even though she does most of the actual work of standing up on her own. She takes a few steps, a few deep breaths, and her winces aren’t quite as piercing this time.

Her skin glows under the moon.

“Thank you,” she says again. “This was very good of you to do. You did not have to do it,” she repeats. She’s standing a few feet ahead of Beau, with her back turned to her.

“Gods, Yasha, stop saying—”

“What you saw at the fire was not because of… of this, though,” she continues, gesturing to Beau’s careful wrapping. “I was not thinking about this. Or it was not what made me cry.”

Beau stands there, hands useless at her sides. Her tongue feels overlarge and clumsy in her mouth, so she does not speak.

“Zuala died on this day.”

The silence returns, grows, until it has yawned too wide for too long—Yasha will not volunteer more without urging, and Beau cannot make her voice work to ask the question that will have her continue.

When Yasha finally cuts her moon-gaze back on Beau, it is filled with the unfamiliar shine of tears while also holding a painfully familiar yearning.

It’s the same look as before. When the need for help becomes so basal, so desperate, that it can’t be vocalized. When all you can do is look and hope that the other person can see.

Beau holds her gaze as she walks over to her, closer to the lip of the bluff, and bravely, stupidly, she takes the hand of the mountain at her side.

“Tell me,” she says, feeling scars under the skin she rubs a thumb over. This is not the prompting question she meant to ask. This is something else. This is permission, trust, given with the whole of herself.

Yasha looks at their joined hands, and a few tears that have been gathering in her eyes slip free to the shadows of her cheeks.

“She was my wife,” she says softly. “Zuala.”

A name, spoken as a prayer.

“Zuala,” Beau echoes. It isn’t cold, but a chill freezes its way over the back of her neck at speaking the name aloud.

“We were children together,” Yasha murmurs. “Both rescued from death by the clan. We trained side by side, took sacraments together, were sent into battle at each other’s side.”

A memory of Tori’s smile, aimed at Beau from across a tavern, rumbles in a low flash across her mind like heat lightning at Yasha’s words.

“She was calculated. And strong. And far braver than I ever was or can ever hope to be. We got married, in defiance of the Dolorav ways, and because of me, we were caught,” Yasha continues. Her words are becoming heavier as she goes on. “We went back. I wanted—the woman who raised me, I thought—I wanted her blessing,” she says, listless. “Stupid. Ill-calculated. Zuala knew it, too, but she followed me despite.”

“They killed her?”

“Yes.” That one word seems to hold what feels like all the pain in the realms. “So I killed them all.”

Without meaning to, Beau grasps at Yasha’s hand tighter. She has this unfounded fear that the woman will be sucked into the earth below them with all of this weight she carries.

“How many years has she been gone?”

“Too many. Not enough.”

Beau swallows.

“Grief is not good,” Yasha says inelegantly. “It has made me do bad things in her absence. So when this day comes, I do not just remember her. I remember what I have done—the terrible crimes I have committed—in her name.” Her massive, mountainous shoulders begin to quake. “Beau, she would be so ashamed of me.”

Beau stifles the instant no that rises in response. Who is she, to decide someone’s guilt? She knows that a dark past gnashes at your heels like an enormous direwolf. Some empty denial will do nothing to dull the sharpness of its teeth.

Instead of speaking, then, she moves so that she can stand facing Yasha, and takes her other hand in her own unoccupied one.

Owls warble in the trees.

“Everything is changing,” she tells her, quiet. “Including me. I’ve been trying like hell to pretend I’m not, but maybe I should let myself change.”

“I like you as you are,” Yasha says strongly, and the moment is still achingly serious but that makes Beau smile a little.

“I’m trying to say that nothing is permanent. For better, for worse, yeah? If you want to change for the better, to be someone that Zuala would be proud of, you can. Maybe you already are. It feels like you change every time I see you.”

Those eyes, again. Right to the core of her.

Yasha leans down, and touches her forehead to Beau’s.

It would be easy to close the gap—to fall into the heat of kissing her hard and melt away all of this heaviness—which is why Beau thinks she doesn’t do it.

She wants to do this right, for once in her goddamned life.

So she holds Yasha’s eyes, inches from her own, and just rests her forehead against the other woman’s, holds her hands in hers.

“You broke your staff,” Yasha whispers. Her breath is cold, like fog.

“Yeah,” Beau says roughly, and closes her eyes to stem the flow of memory that comes with all her old anger, the same old anger that snapped her staff in two. Tori’s face goes across her mind again, followed by the incensed features of her father.

The Lionett name and legacy is really just historical, ancestral anger, corked in a barrel of Lionett ale.

“What happened?”

“Grief is not good,” Beau murmurs, parroting Yasha’s turn of phrase with a humorless smile. “I’ve also done things I’m not proud of. And many people are ashamed of me.”

“Things are changing,” Yasha responds. “Someone wise told me that everything is.”

She steps away from the moment, slowly, like she’s giving Beau time to adjust to the loss, and picks up the two halves of the staff. They look tiny in her hands.

“Step back,” she commands, the power returned to her voice. It is objectively incredibly hot.

She stands closer to the edge of the cliff, stares into the clouds that cling to the edge of the moon. She slams the two pieces of the staff together, and a bolt of impossible lightning finds the barbarian’s body like it’s been called there.

White heat, white light, the pure sense of ozone that makes Beau’s teeth hot in her jaw, and when it fades Yasha holds out Beau’s staff, re-fused into one weapon.

“How in the seven hells—”

“I change every time you see me, you said,” Yasha tells her with the beginning of a smile. “Didn’t want to leave you without something new.”

Beau takes the staff with awe, but her ears catch on part of Yasha’s sentence.

“So you’re leaving again?”

“I must,” she says, not without regret. “It is part of the changing. Part of my atonement.” She must see the shift in Beau’s posture. “But I will not leave tonight.”

She takes Beau’s free hand again, and leftover lighting seems to crackle between them.

“Head back?” Beau asks, clearing her throat.

Yasha nods, and keeps holding her hand as they make their way up the outcropping back to the rest of the Nein.

My hurt is mine. My hurt is also yours.

A new code. A new creed.

Everything is changing, including the woman at Beau’s side, but they have torn themselves open in front of one another and trusted the other to stitch them back up.

Beau trusts now that if she looks away, Yasha will still be there when her glance returns. Often, the barbarian is looking right back.

Beauregard, what will you have to show for yourself?

Her father’s old words, spoken to her in that jail cell so long ago, rise into her mind again, always there no matter what she does, but they are quieter than they were before.

I have made something of myself, Beau thinks again, without the rage and desperation of earlier. She looks around the fire to her friends and feels a similar warmth in her chest, cranes her neck to see the full moon and thinks of dancing eyes.

I have made something of myself.

I am making something new.

#critical role #beauyasha #beau x yasha #beauregard lionett #yasha nydoorin #critical role fanfiction #cr spoilers #cr fanfic #cr fanfiction #critical role fic #jackie loves the lesbians #jackie writes #STORM BUTCH BLUES

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marialikeswritting · 1 year

Text

Jack frost x goddess reader

The reader is a goddess of light like guidance to kids

Fanfic fail*

((((This is a fail attempt so I might as well just post it tell me if y'all want me to try this concept and fix the obvious grammatical errors)))

_______________________________

(y/n) star goddess of light a guide for children from any dark times they may have she helps them

With her radiant beauty and knowledge for the light ahead in the dark tunnels of ones mind she is there to take you away

Though no one has seen her in a long time not even the most ancient of spirits have seen her,she may be hiding in plain sight,for maybe her spark has died along the dark times she felt well those are the rumors around the place

"*sigh*" a tall woman is seen at the peak of a snowy mountain, she wears a long white dress that has two slits at each side beautiful golden patterns go from the top of her back,and down at her feet, she wears golden bands on her wrists and ankles on her head a headpiece with small chains and crystals she looked over from the peek a sad expression her usual glow dimmed no smile to see nor laughter to hear

She was alone and that how she liked to be alone

Or maybe she was just fooling herself but no matter how much she wished to be like herself there's this sadness. Loneliness that didn't bother her for many centuries until one night when she spoke to the moon,and then he didn't respond that's when she felt truly lost

No one to try to change her mind to come back to even find her,no one needed her right? Or maybe she was being dramatic and just because the children didn't see her shouldn't be a reason to give up on her duties on something that made her happy

Though it wasn't the children no it was the other like her that didn't give her the light of day which wa kinda ironic for her, but even now they didn't seem to mind her absent maybe she would find someone soon that will listen to her and make her happy

A lonely goddess who would have thought

Whith another look into the horizon she walked away

Winter was coming well...it had arrived just last night. Little specs of snowflakes hovering in the wind and in the air so gentle and stunning it was cold but nothing (y/n) couldn't handle. As it became night time now she could see the beauty of the stars they where the most vibrant that they had ever been they'd shine her away back home,but she didn't want to got there just yet it was too quiet the moment she was there and the moment she left and no doubt it would be the same if she ever went back

Her long dress drag behind her as she softly hummed a tune lifting her hands (y/n) made a ball of light to lead her way,she had walked a long way from where she lived and it was a blessing to not see the scenery towers of the castle

After walking a long way through the woods (y/n) had finally seen lights not from her, but houses a town just down the hill from where she stood,lifting her foot up she went down,but just as she took the first step she hesitated "I wonder if i can...." silence lingered around the thought of actually doing the one thing (y/n) was meant to do and finally doing it? "Well I gues maybe someone needs guidance" then a sound of feathers alarmed her "who who" an owl "hello there" a soft smile made it's way to her features "who who" "yes I suppose it is still dark for guiding someone but it wouldn't hurt to try and look don't you think umm" "who who"the owl flap his wings to rest on her shoulder "Ludacris what a lovely name now let's se what this town has to offer" "who who" "your quite stubborn. fine. I'll rest first, but when I wake up we will look together"

Finding a place to sleep wasn't hard and soon enough she was once again looking at the stars more over a constellation the first one she saw the night she woke up as who she is now ut was bittersweet how it mocks and comforted her seeing it after centuries of not wanting to look up that specific angle that could not be easily missed.once again she felt sad not knowing why she always did. it frustrated her why be like this.

Immortal whith powers, and a way to heal others in such a sweet and personal way if she can't even get over it.get over it

that's what she would tell herself stop thinking stop waiting for someone to sweep you off your feet or something your not a fairytale and even if it where to happens for someone so stupid to even want her

They would only get hurt at the long run and besides who would take interest in a sad pathetic goddess like her no one would ever love her

even if that's the most important thing she needed

The sun rays startled the girl to wake up a soft yawn escape her lips followed by light scratches on the head,suddenly she remember that today she would try to do the one thing she knew she was good at "alright let's go" she looked at the owl she kinda befriended but she wasn't sure just yet he was asleep 'oh right they are nocturnal' she realize but nonetheless she would go and find someone to guide maybe then she would stop and move on away from her sorrow

After a few minutes (y/n)walked into the town looking all over she sees children playing around and talking

(y/n) smiled at them as they played with determined faces then she noticed guy with a blue hoodie and white hair quit unusual for someone to have that kind of hair but it intrigued her nonetheless as she stared from a distance just casually locking or that's what she thought it was until he noticed her, blue eyes met with (e/c) ones he stoped for a moment and he smirked? At her, "strange but okay" she said under her breath

Then very quickly did the white haird guy flew over to () with a bug smile on his face "I've never seen you around here before,what's your name snowflake" he looked at her with curiosity tilting his head to the side like a little puppy which () found cute for whatever reason "welp see ya"

,the wind blew her long (h/t) (h/c) hair up as she stood there bewildered by her barely interaction with this guy

It's been about a few hours since I saw him and his blue crystal eyes and white hair,I couldn't stop the fact that I found him intriguing.

#jack frost x reader #jack daniels x female reader #fanfiction #i tried

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