#and placed him in his favorite to save it

[pillbuggs]

the gutsby collection

after @gutsby 's recent disappearance, i decided to compile all of her fics that i could find, originally for my own reading purposes because i, too, loved her fics. in light of all of the distraught posts and comments that have followed, i have decided to create and post this list for easy access (through compiling already existing findable reblogs, i haven't copied, downloaded, or reposted anything, i'm just putting everything in one place). discovering that you're suddenly unable to reach a favorite blog or never got to finish a well written fic sucks, so i hope y'all are able to find what you're looking for here. if you have any fics of hers reblogged that i've missed feel free to send them my way so i can add them here.

please note these might only be expandable/readable on desktop.

Waiting Game: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Extras More Extras Even More Extras Another Extra

chapters 1-8 can also be found on her ao3 which is still up!

Make It Stick: Prequel Part 1 Part 2 More Old!Joel Even More Another

🌸 Seeing Pink: "Joel steals more of your innocence every day. Fortunately, you love to give as much as he loves to take."

📺 My Body, His Choice: "After a long day, Joel just needs some relief."

🌡️ Cabin Fever: "Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price."

💧 Brighter Times: "You've always been Joel's favorite. Always."

🚸 Love Tap: "Old habits die hard with your husband–touching you at inappropriate times is one of them."

📚 Wants and Needs: "Bills are high; your dad's boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him–for now."

🍼 Cry, Baby: "Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That's all."

🧺 Who's Your Daddy?: "You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out."

🍑 Just Peachy: "Joel's got a jealous streak and a bold idea."

🍺 Cowboy Killers: "On a mission to find–and fight–your best friend's lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair."

💵 Easy to Please: "Months pass, and you can't make rent–again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again."

🍍 If You Like Piña Coladas: "You secretly make Joel a profile on Hinge. Then he shows you exactly why he doesn't need one."

⚾️ Heavy Hitter: "A kick in the dick is a strange way to get a man's attention, but Coach Miller doesn't mind at all."

🎬 Too Close for Comfort: "You've been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you're surfing the web on her dad's computer, and you find some...unusual things in his search history."

🇺🇸 Bigger in Texas: "Joel won't fit."

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

volume five — todo a su tiempo

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: all of the comments and feedback i've received so far has been absolutely amazing, it always encourages me to plow through volumes! i appreciate and love all of you <3

✦ ── word count: 4.9k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - previous volume - volume six

art by outdmilk on twt

The following days you could only describe were bliss.

Sukuna and you had established a set—yet, unspoken—routine. You’d wake up, hop to the kitchen, and get breakfast started. 

He’d disappear into the bathroom, hacking up a storm with his toothbrush and shuffle into work clothes.

You’d learned how he’d dress his eggs, that he only drank his coffee black which you scowled at upon discovery, and which mug he liked to sip from.

You even started packing him a lunch—which he called unnecessary every single time despite never turning it down.

You got comfortable in the clothing he’d bought you, despite having no sensitivity for fashion outside of red flannels and blue jeans.

If he wasn’t going to accept payment in the form of a wire transfer, you were going to ensure that you were going to pay him back through duties despite still being incredibly indebted to him.

He was a jerk, but a jerk who saved your life.

You dusted off his entire CD collection, reorganized his dining sets after polishing them, and scrubbed his tiles until they shined.

Twice.

From what you could puzzle together, it seemed that he worked down at a sawmill and treaded down the hill to reach his pick-up before heading into work. The extra lumber he’d chop on occasion, he’d leave in a lump come winter time when it’d be too cold to stand outside for long periods of time.

You’d bothered him quite a bit the next day about putting up a clothesline out back, which he found irksome but completed nonetheless that evening, along with fixing the dryer. 

You thus called the clothesline useless if he was just going to fix the dryer and he flicked your forehead.

He’d hammer you about checking your bandages and curse you out when you’d forget, and you’d raid his book collection and sit beneath a tree to pass time.

Uraume was quite the companion—plopping on you to rub their mud-covered mane to which you’d giggle at. 

You’d both fall asleep beneath the haze of the afternoon heat that hung sweetly in the air. Days were old, nights were young. You’d tan your shoulders, haunted by the melancholy of youth. The sky felt bigger than everything.

You’d scoop yourself three helpings of ice cream that’d dribble down your hand, Uraume lapping it up when it’d muddled around your palm.

The rusted windchimes on the patio became your favorite noise.

Nothing made sense except your virtue for stillness. You knew nothing was okay, but it felt otherwise.

You occasionally found yourself lurking near the shed, toying with the lock and peering between the slivers of cracked wood, but it was completely black inside—further frustrating your curiosity.

You’d argue with Sukuna every here and then—bickering about who’d tracked dirt in, when you’d use all the hot water before he had the chance to shower, or Sukuna telling you that you’d talked too much when you’d feel restless after being cooped up all day, your only friend Uraume who wasn’t of much help since they couldn’t actually speak back to you.

Sukuna was mean but he was sufferable.

“You ever try a root beer float?”

You had your hand resting on the side of his TV, giving it a couple of smacks to get rid of the static. Thankfully he had cable but you could tell he rarely used the old box. “Who hasn’t?”

He grunted at your bluntness, pulling a beer can from the fridge along with a pint of vanilla ice cream. “How about a root beer float with beer?”

You turned to frown at him, obviously not excited at the mixture of ale and milk. “That sounds disgusting.”

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, city girl.”

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“Where on Earth did you learn this?”

You shoved an orange plastic straw into your mason jar that was both foamy from the sprite and beer can you’d dumped in along with a hefty scoop of ice cream. 

You were yet to be sick of ice cream.

You swirled your straw, eyeing it suspiciously as Sukuna had already spooned half of it down.

“Lots of free time,” he smirked, a line of frothy ice cream above his upper lip.

You grimaced, tossing a napkin at him and taking a sip.

You were a little pissed off that you liked it.

“Aren’t these called dirty root beer floats?” You quirked with an emphasis, metal spoon churning the thick cream. You pulled your knee up to your chest, resting your chin against the cap.

He shrugged, adjusting in his seat and reaching a long armover to the fridge. He propped it open, grabbing himself yet another can of beer to guzzle down.

You could only watch in awe at his bottomless pit of a stomach.

Pushing away your glass, you folded your arms over your knee and leaned forward. “Are you an orphan?”

He side-eyed you mid-sip, surprised at your sudden and blunt inquiry, bringing the can down just to crush it with his hand. “What’s it to you?”

You tilted your head, before retreating. “Nothing. Just curious.”

“Stop poking your nose where it ain’t belong,” he scoffed, pushing up from his seat and tossing the mutilated can into the sink.

Your nose scrunched, knowing you’d yet again managed to cross unmarked territory. Your time here was short, and though Sukuna simply seemed to be a hostile and reticent guy, you felt like there was more to him somehow. It was naive to think he’d care to express it, though. You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone more closed off than him.

There was something stewing beneath the surface of his hardened demeanor you couldn’t place.

But that was coming from a woman with forever bubbling emotions that seemed to simmer indefinitely.

You hated small talk—you’d never been able to stomach it. The feigned smiles and comments about weather or formal confabulation. You’d sworn against it after your divorce, severing most ties with a family that indulged in table talk and pleasantries.

His footfalls disappeared into his room and you huffed, peering out the window and feeling a sense of frustration, a moon-struck madness cast upon you.

Until he returned to the kitchen just moments later, a box in his hand that you’d become quite familiar with.

He got to one knee before you, resting your foot atop his muscled thigh as he undressed your ankle.

You pretended not to twitch when his calloused fingers grazed your bare skin, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You didn’t know an ankle could be so ticklish.

“My parents,” he started, nearly mumbling under his breath. “Killed a real long time ago.”

You quirked a brow, something you couldn’t decipher lurching in your chest as you shuffled in your seat.

“Joined the army with my brother. Half-brother. We got into some argument, way back, n’ I haven’t seen him since. Just left him on some mission and never turned back.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching Sukuna’s hands still near your ankle as those tightly etched lines on his face only dug deeper, as if the only expression he could reserve was a scowl.

You inhaled sharply, worried that you were treading on thin ice already. “What’s he like? Your brother.”

Sukuna scoffed. “My brother? Real arrogant bastard.” He placed an antiseptic wipe into his mouth just to tear it open with his canines. “Aggressive, unhinged.”

“Like you,” you quickly added with a tug of your lip.

Sukuna glanced up, a sarcastic grin coloring him before he leaned forward to flick your forehead, a gesture he’d gotten incredibly comfortable with executing.

“Ouch!” You yelped, hands flying to shield your forehead as Sukuna snickered under his breath. “The hell was that for?”

“For being a lil brat,” he jeered back, finishing up the dressing.

You slowly lowered your hands, resting them on your thighs and frowning.

“Been quite a few days now,” he started, effectively changing the subject, lowering your leg and peering up at you. “I’ll walk you down the main trail first thing. Had someone pick up my shift.”

You could feel your heart skip a beat, shuffling in your seat as you averted eye contact. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m totally healed and—.”

“If you complain too much, I'll just drag you by the ankle.”

Or in normal, non-Sukuna terms, he’ll carry you on his back like he did up the hill.

“But I-I,” you began to fumble over your words, perturbation spiking. “I haven’t completed my fill yet and cleaned enough—.”

He spoke your name curtly, a volume slightly raised above your own that it had you come to a halt in your rambles, heat warming your cheeks discomfitingly. “Tomorrow morning. Won’t say it again.”

A rock of desperation sat thick in your throat, feeling yourself develop a case of cottonmouth in real time as Sukuna retreated to his room for the evening. You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, biting the inside of your cheek.

To put it plainly—you didn’t want to leave.

You liked it here compared to your real life in the city. It was stupid to think that you could continue to mooch off of Sukuna by sleeping on his wearing and scruffy couch and cook him two meals and think he’d allowed you to stay.

But he’d done far more than enough. Opened his home to you and fed you and allowed you autonomy with nothing in return. 

You didn’t like being indebted, but you did like Sukuna’s shabby little nook in the forest.

Lamentably, your little vacation and respite had come to an end.

In all honesty, you probably could’ve walked down by day three. But you ignored your near-healed injury and deluded yourself into thinking this newfound peace was something you could continue to indulge in.

You plopped down on the couch, crossing your arms over your chest, eyes dialed in on his popcorn ceiling marked with water stains and dust.

It’d only been a few days, and though you hated how abrasive and standoffish Sukuna was, he was possibly the first person to really notice you.

His eyes didn’t rake over you and allow you to blend into the crowd. He treated you like a nuisance at times and your banter was practically never-ending, but you’d oddly found a sense of mutual understanding between each other.

Two people who felt abandoned by the real world.

You shut your eyes, dragging your hands over your face as you pulled the thin sheet over your head, attempting to shake off your plethora of emotions you didn’t have the energy to sort out.

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“Don’t even think about forgettin’ nothin’. I’m not coming all the way back up.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the rucksack on your back as you shuffled down the wooden steps. “I won’t. You got a switchblade I can borrow?”

Sukuna eyed you as you leaned over to tie your boots, your face shielded from him as your unnecessarily wide-brimmed hat flopped in the early morning haze. “Uh. No. You’re outta luck,” he murmured, shoving a hand into his jean pockets and glancing down the hill.

You looked up at him from the ground, unable to hide your blatant surprise. “You’re kidding. A lumberjack doesn’t own a blade?”

He just shrugged, averting his gaze and narrowing his eyes. “We gonna get goin’ or what?”

You scowled, hopping to your feet and dusting your knees off. “Wow. You really have mastered the art of deflection,” you taunted, walking past him just to nudge his arm.

He flinched at the contact, watching you pad down the trail with a permanent scowl, the ink on his face contorting with each antagonized expression.

“So,” you called out minutes later, only a few feet behind him as he’d overtaken your slow pace easily. You didn’t even try to keep up with his long strides, as if he couldn’t get rid of you any quicker. “What’s the plan if we’re cornered by a pack of mutts again?”

Sukuna only ignored you, but you could see his irritation light up in the way his fingers flexed at his sides.

Just the sound of your voice seemed to infuriate him sometimes.

You jogged up towards him, craning your head up and squinting against the harsh rays of the sun tethered high in the sky, her light filtered through flitting leaves. “No plan? Because a switch blade would be of some real relief—“

“Do you ever stop talking?”

You shrugged, undeterred. “You’ve asked me that before. You should know the answer.”

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“Are we almost thereeeee,” you whined out, hands hanging limp at your sides as you dragged your feet.

It felt like your muscles were on fire, tensing with each movement and flaring as your exhaustion only roared on.

“Nope.” 

Sukuna was at your side now, irritated that you kept falling too far behind and resigning to your slow tempo. 

You continued to huff and puff and bitch and moan, but as much as Sukuna hated to hear your grievances, he also enjoyed seeing you suffer in the afternoon heat.

Sweat beaded across your browline and down your spine, your top clinging to the perspiration. Your eyes hung low, as if you could pass out any moment from heat stroke and your throat had gone dry after chugging all of your water.

Sukuna on the other hand? The guy was in tip-top shape. And it drove you mad. His stamina was one to rival a wolf with.

“C-can’t we take a break?” You groaned out of breath.

Sukuna let out consecutive tsks, watching as your rucksack made you hunch over like you were about to topple a stack of dominoes. “Now how could we when we’re so close.”

You shot him a glare. “You literally just said we weren’t close.”

“Heats’ got me hallucinating,” he sarcastically defended, arching a brow at you with a sharp grin.

You opened your mouth to call him a slew of curses that equated him as crass and crazy, when your foot stalled.

You gasped, effectively tripping over your own foot as you stepped on your undrawn shoe lace, arms flying forward.

Sukuna’s eyes bulged, arms instinctively reaching forward and stepping in front of you.

And as clumsy as you were, your foot caught the back of his, pushing him backwards, your hands smacking against his chest.

You both fell with a timber-like thud, crashing into a pile of brush. You could hear Sukuna wince and grunt as he broke your fall. 

His massive hands were around your waist, your face stuffed into the crook of his neck and accidentally taking in his scent—cigarettes and a woody musk so undeniably him.

The two of you were still for a moment—could’ve been mere seconds, could’ve been minutes—until you inhaled sharply and pushed off of him, falling to the side with an unceremonious thunk!

Sukuna stared at the sky, arms flopped to his sides lazily as you scrambled over words, heat rising from your nape all the way to the crown of your ears. “I- Sorry I didn’t mean to—,” you stopped yourself, eyes fixing on his palm.

He seemed to have sliced it open against brush, a bleeding wound the size of your pinky across the front of his hand.

“Oh my god, your hand,” you gasped, fingers reaching out to smooth a finger near the broken skin, but Sukuna seemed to beat you to the punch.

He sat up quickly, tugging his hand away from you like you’d burn him if you came into contact and getting to his feet. “Christ, woman. I’m fine.”

You furrowed your brows, swallowing a thick lump of contrite lodged in your throat. “Are you sure? Your hand looked—.”

“We going or what?” He interrupted, a deep contempt and frustration brewing on his face, like he’d tasted coffee somehow even more bitter than his regular order.

He scoffed at your momentary silence and picked up his pace down the path, fingers flexing at his side again.

You bit your lip, scrambling to your feet and hurrying after him.

Though, you made sure to never fall too far behind this time, just a few paces behind him.

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

For the duration of what was left, you kept your gaze lowered on the floor before you, occasionally kicking a pebble and watching it scurry away.

Sukuna kept his pace manageable. But he didn’t utter a word to you.

The tension was more than palpable—like a thick, tempestuous cloud hanging over the both of you that neither of you dared to acknowledge.

Your heart never really slowed to a resting pace—whether that be from another unbridled argument with Sukuna or the exertion of the walk. You didn’t dare attempt to decipher which possibility it may be.

You picked at the skin around your nails, feeling like a little kid who’d gotten in trouble and blindly followed their parents around.

Thankfully, this was the last you’d be seeing of him. No more stifling arguments that left your skin flaring.

“My truck is just down the road.” Sukuna suddenly broke the silence, his pace coming to a stop.

“What?” You squeaked out immediately, peering up at him from the rim of your hat.

He gave you a strange look, cocking his head to the side reluctantly. “Uh, we’re here. I wouldn’t mind giving you a lift back to—.”

“No!” You interrupted, shaking your hands in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed how long the two of you had been walking, the rushing sound of cars from a nearby freeway augmenting your senses.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes, gaze dancing across you. If you were any less lucid, you could’ve sworn you’d seen remorse coloring him.

“I’ve got it figured out from here. Thanks, Sukuna,” you breathed out slowly, a wide smile across your cheeks that pinched the skin uncomfortably.

He couldn’t shake off the odd feeling churning in his chest, coughing it away and averting his gaze with his hands planted on his hips. “Suit yourself.”

You glanced at the open road, just past it was a gas station where you’d be able to rest before calling for a ride.

“I’d say see you around but we both know how unlikely that is,” you admitted with a dry laugh, goosebumps littering your body in a cold sweat.

He side-eyed you, jaw clenched as he mulled over something in silence.

But you could barely take it anymore.

“Goodbye, Sukuna,” you whispered, any louder and it wouldn’t be a promise.

He brought a hand over his hat, before bowing his head, real lumberjack-like.

“Bye, city girl.”

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

You nearly passed out at the rest stop, chugging three bottles of water and splashing your face in the restroom before plopping on one of those window seats.

The cup of ramen you downed had your head lolling, belly satiated and brain fuzzy as you waited for your phone to charge up.

Halfway through day three with Sukuna, your phone had died and you didn’t care to charge it.

Not like you could anyway. You didn’t bring a charger and Sukuna had a phone at least several generations behind with a cracked screen. You wondered if he even cared to use it.

Your phone buzzed on and, lo and behold, fifteen missed calls and twenty texts ranging from your boss to your colleagues.

And one missed call from your mother.

Great.

You skimmed your fingers through your hair, ordering an uber. Truthfully, you didn’t want to deal with any of this until you slept for ten hours minimum but you didn’t have the luxury to ignore all of your issues as much as you’d like to.

So you hopped from your seat and rolled your shoulder, dragging your feet to your rideshare.

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“Look who decided to show up.”

You rolled your eyes at your peach-skinned boss, stepping into the shabby building with flickering neon logo lights nestled between a 24-hour convenience shop and a hole-in-the-wall bar and karaoke.

“I already texted you and called to apologize. Please don’t make my migraine worse,” you shot back, rolling your neck as exhaustion still seemed to plague you. You plopped down on the weathered couch, the familiar sinking feeling having you toss your head back and groan. “Is Shoko out on a run?”

She padded over to you, half of her face shielded from the milky braid she was so adamant on wearing all of the time. To be quite frank, you didn’t know what the other side of her face even looked like. Which was odd for the duration you’d worked under her. “She’ll be back in a few. You do understand these are grounds to fire you, yes?”

“My god, Mei Mei. We both know you’re not going to do that,” you sighed, feeling like there were bare canines skimming over your nape, any harder and they make break your irritated skin. “Take three days out of my pay. Happy?”

She bristled, turning on her heel and leaning against her desk. “She was worried sick,” she started, tone flat and monotonous. “Filed a missing persons report and everything.”

You bit your lip, eyes dialed in on the chipped rim across the room beside the grey and lifeless metal lockers. “You sure you weren’t worried sick?” You attempted to break the tension, though you knew the answer.

She scoffed incredulously. “I was. Worried that I’d somehow have to find someone as competent as you looking to be a modern day scullery maid,” she sighed out, peeling documents from her desk to skim over.

You huffed, grabbing your bag and shoving up from your seat to rake through your locker. “When’s the next service?”

“45 minutes from now. Rest up, it’ll be some back breaking work.”

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

She wasn’t kidding.

Your first day back on the job after your accidental get-away was to some dilapidated house on the edge of town. Some affluent couple with too much free time decided to delve into flipping-culture, enter your cleaning company to fix up the place before they got to work on the infrastructure and furnishing.

For the following five hours, you scrubbed, brushed, mopped, sponged, wiped, squeegeed, buffed, shined, and polished the place until every limb of yours nearly gave out.

Shoko didn’t mind keeping close company the entire time, scolding your ear off and pinching you.

“Do you know how awkward it was to call your mother? Do you?” She huffed between scrapes of the bathroom tub, removing the age old grime. “She said you’d probably gone on some bender after—.” She halted herself mid-conversation, worrying her lip between her teeth.

You glanced over your shoulder with knitted brows, hand stilling against the mirror. “After what?”

Shoko bit the inside of her cheek, slowly continuing her movements like she was inconspicuous, regretting ever uttering a word.

“Sho. What are you talking about?”

She slowly turned to meet your gaze, a sheepish smile on her lips. “Naoya sent her an invitation, too.”

Your mouth hung open, the rag in your hand effectively falling into the sink. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” you cursed under your breath, snapping your gloves off. “Of course he fucking did.”

You pulled your phone from your pocket and hurried out of the bathroom, striding into some empty bedroom littered with old couches draped in plastic, heavy drapes shielding any source of light.

The only illumination in the room was your phone, lighting up your face as you frantically searched for her extremely buried contact and hit the call button.

You folded your arms, leg bouncing as you heard the line buzz, before it clicked on.

“Mom! Hi, I just saw your message—.”

“Where on Earth have you been?”

You froze, nails digging into your biceps. “Let me explain, o-over dinner. Tonight?”

You could hear her sigh on the other side, voice nothing but crestfallen. You could imagine her lounging in the living room, legs folded while she perused whatever tabloid she could find around the house resting in her lap, phone pressed to her ear. 

All while wondering what she’d done to deserve a daughter like you.

“I have plans. I’m just trying to understand why I could not reach you.”

You swallowed thickly. “I went for a hike, mom. I got lost and—.”

“Is it because of Naoya? Did the wedding invite bother you?”

And God, did you hate how she just knew these things. How could she be so certain and understanding but lacking any sort of sympathy for you?

”No one wants to see a wedding invite from their ex-husband,” you tersely stated, knuckles whitening against the tight grip on your device. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not going.”

You couldn’t mask your dejection.

“Like hell you aren’t. The Zenin’s invited us, and so God help me if we aren’t in attendance. Especially after all they’ve done for us,” she firmly spoke, skimming her fingers through her wiry hair.

Even after your divorce, the Zenins still offered to take care of your family. You’d turned down their hush money since the start, ensuring you wouldn’t spread the fine details of your muddled relationship, but your mother enjoyed her early retirement and stuffing her pockets. 

You gritted your teeth, your discomfort only manifesting into blinding anger. Your lips tightened upwards and curled inwards, wrinkles littering the crease in your forehead. You wanted to scream at your mother, incoherent and inconsolable until you couldn’t anymore.

The relationship you held with your mother was too violent for tears. A woman who’d clipped the wings of her offspring and watched her stumble clumsily, never offering a hand to ground her. Built upon your own wreckage. Swallowing the words you so wished you could utter.

She hadn’t been your mother in a long time, really. 

You don’t know when it happened. Maybe when she’d haggled you for your too-short skirt when you were thirteen and barely growing into yourself. 

Maybe it was when you’d gotten accepted into your dream college and she could barely display an ounce of pride.

Maybe it was before you’d walked down the aisle, expressing your worries of having a small wedding that she only silenced you with a tut of her tongue.

Maybe it was after your father passed. Her blinded by grief and rage brought upon you like a monsoon, shoving you and gutting you beneath the tide.

Maybe it was when you told her you couldn’t bear children, not after trying for months and your husband's tone only becoming more and more clipped with each passing moment. 

Maybe it was when you’d come to her at four in the morning, crying when you’d found evidence of his infidelity and she’d only given you that same blank stare she wore, telling you that every man slips up and to turn a blind eye.

You hadn’t understood the severity of the situation you were in until it was too late. Marrying a man who so desperately wanted to continue his lineage.

And when he couldn’t? He’d just find it elsewhere.

Who said you didn’t want that as well? A child to call your own. A pathetic part of you thought this marriage would save you—sweep you out from under your feet and carry you to a higher standing. 

You thought that after all those years of gutted self-esteem, that a lavish white wedding would slap a bandaid on it.

It was pitiful. 

But what hurt the most was that you had no one on your side. Not your mother, not your father, not even a lover. No one to stand beside you when it all felt like it was tumbling down.

You wiped the vain tears from your cheeks, clearing your throat as you chose not to resign to your emotions, a tactic you’d taught yourself. “Okay, mom.”

You hung up, ignoring her calls of protest on the other line.

There was really no arguing with her, you saw no point in it.

You still had time before the wedding, enough time to build yourself up to someone untouchable by their comments. Comments not just from the Zenin family, but from your own kin.

You shoved your phone into your pocket, sniffling and blinking back the last of your tears.

No use in crying over it now.

Padding back into the bathroom, you watched Shoko spray away the suds she’d worked up. “Hey, I was gonna ask. What was the name of the guy you stayed with?” She queried, wiping her forearm against her forehead.

You averted her gaze, focusing on the sink you needed to bleach. “Sukuna.”

She chuckled to herself, making an ‘ouhhhh’ sound that you smacked her for, drawing a cigarette from her pocket and thumbing the sparkwheel.

No matter your protests, she assumed that this mystery man was your secret lover.

You snagged the lighter from her before she could get a chance to light it.

“Hey! I was using that,” she pouted, lower lip jutting as she frowned.

“Uh huh. No smoking indoors and on the job. Do you want to lose your job?” 

She scoffed, snagging the lighter back. “Funny coming from you. Smoke detectors were turned off for cleaning and repairs.”

You huffed, snapping a new set of gloves on.

The sound of fire kindling had your stomach lurching, sent into a volley of somersaults. 

The smell was even worse.

Of course she had to be smoking Marlboro Reds.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 || 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝 ||

A/n: Had to write dad!Spencer ( cause I'm rewatching Criminal Minds )

The BAU bullpen was unusually quiet for a Wednesday morning—that is, until Spencer Reid strolled in carrying a diaper bag over one shoulder and his nine-month-old daughter perched on his hip.

Her fine curls bounced with each step, her big brown eyes wide with wonder as she looked around the open space. Her pink socks kept slipping off her chubby feet, and Spencer kept one hand firmly under her bottom, the other occasionally adjusting the strap of the bag threatening to fall off his shoulder.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he cooed softly, settling her on a blanket on the floor beside his desk. “Today’s the day. We’re going to say your first word, okay? And it’s going to be data or daddy or mama because I don't want to sleep on the couch.”

You let out a snort placing a kiss to Spencers temple before running through your daughter's curls. "Mama would never do that."

She responded with a delighted giggle grasping your fingers before reaching for one of the colorful stacking cups he brought with them. Spencer sat cross-legged in front of her, voice soft and encouraging as he repeated slowly, “Da-da. Daaaaa-da.”

His daughter squealed in amusement, kicked her feet, then shoved the cup directly into her mouth.

Spencer sighed, amused but determined. “You’re going to be a prodigy and start talking early, I can feel it. You’ve already got 21 teethers. You’re statistically advanced.”

Just then, his phone buzzed. He stood reluctantly. “Stay right there. I’m just going to grab your bottle from the fridge.”

No sooner had Spencer disappeared into the small kitchenette than Derek Morgan sauntered into the bullpen, grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, well, well,” he chuckled, kneeling in front of the baby with exaggerated charm. “A little Reid in the wild. You’ve got those chubby cheeks and big eyes—ain’t no way you’re not already trouble.”

She blinked up at him, lips shiny with drool, then reached out toward him.

Derek leaned in, tapping her nose lightly with one finger. “You know what name you should say first, princess? Derek. Come on now, say it with me. De-rek. De-rek.”

She stared intently.

He smiled wider. “Come on, you got this, baby girl. Derek.”

The moment Spencer’s footsteps echoed from the hallway, Derek jumped to his feet and power-walked away, casually whistling and definitely not looking guilty, your lips twitching into a smile as you pulled out your phone to film what is about to happen.

Spencer stepped back into the room just in time to see his daughter light up—hands flailing, legs kicking against the soft blanket—as she opened her mouth and let out a triumphant:

“Deh-wek!!”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Spencer froze. “…What?”

His daughter clapped her hands together and squealed again: “Deh-wek!”

He stared at her in betrayed disbelief. “No. No, no, no. You did not just say Derek.”

She giggled in delight, proud of herself.

Spencer scooped her up, aghast. “I have read to you every night since birth. I say ‘Dada’ fifteen times a day. And your first word is Derek?!”

From across the office, Derek’s triumphant laugh echoed. “Genius daughter, genius taste!”

Spencer shot out of the bullpen, baby safely on her blanket with a flustered rage on his face. “Morgan! You sabotaged me!”

The baby squealed with glee on her blanket, grabbing a fistful of the soft fabric as Spencer stormed after his best friend.

At your desk, still filming, you nearly fell out of your chair laughing, clutching your side as you watched Spencer chase Morgan down as you went to pick up your daughter babbling, “Deh-wek! Deh-wek!” In your arms.

“Guess we know who the favorite is,” Garcia chimed from beside you, sipping her coffee with a smirk.

You grinned and shook your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m definitely saving this for her baby book.”

Spencer dashed past in hot pursuit of Derek, his voice echoing through the bullpen:

“You planted that word in her head! That was premeditated speech sabotage, Morgan!”

Derek’s laughter could be heard bouncing off the walls as he jogged backward down the hall. “Don’t hate the player, Pretty Boy! Hate the game!”

Your daughter squealed in your arms, kicking her legs and proudly chanting, “Deh-wek! Deh-wek!”

You grinned, resting her against your hip as you gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a little traitor, you know that?”

She clapped, drool dripping down her chin. “Deh-wek!”

You started to turn back toward Spencer’s desk when the elevator dinged and opened smoothly.

Out stepped Aaron Hotchner, immaculately dressed in his usual dark suit, briefing folder in one hand, phone in the other. He barely got two steps into the chaos before his eyes took in the scene:

—Derek sprinting past him, laughing like a man who had just won a lifelong bet.

—Spencer right on his heels, baby wipes falling out of his back pocket as he shouted, “SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO SAY DADA!”

—You holding the baby like a football as she cheered them both on with delighted cries of “DEH-WEK!”

Aaron stopped.

Paused.

Blinked.

You met his eyes with a calm smile. “Morning, Hotch.”

Your daughter waved at him. “Deh-wek!”

Aaron exhaled, turned slowly on his heel, and without a word, stepped back into the elevator.

As the doors began to close, you could swear you heard him mutter a resigned, “Nope.”

You adjusted your daughter on your hip, chuckling. “Welcome to Take Your Kid to Work Day, sweetheart.”

[turtiowo]

Now I’m going to talk a little about my 'Everything Went Wrong AU.' SVSSS

▪︎Shen Yuan is an orphan. He becomes Shen Jiu’s disciple at a young age. He’s the senior brother to all the other disciples.

▪︎At first, Shen Yuan doesn’t have a surname. Shen Jiu gives him the surname 'Shen,' which causes quite a stir and surprise among the other elders.

▪︎Shen Yuan initially sees Shen Jiu as just a villain, but over time, he warms up to him. He genuinely starts wanting to save him.

▪︎Before Binghe shows up, Shen Jiu is strict and cold, but overall, he’s rational.

▪︎Shen Yuan becomes Shen Jiu’s favorite disciple — of course, a must-have in this AU. However, Shen Yuan doesn’t really realize how much Shen Jiu loves him because for a long time, he interprets Shen Jiu as a womanizing villain. He thinks their good relationship comes from years of shared effort. And while that does play a big part, Shen Jiu starts to truly love Shen Yuan for being who he is — for genuinely caring about him.

▪︎As soon as Binghe appears, Shen Yuan shows curiosity and interest in him. Shen Jiu instantly notices that Shen Yuan looks at Binghe differently from others, and for that reason alone, Shen Jiu immediately hates Binghe.

▪︎Binghe seeks Shen Yuan’s affection and protection, always wanting to stay close to him. Shen Yuan treats Binghe more favorably because, in his eyes, Binghe is the main character. This slowly drives Shen Jiu mad.

▪︎Of course, Binghe realizes Shen Jiu hates him, but there’s nothing he can do about it at that point since he’s still weak. Shen Jiu, on the other hand, can’t actually harm Binghe because he doesn’t want to look bad in Shen Yuan’s eyes. Instead, Shen Jiu does everything he can to prevent Shen Yuan from meeting with Binghe, especially giving Binghe the hardest tasks. Shen Yuan always tries to help Binghe somehow.

▪︎Binghe always believes that Shen Yuan cares most about Shen Jiu.

▪︎When Binghe’s demonic identity is revealed, Shen Jiu secretly feels relieved because now he has a reason to kill him. He thinks Shen Yuan wouldn’t love a demon anyway. But when Shen Yuan jumps into the abyss after Binghe, Shen Jiu experiences the shock and betrayal of his life. He completely snaps.

▪︎Later on, Binghe starts to believe that as long as Shen Jiu is alive, Shen Yuan will never love him. So, without Shen Yuan knowing (or so he thought), Binghe wants to kill Shen Jiu (the demonic sword is influencing him).

▪︎Shen Yuan realizes this and takes precautions. As soon as he escapes the abyss, he goes straight to Shen Jiu. This is when that scene I drew happens — the one where Shen Jiu bites Shen Yuan’s lip.

▪︎Shen Yuan proposes a marriage contract to Shen Jiu. (For those who don’t know, in some xianxia settings, cultivators can bind their lives together through a marriage contract — if one dies, so does the other.) Shen Yuan thinks that even if it’s just because of the contract, Binghe won’t be able to kill Shen Jiu.

▪︎Shen Jiu is overjoyed by this contract. In the end, he decides that Shen Yuan is his and that Shen Yuan will stay with him.

▪︎When Binghe finds out about Shen Yuan and Shen Jiu’s marriage contract, he is completely devastated. This is where the other scene I drew of Binghe takes place.

▪︎In this AU, Shen Yuan sees Binghe more like a younger brother. His feelings for Shen Jiu are much more complicated.

▪︎There’s also a scene where Shen Yuan sees Shen Jiu’s childhood and hugs him tightly in the room where Shen Jiu had been locked away.

That’s all I’m writing for now, because I’m feeling too lazy to continue at the moment.

[fangirlfuel]

Yours, Always

---

You were 14 when you became Franco Colapinto’s girlfriend.

But in truth, you had loved him long before then.

Franco was 16, the boy who spent every free moment on a racetrack but never once forgot to save a seat for you beside him.

You still remember the day he finally asked ,cheeks slightly flushed, voice a little nervous, as if your heart hadn’t been his all along.

"Are you sure?" he had asked, eyes searching yours.

You had laughed, reaching for his hand. "I’ve been sure since the day I met you."

And from that moment on, you made a silent promise:

To love him.

To support him.

To be his safe place, always.

---

Seven Years Later ?

Nothing changed.

Not when Franco’s name started appearing in headlines. Not when his life turned into a blur of airports, podiums, and roaring engines.

Because you never let him feel alone.

Every morning, before he even opened his eyes, there was a text waiting for him:

"Buenos días, mi amor. Today is yours."

Before every race, you called, no matter the time difference. "Drive safe, my love. You’re already the best in my eyes."

And whenever he came home, exhausted, drained from the pressure of the world, your arms were the first thing he fell into.

"Rest now, mi vida," you whispered, fingers carding through his hair.

And he did. Because you were home.

---

You knew Franco better than anyone.

You knew the exact way he liked his coffee, two sugars, just a little milk.

You remembered his favorite songs and hummed them absentmindedly, making him smile.

You always packed a little note in his suitcase before he left, something simple, something that made him feel loved.

Once, Franco fell sick while away for a race.

"I’m fine, amor," he insisted over the phone, his voice weak. "Just tired."

You didn’t believe him for a second.

Within an hour, his hotel room door opened to a delivery, his favorite tea, vitamins, and a handwritten note that simply read:

"Sleep well, mi vida. I’m with you, even from here."

And when he finally came home, still a little tired, you spoiled him like he did for you.

"Lay down," you instructed, fluffing the pillows as he sighed dramatically.

"I should get sick more often," he teased, watching as you tucked the blanket around him.

You rolled your eyes, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. "Just let me take care of you for once."

His fingers found yours, squeezing gently. "You always do."

And your heart melted all over again.

---

Six years together, and you never once doubted him. Not once did Franco make you feel second place to racing, to his dreams.

One night, as you lay curled up in bed, tracing slow patterns on his skin, you whispered, "Are you ever scared?"

Franco turned his head toward you. "Of what, mi amor?"

You hesitated. "That one day… we’ll change?"

He frowned slightly, his fingers stilling. Then, with quiet certainty, he whispered:

"You could put me in any lifetime, any world, and I’d still find my way back to you."

Tears stung your eyes.

You pulled him closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. "I love you, Franco."

His arms wrapped around you, strong, steady, endless. "I love you more, mi vida."

And as you lay together, warm and safe, you knew....

You would love him forever.

.

[dc-jxsontxdd]

Thinking about Dating Jason Todd as Robin. How he's absolutely in love like a teenage boy. Plans your wedding in his head, thinking of the gifts he wants to get you now he has disposable Wayne money. I mean boy is obsessed with you. being with him feels straight out of the romance novels he reads to you (he also underlines the parts that remind him of you).

He's attentive, understanding, perhaps a bit cocky but he is the boy wonder, so he can get away with it.

You're his favorite topic of conversation. Praising, adoring, and pride radiates out of him purely from hearing the sound of your name.

He gives you a promise ring maybe 6 months in because he's that sort of crazy. Any of your gifts are stored in a safe place or tucked in his pocket for good luck. He definitely has pictures of u in his wallet.

Jason wants nothing more than to be your prince in shining armor.

Thinking about Dating Jason Todd post resurrection. He's seen and did things he couldn't possibly speak out loud fully. He's been dead and resurrected, that's not something someone gets over easily. He's quieter now. He used to be someone who took up as much space as he could. Who would fill the room with chatter and laughter.

Now it's different. Not worse. Not better. Different.

On the nights you two can spend together are filled with whispers and soft touches. The comfortable silence is something he admires. A contrast to the noise that lives in his mind.

If Jason was ever insecure he is more now than ever. You can tell from the way he holds you in his arms that he's scared you'll disappear. He's been through loss, he's been through death, but on the other side has always been you.

He can think of no one else he'd go through life than with you. Jason is not a people person, he's not even really a relationship person, but despite that he can't ignore how his heart aches when he's been away from you for too long. He can feel himself get antsy when he doesn't have at least some form a physical touch with you. Jason, despite being large and muscular, runs cold. A side effect of being dead, something that the lazurus pit wasn't able to fully heal. It's triggering for him, the warmth of your bodies held together grounds him better.

He wonders what he ever did to deserve this. To deserve you in both of his life times

Jason wants nothing more to be your knight and protector

A/n : this was written sm better but the draft didn't save lmao

[moonchild9350]

For A Kiss

summary: mornings with Felix are your favorite.

pairing: Felix x gn!reader

genre: fluff

wc: 1.0k

warnings: none

notes: i love this photoshoot with sunshine boy :)

please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2025)

Masterlist

You loved early mornings, the kind where the sun is beginning to peak out from the clouds, the sun rises bathing the sky in hues of yellow and orange. The air is cool and crisp, comfortable before the heat of the day. It was one of these mornings and you had a coffee cup in hand and your book in another, savoring these quiet moments before the rest of the world wakes up.

The birds are chirping, scattering to and fro as they catch their breakfast. A bunny scampers across the grass, stopping every now and then to pick at the ground, in search of something only it knows. Your eyes scan the page in front of you and your find yourself feeling excited, the feeling rising in your chest as the protagonist makes a stand; a development you’ve been waiting for for over one hundred pages.

Bringing your mug to your lips, you take a sip of coffee, a smile slowly gracing your face as what you’ve been waiting on finally makes place. Just a little more…just…a…little…

Pop

You startle in your seat at the cold liquid that just popped in your face. Recoiling in disgust, your hand reaches up to drag a finger through the sticky goo. Bubble residue. That could only mean one thing.

“Felix!” You shout playfully, turning to see your boyfriend in a fit of giggles, holding a large bubble wand in his hand.

“Gotcha baby!” He exclaims, reaching over to brush some of the residue off of your face.

“You did but now I have to start this page over,” you whine. “Lola was just about to stand up to Victor!”

Felix eyes you with amusement, tickled that you’re so caught up in your book. He loves when you get like that, stuck in the pages of your story, letting your imagination soar.

“Well, get back to Lola and Victor, I’ll be here…all alone,” he replies with a pout.

You giggle at his hysterics, finding his pout and shining eyes adorable. His freckles are more prominent today, as his skin is sun kissed after spending the last few days outside with you. You narrow your eyes at him in which he stares at you in confusion in turn.

“Did you put sunscreen on?” You asked, wanting to make sure he did as he loves to forget that he has to protect his fragile skin from turning into a tomato.

“Of course baby!”

You chuckle and watch as he turns in his chair leaving you to your reading. Settling in, you begin to read, easily getting lost in the words that breeze by. The anticipation builds once more, slowly, creeping up like a predator stalking its prey until finally Lola tells Victor to….

Pop Pop

You snap your head around to glare at Felix. More sticky residue coats your cheek and one more bubble that survived still floats in front of your face. You reach a finger up and stab it through the multicolor blob, smirking when it gives a satisfying pop. Felix just stares at you with big eyes, his hands frozen in mid air as if he was about to let out another round.

“Felix!” You shriek and he lets out a yelp as he tries to hurriedly screw the cap back on the bubbles.

You quickly set your mug and book down and tackle the man, your hands tickling him wherever they land. You giggle as Felix lets out a loud laugh, his hands trying to stop you from attacking the bits of skin that are now showing. Before he can react, you trap his hands against his head and straddle his legs, smiling down at your boyfriend triumphantly.

“Gotcha,” you say with a smirk and you chuckle as you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.

“I’m sorry baby,” he pleads, jutting out his bottom lip, but this won’t save him now.

“Na uh, pouting won’t do. I’ll forgive you for a kiss.”

Felix considers your offer, pretending to think long and hard about it. He smoothly laces his fingers with yours and stares into your eyes causing your breath to hitch. Your eyes roam his face, taking in each freckle that’s there, to his pouty, heart shaped lips. Your heart feels like it will explode as he continues to stare at you with such love in his eyes.

“Okay, kiss me,” he murmurs, finally making his decision.

You smirk before pressing your lips to his, sighing at the familiar plushiness that takes your breath away every time. You begin to pull away, but Felix unlaces his hand with yours and holds you close as he slots his lips with yours once more. It’s sloppy, yet precise, the kind of kiss that brings you to your knees and the thought causes you to let out a whimper.

Felix grins against your lips and gently nips at them before letting you go. “There, I’m forgiven.”

You merely nod your head, feeling dazed and flushed, the feeling you only get when you’re with your boyfriend. You shuffle to get off of him and make your way back to your seat. You lay back in silence, your focus distracted, so much so you don’t see that Felix is now standing in front of you.

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you startle, shaken out of your reverie.

“Now that you’re done thinking about how great of a kisser I am, come blow bubbles with me,” he says, handing you a spare package.

Grabbing it, you get up and follow him aways from your seats. You can hear Felix pumping himself up, mumbling to himself about how he’s going to win. However, at the word, you let a mischievous grin grace your face and you jog to catch up to your lover.

“You’re on bubble boy,” you tease, snickering at the hysterics pouring out of his mouth as you run away.

Yes, you definitely love these mornings best of all.

divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @armystay89 @palindrome969 @ivydoesit23 @slut4hee @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @my-neurodivergent-world @velvetmoonlght @possum-playground @katsukis1wife @hanniebaeee @hwanghyunjinismybae @channiesrightasscheek @skzdreamer13 @lezleeferguson-120 @hwangjoanna @hyunjincanraptoo

[queenbrucewayne]

Gotham Regular

Summary In Gotham, you’ve settled into a quiet routine working at a local coffee shop, where a mysterious regular—Bruce Wayne—has become a familiar face.

Gotham had its crime, its crooked politicians, and a police force riddled with corruption. But beneath it all, there were moments of beauty. The sunsets over the river bridge. The kids’ park just outside the city. And, perhaps most surprisingly, one of the best children’s hospitals in the country — thanks to the Wayne Foundation.

The city had character. And the people? Loyal to what good was left. That was why you stayed. For all its flaws, Gotham was still home.

Working at the small coffee shop beneath your studio apartment didn’t hurt either. Mornings were easy. Commutes even easier. And your coworkers — including your boss — made it all feel familiar. Whether the day was good or bad, you always started and ended in a place that felt right.

Two years in, you had a steady stream of regulars. Some were forgettable. Others, more memorable. But your favorite was a surprise.

You first saw him on a random Wednesday afternoon. The shop was empty, just the sound of your mop scraping against the floor and the occasional hum of the espresso machine. He walked in, hurriedly, phone pressed to his ear, wallet already out. He looked like he was late for something important.

“Hi, uh. Large black coffee,” he said, distracted.

You raised an eyebrow when he opened his wallet — a thick stack of hundreds.

“Is that all, sir?” you asked, trying not to stare.

“Lucius, I told you, I’m not signing it,” he muttered into the phone. “I’ll say it again if I have to. Just—yes, fine, thank you.”

He gave a half-smile, distracted, and slid his phone back to his ear.

You didn’t hesitate. Quickly, you poured the coffee, placing it in a to-go cup without asking. You even added a little smiley face next to the name: Wayne.

“$3.17,” you said, setting the cup down.

He slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter and grabbed his coffee in the other hand.

“Wait! Sir — your change!” you called after him.

He glanced back, raising the cup in a half-toast. “Keep it,” he said, then disappeared out the door.

You stared at the bill for a moment, holding it up to the light. Real. Definitely real.

When you told your boss later, she laughed and said, “Enjoy it. Probably won’t happen again. Bruce Wayne doesn’t come around here often.”

But he did. Every Wednesday. Same time. Same routine.

Some weeks, he was in and out with barely a word. Other times, he'd stay long enough to chat. Your coworkers teased you about it, claiming that you were the reason he came. Your boss joked that it’d be bad luck if anyone else served him.

After that first encounter, you tried returning his overpayment. At first politely, then more insistently. He always pretended not to hear you.

Two years later, you hadn’t seen him miss a Wednesday.

Except, today was different.

It was nearly 2 p.m., and Bruce hadn’t shown. This would be the first Wednesday in two years that he hadn’t come. You tried to push the disappointment aside, but it lingered.

“Your boyfriend not coming today?” your coworker teased, as she cleaned a tray.

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. “He’s not my boyfriend. And no, not yet.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he found a new favorite spot.”

You let the thought slip away, though part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he had. Two years of routine, and no word of any change? It felt… disheartening.

As the shop emptied and the minutes ticked by, you made your way through the closing routine. By 5:30, the place was empty, save for a few last customers hunched over their laptops.

You were putting away the last of the mugs when the doorbell chimed.

You looked up, frozen for a moment.

It was Bruce.

He looked… worn. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck. His hair was wild, and his blazer hung open. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days — maybe longer.

Tired didn’t even cover it.

He made his way to the counter, pulling out his wallet as if it were the last thing he wanted to do.

You already had his coffee ready. You slid the cup across the counter before he had the chance to ask for it.

He reached for his cash, but before he could pull it out, you placed your hand over his.

“It’s on the house,” you said softly, meeting his eyes. “We’re about to close, and you look like you could use it.”

He blinked, caught off guard, before he put the money away and gave you a weary smile.

“That bad, huh?”

You shrugged. “You look good, but I swear you haven’t slept in days.”

He hesitated, coffee cup halfway to his lips. “Only two.”

“Bruce!” You couldn’t help it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Things have been... busy.”

“Maybe I should’ve given you decaf,” you teased.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“Bad customer service.”

“And drinking coffee with no sleep is bad health.”

That made him laugh — a soft, genuine sound. For a second, you could almost forget how exhausted he looked.

“So,” you asked, turning to finish cleaning up. “Why the late coffee?”

“Just meetings. The usual. Nothing exciting,” he said, glancing around the empty shop. It felt odd, having him here when everyone else had left.

He paused for a long moment, and then his eyes locked onto yours. “Should I still be here?” he asked, voice soft but carrying a weight you hadn’t expected.

You shrugged, walking over to switch off the open sign. “I don’t mind. I’m almost done.”

Bruce seemed to consider this for a moment, then moved to help you with the chairs, placing them up on the tables.

“You’re just going to let me stay here after hours?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge of something — doubt, maybe?

“You’re helping. I’m not complaining,” you said, and then you met his eyes. “But if you’re worried about me being alone with you, I don’t think you’d ever try to hurt me.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and then he simply nodded.

The shop was closed now. You grabbed your purse, ready to leave, but when you stepped outside, Bruce was still standing there, coffee in hand.

“See you next Wednesday?” you asked, trying to break the quiet tension that had crept in.

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on you. “Of course. I’ll try to be on time next week,” he said, but his eyes flicked to the street, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Actually…”

You frowned, curious. “What’s wrong?”

“Would you… maybe want to grab dinner before next Wednesday?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he echoed, clearly amused.

“No!” You shook your head, flustered. “I didn’t mean oh like that. I meant—” You rubbed your face. “Yes. Dinner. Yes.”

He smiled, his grin growing wider. “Great.” He pulled a napkin out of his pocket and handed it to you.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously. You took the napkin and scribbled your number before handing it back to him.

“Call or text. I’m up most nights, and... well, you know where to find me.”

“I do,” he said, his gaze lingering on you before he turned toward his car.

He made it halfway to the door when a sudden POP echoed through the street. A shot. Followed by several more.

You didn’t have time to react before Bruce grabbed you, pulling you down behind the car. His body pressed against yours, shielding you from the violence erupting on the street.

More gunshots. More screams. The screech of a car speeding by.

The window next to you shattered. Bruce’s arms tightened around you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair, his body an immovable shield.

When the noise finally faded, he slowly pulled his head away, his hand moving to your chin to lift your face.

His eyes searched yours, intense with concern. “Are you hurt?” His voice was tight, low.

You shook your head, still trembling.

He didn’t let go. “I need you to tell me,” he said. Calm, but firm.

You stared at him for a beat, breath catching in your throat.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Only then did he let out a breath of his own.

Bruce stood up first, his gaze scanning the street cautiously over the car. The sound of the gunfire had faded, but the tension was still thick in the air. He wasn’t taking any chances. When he deemed it clear, he extended his hand to help you up, his grip firm but gentle.

You hesitated for a moment before taking it, steadying yourself.

Once you were on your feet, he didn’t let go of your hand immediately. His eyes swept over you one last time, making sure you were unharmed. When you nodded, giving him a reassuring glance, he let go and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Stay right here,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent, as he quickly tapped away at the screen. His attention was completely on the device, a flash of worry still evident in his expression.

Bruce took a few steps away from you, dialing a number on his phone. His voice was low and controlled, but the edge of concern was still there. You were left standing beside the car, your gaze drifting down to it. The bullets had barely left a mark on the vehicle, and that piqued your curiosity.

It didn’t make sense. The damage seemed too light for such a close call. You squinted, the realization slowly dawning on you. Was his car bulletproof?

The question lingered in your mind, and before you could even process it fully, another thought followed. Why would he have a bulletproof car?

Your mind raced. Gotham wasn’t exactly safe, but was this level of precaution really necessary for someone like him?

When Bruce hung up, you were still staring at the car, unable to tear your eyes away. He walked back toward you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke.

“I called Commissioner Gordon,” he said, his voice steady but with an underlying urgency. “He’s a friend. I told him about what happened, so they might send an officer here for a statement, but he’s already aware of the idiots driving around with guns.”

Your silence must’ve been noticeable because he paused, glancing up to find you still absorbed in the sight of his car. The faintest flicker of understanding crossed his face as his eyes followed your line of sight.

“What? You’ve never seen a bulletproof car before?” he asked, his tone light but with a hint of something darker underneath.

“I guess I’m just surprised it’s bulletproof. Is that not a bit much?” you asked, your voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he seemed to contemplate the question, the silence stretching just long enough for you to notice the weariness in his posture. Finally, he spoke, his tone casual, almost indifferent.

“It’s always been normal for me. All kinds of dangerous people here in Gotham,” he said, his eyes briefly flickering over the city as if it were just another fact of life.

You didn’t like that response, the weight of it settling uncomfortably in your chest. You looked up at him, your voice soft and sincere. “I’m sorry. That must be nerve-racking, thinking every day that someone could hurt you just for being who you are.”

For a moment, there was a quiet pause. Then, to your surprise, he smiled—a small, almost nostalgic smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’ve gotten used to it, I guess,” he said, his voice steady but touched with a note of resignation. “But Gotham is my home. I don’t see myself ever leaving, despite how dangerous it gets.”

You nodded, unsure of how to respond. Bruce’s words echoed in your mind, but the reality of Gotham was something you both understood too well. The city’s dangerous habits weren’t likely to change anytime soon.

All of a sudden the wind picked up, sharp and cold. A shiver ran down your spine, and before you could react, Bruce was already noticing. Without a word, he removed his blazer and draped it gently around your shoulders, pulling it snugly against you to block the chill.

You glanced down, feeling a wave of sudden shyness from the attention. Bruce’s eyes lingered on you, his expression soft but focused.

His hand moved, almost instinctively, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed against your cheek, the touch lingering just a second longer than necessary—an unspoken comfort, a quiet intimacy.

"You should head inside," he said, his voice gentle. "I can wait for the officer to get here and talk to him."

You nodded, taking his blazer and pulling it a little tighter around your neck. The scent of oak and vanilla clung to the fabric, and you could almost feel the warmth of him still in it.

"Okay, but please be careful," you murmured, your voice a little quieter than usual.

A soft smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded. "I will. Now, go inside."

You were just about to slip off his blazer when he stopped you with a gentle gesture.

"Keep it," he said. "Going up the stairs. You can give it back next time you see me."

You hesitated, glancing up at him, but his calm, steady gaze made you nod in agreement. "Alright, I will. Thank you."

You turned to walk toward the stairs, the weight of the evening settling on you. You only made it a few steps before something stopped you—an impulse, maybe, or just the warmth of the moment that lingered between you. You took a deep breath, hesitated for just a second, and then spun back around to face him.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you rushed toward him. You had to rise up on your tiptoes to reach, but when you did, you planted a soft, fleeting kiss just below his jaw—mostly because it was the highest you could reach in that moment.

His warmth lingered in the air around you, the scent of his cologne mingling with your own breath as you quickly pulled away.

“Goodnight, Bruce,” you murmured, the words quiet but full of something you couldn’t quite place.

You didn’t wait for him to respond. Embarrassment flooded you all at once, and before you could think twice, you turned and sprinted up the stairs, heart racing, your pulse echoing in your ears as you tried to get away from the weight of his gaze.

Bruce stood motionless for a few seconds. The kiss had caught him completely off guard—so soft, so fleeting—but there was something in the way it lingered in the air that made the world feel just a little different. He raised his hand slowly, as though he could still feel the ghost of your lips on his skin, his fingers brushing just below his jaw, where you’d kissed him.

For a brief moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself. His eyes followed you as you quickly disappeared up the stairs, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. He had expected a lot of things tonight—a gunfight, a long wait for the police, maybe even some sort of explanation for the chaos—but not that. Not this.

His chest tightened in an unfamiliar way, something he couldn’t quite name. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel much of anything in a long time—not for people, not for anything, really. Gotham had taught him to protect himself, to guard every emotion behind walls too high for anyone to climb. But what had just happened… that was different. That kiss—small and soft as it was—had slipped right past all of that.

He stood there for another moment, silent and still, his heart thudding in a way that didn’t feel quite like fear, but more like the flicker of something long buried.

"Goodnight," he said softly, as if to no one at all, his voice low and almost to himself.

A strange warmth spread through him, an odd sense of comfort amidst the chaos that usually surrounded him. Maybe it was foolish, but for the first time in a long time, the weight of Gotham seemed a little lighter.

With a small exhale, he pushed the feeling aside, his usual resolve settling back in. Yet, as he turned toward his car, a part of him couldn’t shake the image of your smile—your kiss—his thoughts lingering on it long after you’d disappeared from view.

the end.

Tags @christianbalefanatic @importantenemypeanut

[wannabespacesmuggler]

SHANE'S GIRL ➵ D. DIXON [14]

Part Fourteen | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh & Merle Dixon are the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, story follows the show but dialogue and events are paraphrased, abusive behavior, a very slow burn

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Alright. I'm back after a work induced hiatus. I have missed this story deeply and even though this isn't the most eventful chapter, I'm excited for what it's setting up. I've also updated the playlist on Spotify if any of you want to give it a listen — I think it encapsulates our two favorite apocalypse idiots very well. As always, let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

attack seems to have shaken everyone; however, for Daryl, it’s different. He’s dealt with plenty of walkers during his various hunts after the world’s end, but this wasn’t just one or two stragglers in the woods that he could sneak up on before they noticed him. No, this time they were too close to home, and they managed to get the jump on him. He almost died. The realization almost made him sick to his stomach. It’s not that Daryl fears death. He’d come to terms with his own demise long before the dead started walking. Hell, he always assumed he’d die young anyway. The fear that settled deep into Daryl’s bones last night was not for himself, but for the woman softly snoring into his shoulder: you.

You saved his life. And the terror in your eyes afterwards, as you stared at the bloody knife in your hands, will haunt him for the rest of his days. Because it’s his fault. You killed to save him. And maybe it’s not his place, but Daryl was hoping to shield you from the horrors of this world for as long as possible. He knows the toll that taking another life does to a person — the guilt and pain that lingers in the back of his mind every day. He knows that it doesn’t matter that they’re technically already dead — that walker was still a human being once. He didn’t want that burden on your shoulders, but now it’s too late.

The sun is just cresting over the horizon when Rick’s voice slices through the thick silence that settled over the quarry camp, officially ending the longest night that Daryl has ever experienced.

“I know we’re all running on fumes, but we need to bury our dead.”

Rick’s voice is quiet, but there’s an urgency to his tone as his eyes shift from Daryl to T-Dog and Glenn. The two men had hunkered down near the RV once the chaos had settled and exhaustion consumed the camp for just a few hours. Even though he hasn’t spoken to either of them since you’ve all gotten back from Atlanta, Daryl’s grateful that they stuck close to both of you. Now, more than ever, Daryl believes that there is safety in numbers. Still, he couldn’t sleep. Even though his shoulders sag due to the weight of the last twenty-four hours, the warmth of your body keeps him up. A constant reminder of what he has to protect — of what he could have lost last night amidst the devastation. So, even though every single fiber of Daryl’s being yearns to stay by your side, he nods at Rick’s words.

“Not you, Daryl.”

Daryl’s brow furrows, and he's not the only one confused by his words. Both Glenn and T-Dog look skeptically at Rick until they follow his gaze. Rick Grimes is watching you peacefully sleep against the camp’s, so-called, notorious brute. Daryl suddenly feels uncomfortable and shifts slightly under the weight of their attention. The movement causes you to stir in your sleep and he fights off a smile at the content sigh that escapes your lips as you press your face further into his shoulder. Rick raises a brow at you both before continuing.

“You’re busy. I haven’t seen her get a good night’s sleep since I’ve gotten back.”

He’s right. Daryl’s not sure if you’ve truly rested at all since he’s met you. And a part of him believes that has more to do with Shane Walsh than the end of the world. After all, it’s probably hard to relax when the most dangerous threat to your well-being is lurking in your tent. So, Daryl simply gives Rick a firm nod.

“Man, why does Dixon always get to play bodyguard?”

Glenn’s eyes immediately widen, and he elbows T-Dog in the side. T-Dog’s eyes land on Glenn before following his gaze to Daryl. He raises his hands up in defeat as the archer glares daggers at them both.

“I’m just kidding, man.”

“You better be.”

Rick huffs out a laugh before placing himself between the men. He gives Daryl a momentary, warning glance before turning to T-Dog.

“You best get to work or else you might need a bodyguard.”

T-Dog’s eyes shift from Rick to Daryl. Daryl juts his chin up at the man. He doesn’t want to fight — not when you look so peaceful right now — but he’s not one to back down. Luckily, T-Dog sighs defeatedly before walking off with Glenn in tow. Rick watches them walk away for several moments before turning back to Daryl. He raises a brow at the youngest Dixon brother before collapsing into the lawn chair T-Dog had been lounging in. Daryl watches as Rick roughly runs his hands over his face — it looks like he got about as much sleep as Daryl did last night.

“Listen, I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

Daryl scoffs at Rick’s words. Off on the wrong foot seems like an understatement. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Rick had a gun pointed at him in Atlanta. But he’s important to you, so Daryl bites his tongue and lets him continue.

“But I know her.”

Rick’s gaze drops down to you, and Daryl’s eyes follow.

“And she trusts you.”

Daryl tears his eyes away from you at that admission. He expects to find confusion or judgment on Rick’s face, but instead, he’s looking at you with the tenderness of a loving brother. And when Rick looks back up at him, there’s a sadness in his eyes that he cannot place.

“I don’t know what happened while I was gone, but I know you looked out for her. Thank you.”

The earnestness in his tone surprises Daryl, but he gives the man a firm nod. In all honesty, he doesn’t need his thanks. It has never been a burden to look out for you, and he’s certainly not trying to pass off the responsibility onto someone else. No, Daryl Dixon has begrudgingly come to terms with the fact that he cares about you. The two men sit in comfortable silence together until another muffled sob escapes Andrea, who is still clutching Amy’s limp hand in hers.

“What are we gonna do about that?”

Daryl motions towards the sisters with his free arm, and Rick glances towards them before letting out a deep sigh. He rakes a hand through his hair, and Daryl almost feels bad for asking. After all, Rick never asked to become the de facto leader of this group. But someone has to call the shots, and Daryl sure as hell doesn’t want it to be Shane.

“I already talked to her. She said she’ll take the shot — but only after she turns.”

A sudden rage courses through Daryl’s veins. Waiting for Amy to turn into one of those monsters endangers everyone in this camp. Rick knows the risk, and yet he’s still allowing it to happen. Daryl isn’t in charge — he doesn’t want to be — but he will not risk your life for the convenience of others. Maybe it’s selfish, but he really doesn’t give a shit.

“You can’t be serious. That girl’s a time bomb and you know it.”

Rick’s face hardens, and his jaw clenches.

“What do you suggest?”

“Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

You mumble the words into Daryl’s shoulder, just loud enough for both men to hear. Your face scrunches up immediately once you open your eyes. A groan escapes your lips as you try to adjust to the morning sunlight.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Rick snorts, which causes you to peel yourself away from Daryl so you can shoot the sheriff a playful glare. For a moment, Daryl is disappointed by the loss of contact, but then he spots the blush that’s creeping across your cheeks due to the nickname he’s given you. It tumbled off Daryl’s lips before he could think twice about it. He meant it as a lighthearted jab — understanding the way your eyes meet the rising sun with nothing but disdain. After all, he didn’t become a morning person until the world fell apart. He recalls the nickname rolling off his mother’s lips on the mornings she remembered to wake him up for elementary school. And the groan that escaped you reminds him of the ones he’d let out as Merle would exclaim that nickname in the kitchen when Daryl finally stumbled out of his room late in the afternoon with an intense headache due to the hangover he had from the eventful night before. But honestly, in Daryl’s heart, it’s less of a nickname and more a term of endearment — one he could find himself using more as long as you keep letting him.

“What’s so funny, Grimes?”

“Nothin’. It’s good, sunshine. Fitting, even. Just wish I’d thought of it myself.”

You roll your eyes at the sheriff before shifting your eyes back to Daryl. Your playful expression suddenly turns serious as you regard him.

“I’m serious, Daryl. Let her be. She needs to do this her way.”

Daryl studies you for a moment. And Rick watches as you both seem to have an entire conversation without speaking. The interaction confuses him deeply, and he desperately needs to sit down with you to catch up on everything he’s seemingly missed. To his surprise, Daryl shifts on his feet slightly before giving you a nod.

“‘Lright.”

You give him a small smile — a silent thank you to him for trusting your intuition. Daryl’s eyes shift from you to where T-Dog and Glenn are burying the dead. Even though he knows it’s not his responsibility, he suddenly feels guilty that he’s not helping. You follow his gaze and put the pieces together. You know how hard it is for Daryl to stay still, especially when he knows there’s something else he can be doing. You reach out, grabbing his forearm to get his attention. His focus is immediately on you — his expression brimming with concern as his eyes check you over.

“Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got Rick. Go.”

Daryl’s eyes shift to the sheriff before finding their way back to you once more. You understand how he feels. After last night — after watching that walker almost tear into his flesh — you don’t want Daryl out of your sight right now. But you’ve both got things to do and there will always be responsibilities that will pull you away from one another. Finally, Daryl seems to relent.

“You need anything, you come get me. ‘Lright?”

You nod at his request and watch as he slings his crossbow over his shoulder after getting up. He looks down at you one last time before walking off towards Glenn and T-Dog. Your eyes follow Daryl for longer than you care to admit, and once you finally peel your gaze away from him, you’re met with an incredibly perplexed Rick Grimes. He looks like your protective older brother — arms crossed tightly across his chest and brow raised in confusion.

“I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

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[hedwig221b]

I recently realized that I’ve literally never read a teen wolf ff despite being a huge fan of the show and sterek. So now I’m on the hunt for a rlly good one to start with but I’m having a bit of trouble finding one that not only fits what I’m looking for but actually has good writing (no offense to the authors I just want my first one to be a good one that hooks me like Crimson Rivers hooked me into the marauders fandom😅)

so could you recommend me some that aren’t aus, not necessarily canon but canon is okay, werewolf or human stiles, with sterek (I do love a slow burn but doesn’t have to be), maybe some of your favorites?

What an honor to introduce you to sterek fanfiction omg! Here is a list of what I consider sterek classics (the canon kind), my beloved 💖

Hide Of A Life War by Etharei

“We have received confirmation that there is a hostage situation in progress at a warehouse compound two hours out of Los Angeles, following a multiple-vehicle pileup on Highway 101 this morning...” The one in which Stiles has lived to (legal) adulthood and, along the way, become a bit of a badass himself.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows by owlpostagain

“Derek,” Stiles groans. “You have me. You’ve always had me, you absolute moron, how many physically impossible feats of life-saving heroics do I have to perform before you get it?”

between the click of the light and the start of the dream by thepsychicclam

A twig snaps, and then Stiles hears breathing and the rustle of leaves. He strains to get a better glimpse into the darkness, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing but a black void. It's Stiles' senior year, and he's trying to concentrate on normal things - like the lacrosse championship, spring break, prom, graduation (and definitely not Derek) - when he starts having nightmares and waking up in the middle of nowhere. Oh yeah, and he's being haunted by a hag. Great.

Home by TheTypewriterGirl

January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father’s death. The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was. So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in?

I Know Where Babies Come From, Derek by DiscontentedWinter

Stiles finds a baby on the porch. It looks exactly like him. Well, this is awkward.

And You Say You're Alone by bi_leigh_bi

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

stuck in reverse by crazyassmurdererwall (smartalli)

Look, Derek is the worst. Everyone knows that. Their fearless leader is a total and complete failwolf. Which means the rest of them? Are kind of the worst too. They’re a ramshackle, slap dashed, sorry excuse for a pack that’s about a half second away from getting one of them killed. And this is a problem, because Stiles would really like to survive high school. Thanks. Still, nobody deserves what Derek has gone through. Nobody. And it’s about time somebody told him that.

Pale Horses by Jana_C 

Being bitten had never been on his to-do list, but he could deal with that. Helping Derek Hale become a competent Alpha, though, that was so not in his job description.

Truth and Consequences by KouriArashi

“The place you give the Bite has meaning," Derek says. "Biting someone on the side is to make them your beta. It makes them your subordinate, but it also invites them into the pack with the full protection of the alpha. Biting someone on the legs indicates that you’re turning them to an omega. And biting someone on the arm, particularly the wrist, turns someone as your equal. It’s a mating ritual.” Stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of granola. “A what?”

A Similar String by snarkatthemoon 

Strong bonds made for a strong pack, and he needed a strong pack. They spent a long time in silence, Derek thinking hard about how he was going to cement the bonds. It needed to be done, and not just because they had the threat of the witch hanging over them, but for the good of the pack. It felt like hours had passed by the time he came around; he had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Stiles moving around on the couch so that his head was resting on Derek’s thigh, his long legs hanging over the arm on the far end. He wasn’t sleeping, but his eyes were closed and his heartbeat wasn’t as fast as it usually was, as if he was just on the edge of sleep. It should have felt weird, having Stiles in such close contact, but Derek found that it really didn’t feel weird at all. His head was a comforting weight in Derek’s lap, another anchor tethering him and keeping him calm and in control. . Or, the one where Derek meets a witch, gets his betas back, and seemingly develops a sense of humour. Also, Stiles is totally magic, manages to accidentally join a werewolf pack, and asks too many goddamn questions. What could possibly go wrong?

The One You Choose by Asterekmess (Livinginfictions)

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

Hold Me Close (I'm Falling Apart) by ajeepandleather

“Wolves without an emissary are naturally turbulent because their instincts are wild. Subconsciously, you’ve been balancing them, but you aren’t tied to the pack so you aren’t getting a balance in return.” “So, they’re bleeding me dry. Always knew they were parasites.” Stiles smiled dryly. “You’ll need to attach yourself to an alpha soon. There are risks for an unbalanced druid.” “Like?” “Well, a disruption in balance may show itself in several ways. It’s a disruption in nature, so nature will twist and alter in an attempt to right itself.” “What does that mean?” Stiles was getting anxious. The vet was avoiding giving direct answers and that never meant anything good. “You’re magic is heavily entwined with your will, and your will is parallel to your mind.” “I’ll go insane.”

Not Your Disney Romance by Wrennefer (Wrenegadeone)

After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

spiderweb of lies by pineneedlepants

Derek gets a chance to gain his alpha powers back. The only one throwing a wrench in those plans is Scott.

Sparks and shadows by Nival_Vixen 

Stiles has to figure out a way to maintain a balance between his spark and the darkness inside of him.

The Roads Not Followed by SylvieW

Scott decides to leave Beacon HIlls with Allison and her father. Stiles is left alone to deal with the supernatural troubles of his home town, so he turns to Derek. Years later, Scott’s new pack is threatened, and the only ones who can help them are the Hale pack and Derek’s powerful mate.

It’s Not Pretend When It’s Real by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“At least we got this far,” Stiles argued. “Could’ve been worse. For now, they know he’s taken by someone in the pack.” “Mm hm,” Lydia said, giving him a look. “You realize that you are now going to have to pretend to date Derek, right?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh no, what a hardship. That sucks, boo hoo.” He motioned Derek emphatically. “He’s like, my best friend.” “Hey!” Scott insisted. “He’s like, my second best friend,” Stiles amended. “It’s fine, we’ll figure it out. Right?” He turned to grin at Derek, who was scowling at him.

Running Up That Hill by maypoison

“Even before the pack joined together, Scott was trying to protect you. And he still is trying to protect you, even if it means leaving you out of all this.” Stiles does roll his eyes at that. “Yeah, but it didn’t work did it. I was still involved, and so was my Dad. We were nearly killed by Matt, and then Gerard.” “My point is, people change. Relationships aren’t always perfect. Scott's tried to kill me before." Stiles raises an eyebrow. "So, you’re saying that someone trying to kill you is just a small flaw in a relationship?" “We’re werewolves.” Derek answers with a shrug, as if that was a perfectly good explanation.

It Was a Wednesday by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?” Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping. Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death. “Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least. “Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?” “Yes.” “Why?” “How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

Protect and Serve by MoonlitMemories

Stiles discovers the Nemeton starting to grow again in the preserve on Hale land. What does that mean for the pack? More importantly: why does the Nemeton seem so attached to Stiles?

The More That I Know You (the more I want to) by LadySlytherin

When death, in the form of hunters, comes for a family of Kelpies seeking refuge in the Preserve - in Hale territory - the Hale Pack is too late to save them. Before he dies, the male Kelpie presses a precious bundle into Stiles’ arms and begs the Emissary to take responsibility for it, which an initially reluctant Stiles does. When he agreed, Stiles had no idea what the sight of him with a baby would do to his esteemed Alpha, Derek. If he’d known, he might not have been so reluctant to agree.

Wolf Cub by moodwriter

A strange wolf is not supposed to touch another pack’s cub and that’s why, on a rescue mission, it’s Stiles’ job to take care of the wolf cub who’s curious about everything and everyone. Stiles is not used to werewolf children, and the pack is not used to Stiles taking care of a child. Their Alpha gets very confused about this, too.

Thanks for Thumper, But I Prefer Cheeseburgers by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

The wolf’s head whipped around so fast, Stiles felt like he was watching The Exorcist. Stiles wondered if he could just stand still enough to make the wolf think he was a tree. A very bright red and jean-clad tree. He doubted it, but one could hope. He knew it was a lost cause when the wolf turned fully, lips pulled back from its sharp teeth—so very sharp, good fucking Lord!—and began walking towards Stiles. “I didn’t see anything!” Stiles shouted, both hands out in front of himself and sweat instantly breaking out across his skin. “I swear to you! I didn’t see anything! I didn’t see anything! I won’t tell anyone! I won’t! I’ll keep this to myself, until the day I die! I promise! I promise!”

I know you mentioned no aus, but it would be a crime for me not to mention these absolute treasures that are staples in sterek fanfiction experience. The characters are on point, and the writing is magnificent

Don't Savage The Messenger by exclamation

There is an uneasy truce between the werewolves in the woods and the humans who live in Beacon Hills, protected by a magical boundary that gives warning any time a werewolf crosses it. Then the sheriff is taken by the werewolves and his son offers himself in exchange. Stiles promises to serve the werewolf pack, not knowing what horrible use they might have for him. But it turns out his most useful skill is the ability to cross the boundary line between humans and werewolves. Life with the werewolves is nothing like he feared and the werewolves themselves are nothing like the hunters' stories would have him believe.

Actions Speak Louder than Words by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.” That was a bad word. Not found. Have. Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment. One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.

Divided We Stand by KouriArashi

Derek is being pressured by his family to pick a mate, and somehow stumbles into a choice that they didn't expect and aren't sure they approve of....

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!” Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her. “What?! What was that sound?!” “You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder. “Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!” “Mike,” she argued. “Who’s Mike?” Scott asked. “Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

My, What Big Shoulders You Have (The Better to Help You Carry the Weight) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) 

“Talia was just telling me an interesting story,” his dad informed him. Stiles didn’t have the nerve to glance over at him, because he knew no matter how much he argued, the proof was all there. The wolves had found him, Parrish had picked him up on the side of the road, he had a fucking picture on his phone. He was screwed. No point in arguing, all it’d do is piss his father off even more. “You don’t say,” Stiles offered slowly. “What uh—you know, I like stories. Is it a uh, good one?” “It seems to be a matter of opinion,” Talia said with another kind smile. “I hear you had quite the night last night.” Okay, time to cut his losses. He was already fucked, all he could do was apologize and hope she didn’t press for him to get fined and arrested. Given he was her husband’s friend’s son, he had high hopes. “I’m really sorry,” Stiles blurted out. “It was stupid and-and irresponsible and just—I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed into your territory. I should’ve known better, I do know better! It was a complete lapse in judgement and I am just—I am so sorry.”

Cloaked in Gold by kaistrex (weishen)

Stiles' world tilts, the bed dipping as a weight settles over him, caging him in. Growling. His eyes flutter open in distant confusion as hot air sweeps over his throat and he stares up at twin beams of gold shining inches from his face. Werewolf. Stiles does the only thing he can. “DAD!” The werewolf jumps at the sudden shout, blanketing him tighter, and it’s only seconds until his dad is in his bedroom doorway with Melissa close behind, flicking on the light. Stiles' mouth drops open as he stares up at the thick eyebrows, sharp nose and perfectly groomed stubble of a golden-eyed and fanged Derek Hale. - When son of the Alpha, Derek Hale, ends up in his bed in heat, Stiles decides to use it to his advantage and secure the Bite for his sick stepbrother. As he and his family are welcomed into the Hale pack, Stiles grows closer to Derek than he'd ever dreamed he'd get, but with the fanged Soulbite of a born wolf on Derek's neck, he knows he's just setting himself up for heartbreak. Derek has a Soulmate out there, and it definitely isn't Stiles.

Waiting by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Not wanting to think on it too much, Stiles took a step forward and passed his hand between the bars, moving the bleeding side closer to Derek’s mouth. “Not too close, he bites.” Stiles snatched his hand away just as Derek had been about to lick at it. The snarl he got in response was not comforting. “He what?” Stiles asked nervously, turning to Deaton. The man looked a little amused. “Don’t worry, only if he doesn’t like you.” “Well, he probably hates me, now!” Stiles insisted, turning back to Derek. He looked extremely displeased.

The Boy and the Beast by Dira Sudis (dsudis)

In which events in Beacon Hills go rather differently from the start, and a Beauty and the Beast (ish) story ensues. (Scott is not a teacup and no one sings about their feelings.)

[masterlist link]

[artisiumstudios]

I need angst, I need 19 year old Stan and ford timestuck au where they meets their mid 20year old counterparts (a bit before the betrayal and ford hits rock bottom).

Now I have so many ways this could work:

1) Stan and ford (teens) end up getting stuck together and get stuck with Stanford, which leads to both fords having a lot of emotions. Stan looks sick, his baby fat is not quite gone but compared to ford it’s like he’s aged years despite him being 19 and the same age as his twin who still looks full of life. He sees Stan and ford as a child and the guilt that he tried to hide behind anger and betrayal is starting to peak out once more. His twins younger self is covered in new scars and his compared to the loud mouthed brother who always spoke his mind at any given time without any thought of consequences is now eerily quiet, always hanging in the background, trying to make himself small, trying to disappear.

Paranoia oozes out of Stan with every twitch and flinch at the slightest sound, and while not super obvious, he can tell that while ford has gained an inch or so, his body still maturing into one of an adult, Stan — well he isn’t. And while he is hunching Stanford knows that one inch difference should have never happened. Ford is almost the same noticing as much as Stanford except that that guilt comes crashing harder because that’s HIS twin brother looking absolutely miserable, exhaustion etched onto his skin. And the worst part for ford is that Stanley keeps avoiding him (well he avoids both fords but Stan and him are in the same situation so why can’t Stanley just stop his avoidance for one second? Be mature about this! Let ford make sure he’s okay-).

And meanwhile Stan feels super happy that Stanford got himself a good place and that even thought Stanley ruined his life he still made something of himself! Even if it was without him. Because pa was right, everyone was and Stan was only holding ford back

And also for a little curveball Stan thinks his older counterpart is dead. He’s 19 barely scrapping by, he lives in his car, gangs are coming after him, and Stanford hasn’t mentioned anything about his Stanley, and when asked where his Stanley was he had this far away look as he shamefully said I don’t know. That was enough confirmation for him to know that he wouldn’t make past 30.

(He does indeed freak out when Stanley shows up still alive and looking worse for wear)

2)The Classic Stanford gets Stan and Stanley get ford. Except ford is there for the aftermath of either the Tijuana incident, the trunk incident, or the kidney incident. Either or but basically he saved Stanley and comes to the realization that his own twin’s future could be like this. That he could lose or have lost Stan without knowing. The fact that HE saved this Stanley and that if not for him this ford would have lost his brother and possibly have never of known. It sickens him and he makes it his personal mission to get home, rebuild his relationship with Stan if possible, and save his brother no matter what.

Stanley meanwhile is trying to fix his “mistake” (ford shouldn’t have seen that, he should have never known-) and is pampering the shit out of ford, stealing whatever he can for his little brother (?) , which caused more tensions because Stanley is the one hurt not ford! He needs to rest not be trying to shoplift his favorite snacks, books, etc!!!

On the other end of things Stanford still had the same realization from the first idea (minus the height thing but he does take into account that Stan is severely malnourished) and does try to pamper and connect with him. Does it backfire on him? Yes. Does Stan feel like he doesn’t deserve it? Yes. Does Stan lash out because clearly ford is doing it out of guilt? Yes. Is there drama where Stan ends up running away because ford reveals that the dream of sailing was never going to happen, especially not with Stan suffocating him!

(Some dialogue I thought for it.

“Stan, that’s not what I meant to say-“

“You think I’m suffocating?”

“No- well, yes I did but that doesn’t-“

“Is that why- that’s why you wanted to leave me. I’m suffocating, a burden-“

“Stan you’re not a burde-“

“YES I AM- IM THE EXTRA STAN, THE DUMB STAN, THE STAN THAT NOBODY WANTS-“

“STAN YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND-“

“Oh i understand, i might be stupid but i understand this, you don’t want me, nobody does. All my life I’ve been nothing but a burden to you, all I’ve ever done is ride on your coattails. It’s just like Pa said. But you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Stan what are you-“

*restraints Stanford in some way idk *

“You don’t have to help me anymore, it’s not like I’m worth much”

*runs away* )

3) Stanley and Stanford are the ones to get stranded in time thanks to Stanford doing some magical stuff that had the twins connected and sent to the past. Idk too much about this one but it could be fun. Especially if Stanford accidentally gets drunk trying to help Stan and reveals stuff about bill only for Stan to clock his shit and be like “yeah no you’re getting scammed bro. Played like a cheap kazoo”

Meanwhile Stanley is idk doing drag, perhaps going through withdrawal symptoms from lack of “flour”. Maybe some mental issues? Who knows, ford sure doesn’t!

[sevarchive]

જ⁀➴ when i was your man ;

starring: bachira meguru, itoshi rin, sae itoshi, isagi yoichi, kunigami rensuke, and michael kaiser

“i hope he buys you flowers,” bachira says, barely above a whisper, like speaking hurts. he made you feel small for needing reassurance, laughed off every serious talk, told you you were killing the fun, so you stopped asking, then stopped speaking. you look at him one last time and say, “he never made me feel hard to love.”

“i hope he buys you flowers,” rin says, like he’s choking on every word. he made you beg to be let in while he bled in silence, called your love a distraction, shoved you away when all you ever did was stay—until one day, you stopped knocking. and when you quietly say, “he lets me love him without punishing me for it,” he realizes no one’s coming to save him from the emptiness he chose.

“i hope he buys you flowers,” sae says, barely breathing. he left when you got sick, said he couldn’t handle the hospitals, the waiting rooms, the smell of endings, and you spent your worst nights wondering if he ever really loved you or just the version of you that wasn’t dying. you smile, too calm, and say, “he held my hand when i couldn’t hold anything else.”

“i hope he buys you flowers,” isagi says, trying to keep his voice from breaking. he promised he’d be there: your birthday, your favorite place, the day you needed to feel seen, and he missed it for a fan meet, posting selfies while you blew out candles alone. you don’t raise your voice when you say, “he remembered without me having to remind him.”

“i hope he buys you flowers,” kunigami says, voice low like the apology he never gave. you pleaded with him to stop shutting you out, to stop letting the wild card turn him into someone cold and unreachable, but he looked you in the eyes and said, “this is who i have to be now.” you nod once, quietly, and say, “he never made me mourn someone who was still standing in front of me".

“i hope he buys you flowers,” kaiser says, like it’s the only way to keep from falling apart. you were there when he had nothing; shared bread with him in the cold, held his hand when his father screamed, told him he could still be good—but when the world finally gave him something, he made sure you weren’t part of it. you meet his eyes without fear now, and say, “he never forgot who i was just because he became someone else.”

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[fairlyang]

Naughty Girl

save a horse, ride a cowboy

w/c: 1K

pairing: cowboy!sam!wilson x f!reader

tags: 18+ smut. riding, praise, jokes, teasing, titty sucking, he's a lil mean

a/n: this is my first time writing for sam- I’m praying I do my man justice bc he needs more lovin and i'll take one for the team

if there was something sam absolutely hated, it was admitting when he was wrong.

but in this case it was also admitting the fact that he was impressed.

the worst part about this was he didn't actually think you could do it. 

sure he had some faith in you, but that didn't change the fact that he, for the most part, was expecting to hear you begging him to do the all work.

he was pleasantly surprised though.

so he looked at you, amusement in his eyes and a shit eating grin on his face, "guess those lessons did pay off huh?

you playfully rolled your eyes and chuckled, "what you didn't think I could do it?"

"I just didn't expect for you to prove me wrong, sweetheart." he coos and squeezes your hip. 

you grinned and continued bouncing on his cock, somewhat using the skills he's taught you like how to mount a horse, though this was better than riding any horse. 

your hands were on his shoulders, helping your movements because you didn't fully trust yourself. you had been for it for a good amount of time, edging you both in the process but for once you didn't mind it. 

you were in a back room of the saloon, after dancing with your favorite cowboy it had you in a mood so you dragged him away. and as expected, he couldn't dare deny his lady of her needs. 

the music was still playing and all the partygoers were still stomping and dancing about with no clue what you were up to. 

and although anyone could just walk in, it didn't stop you whatsoever. it was a risky game and boy, did you love playing games.

your bounces on him were steady and precise, a decent pace that wouldn't throw you over the edge. the riskiness of it all had your head spinning and had you going faster. 

"fuck baby- keep going, don't stop." he moans, making you moan along with him. 

"sam-" you cry out, and dig your nails into his shoulders.

he groans and leans in closer, bringing his hands to your tits and squeezes them before taking you left nipple in his mouth, harshly sucking. you moaned and the added pleasure had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

"oh fuck- s-so good." you murmur and look down at him, switching nipples then going back to sucking as if his life depended on it.

you held onto his head and moved it upwards, "can you mark them? p-please?"

he pulled away then looked up at you with a smirk, "whatever my girl wants, she gets."

he went back down and instantly sucked on your skin, pulling away for a second to look at his handiwork then went back to it to lick over it soothingly. he then kissed it before moving upwards and repeating the process. 

cut to a minute later and five hickey's placed, he was happy with the results. 

you slowed down because your thighs were growing tired which only had sam shaking his head and clicking his tongue, "nuh uh, what do you think you're doing baby?"

"sam I'm tired-"

"did I say you could slow down?" he asked, making you whimper.

you shook your head and his hands went back to your hips, "then what are you waitin' for?"

you pouted and glared at him not making feel bad whatsoever but it did make him throb inside you. he chuckled and thrusted up once making you gasp, "c'mon be a good girl for me, you can do it baby." 

your walls clenched against him and you couldn't just not listen to him so you folded. you went back to your previous position, hands on his shoulders and your perfect bounces on his cock. you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second and the noises that came with every bounce confirmed it. 

"good girl… see how it's easy to listen to directions?" he teased, making you scoff, "you're one to talk."

he just laughs and shrugs, "you've still got me beat, sweetheart."

you pouted but kept going, feeling too good to stop. "can't forget how much of a brat you were when we met…" he murmured, sending shivers down your spine. 

you straightened up and stuck your ass out, making him shift his attention to it. his hands each smacked a cheek before groping them, helping you slam down, "were such a good girl back then.. secret brat too.."

"what a combination, don't ya think?" he murmured and you just nodded. 

"now all I've got is a naughty girl…" he breathes out, making your breath hitch.

"wantin' to fuck after one dance." he moans earning himself a loud whine from you.

he then stopped you, lifting himself up the tiniest bit, "dirty fucking girl- horny little thing, just can't help it can you baby?"

you whimpered and shook your head, "I can't-"

"I know baby, I know.." he coos and then gives you a grin, "it's what I love most about you."

before you could even respond, he started thrusting himself into you, not giving you any time to get used to it. you cried out and tried to hold onto him, sam noticing and deciding to kiss your chest. you held onto him as he pounded into you, the sounds in the room by some miracle still not as loud as the music. 

he was relentless, feeling himself getting close and wanting to make you get there as well so he went even fast. harder. 

just how you liked it and exactly what you needed.

"sam! fuck baby please–" you cried and sweet moans left your mouth.

"atta girl- doing so fucking good darlin'." he moans then moves his hands back to your hips. 

"need you to come for me baby, can you do that for me?' he cooed and you nodded.

"good girl- such a good fucking girl." he groans, his praise bringing you closer and closer to your release.

you felt him twitching inside you making you grab him and pull him away just to lean your forehead against his, "p-please- fuck- please give it to me, need you so bad."

he moaned out and smashed his lips against yours, now moaning against your lips as he thrusted as deep as he could go. you were whimpering while trying to kiss back which was enough to send you both over the edge. you kissed him back while he spilled his load deep inside you, still attempting to kiss you but it was just a sloppy mess.

he slowed down, riding out your highs while he made sure he gave you every drop he had. your legs were shaking as he pulled away and gave you a kiss on the cheek then on the forehead before finally stopping and holding you close.

he whispered sweet things in your ear as you fought hard to stay awake but he couldn't blame you, holding you in his arms as if he was afraid you'd slip out and never come back but neither of you were leaving. not any time soon or ever.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Caine x reader who has become his assistant despite being a human? Like they have been in the circus long enough and have such genuine enjoyment of the adventures that Caine has taken to letting them help him make them! He even gave them a new outfit to match him!

They do go on adventures still of course, but sometimes they will hang back to help manage things around the circus as needed. They are Caine’s right-hand person (Sorry bubble)!

If you managed to last that long, having you help would make sense. Experience in the digital world is valuable!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Caine & Reader who helps him

★ Its hard living in the digital world. But, somehow, you've made it work. Playing along with whatever game you're thrown you into. Maybe it helps that you like the adventures. Maybe... that's why you're still here. And not abstracted. Like most of the people you've met.

★ Bubble is indifferent. Not really caring about this new role you have. "I'm still his favorite." He says to you, probably being right. Maybe he lingers while you fix something and gives you bad advice. But that's about it.

★ The re-design he gave you matches his outfit. While still keeping elements of you original character. Complete with a little bowtie and you're own cane! Though, sadly, it doesn't float in the air like his. You can take it off whenever you want.

★ Caine gave you "mod privileges" that include the ability to fix minor bugs and glitches. Its limited, you cant make NPS's or build locations, but it's still quiet useful. Floating props and missing texture get fixed sooner. Saving everybody time.

★ Jax calls you "the ringmasters pet" as a joke. Speaking of Jax, you like to punish him for his bad behavior. Occasionally deleting the floor below him. Then throwing a label above the hole that says "TEMP FIX DO NOT DELETE"

★ If you ever draw a bee, he copies it. Then sprinkles the doodle around the grounds. Hidden in whatever random place he could think of. Like under furniture and behind paintings. Months later, and you're still finding copies.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

sweeping you off your feet for the second time

an : rafayel x nonmc | nonmc is introverted & nonconfrontational | mc is the girl bestie of nonmc | college au | tried to make it fluff but maybe i failed | typed on my phone & non proofread | might be triggering for some - read at your own risk cause its hard to make a label for every single thing | i wrote this cause i wanted to hurt myself

previous

BONUS CHAPTER

MC's phone buzzed, vibrating against the worn denim of her jeans. She glanced down, her lips curving into an immediate, enthusiastic smile.

Caleb.

Her childhood friend, her rock, the charismatic athlete who somehow always managed to stay grounded.

"Caleb! Hey!" she answered, her voice bubbling with easy warmth. "What's up? Ready to raid the dining hall for their questionable pizza again?"

But Caleb's response wasn't his usual jovial banter.

His voice, when it came through, was distinctly serious, a low rumble that instantly dampened MC's lighthearted mood.

"Hey, pips. Can we… can we meet up? I need to talk to you. Something important."

MC's brow furrowed. Caleb rarely sounded this somber.

"Whoa, okay. Is everything alright? You sound… intense. I can come over to your place, save some time. Plus, it's better to hang out there anyway, less public eyes, right?" she suggested, knowing his preference for private spaces when serious conversations were on the agenda.

"Yeah," Caleb agreed, a slight hesitation in his voice. "Yeah, that works. I'll see you in thirty."

"On my way," MC confirmed, a knot forming in her stomach. She grabbed her keys, her mind already racing through possibilities, none of them good.

Thirty minutes later, she stood outside Caleb's unit, the familiar scent of his apartment complex already calming her slightly.

He opened the door almost immediately, looking surprisingly composed, but the usual easy light in his eyes was replaced by a somber intensity.

"Hey," he greeted, stepping aside. "Come in. I already cooked our favorite, so we can eat first."

They ate in a comfortable silence, the rich aroma of his homemade pasta doing little to ease the tension humming beneath the surface.

MC watched him, chewing slowly, noticing the subtle clenching of his jaw, the way his gaze kept drifting to the middle distance. This wasn't the laid-back, joking Caleb she knew.

After they had finished, Caleb gathered the plates, cleared the small table, and then settled heavily onto the couch beside her. The casual proximity, usually a source of comfort, now felt charged.

MC couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Okay, spill. You've been looking like someone stole your last game-winning shot all evening. What's going on?"

Caleb sighed, a deep, frustrated sound that seemed to come from the very core of him. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then turned, his gaze locking onto hers, unexpectedly sharp, almost accusatory.

"Why, pips?" he asked, his voice low. "Why did you set me up on that date? And with… with your best friend, of all people?"

MC blinked, taken aback by the sudden directness. Her reasons, she thought, were obvious.

"Well, I was worried about you, Caleb! You haven't been dating anyone lately, and you seemed… down. And my best friend, she’s amazing, she needed some company, you know? I thought you two would hit it off." She offered a small, hopeful smile, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

Caleb’s demeanor, however, only grew more intense. His athletic frame seemed to thrum with a suppressed energy, his eyes boring into hers with an almost painful scrutiny.

"Worried about me?" he scoffed, a hint of something raw and wounded in his voice. "Do you truly know who I like, pips? Do you really have no idea?"

MC faltered, genuinely confused. "No, Caleb, I don't. You never tell me, remember? You always just say it's 'complicated' or 'not the right time.'"

She shrugged, feeling a prickle of exasperation herself. How was she supposed to know if he kept everything bottled up?

Caleb groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration.

The next moment, he moved, quick as a seasoned athlete. He shifted, pinning her against the cushions of the sofa, his arms caging her, hands braced on either side of her head.

The suddenness of his actions startled her, making her heart leap into her throat. His face was inches from hers, his intense gaze searing into her very soul.

“Why are you so clueless, pips?” His voice was a strained whisper, thick with exasperation and something else, something she couldn't quite name.

“How could you not see it? What do I need to do to make my intentions clear to you? Do I need to write it on a billboard? Paint it across the campus?"

MC stared at him, wide-eyed, her breath catching in her throat. The raw emotion in his voice, the way he looked at her… it clicked.

A dizzying, terrifying realization bloomed in her chest, pushing all other thoughts aside. She barely dared to breathe, the question a fragile whisper on her lips. "You… you like me?"

Caleb didn't answer with words. His eyes dropped from hers, lingering for a heart-stopping moment on her lips, then flickered back up to meet her gaze, burning with a silent, desperate plea.

"What do you think, pips?"

Her mind, still reeling from the sudden onslaught of truth, tried to rationalize, to push it away.

"I… I don't think you'd ever like me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "We've been friends for too long. Since we were kids. You don't... you don't fall for your best friend."

Caleb's grip, which she hadn't realized was so tight on her wrists, softened, his fingers loosening their hold. He leaned in further, resting his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.

"You are infuriatingly clueless, pips. So infuriatingly naive." His voice was a low, resigned murmur. "I thought I was being clear. So clear. But apparently, I'm not."

And then, he kissed her.

It wasn't a soft, hesitant brush of lips. It was a kiss born of years of unspoken longing, of pent-up frustration and a desperate need to convey everything words couldn't.

It was fierce, demanding, a silent declaration that left no room for doubt. MC was surprised, a gasp catching in her throat, but the shock quickly gave way to a surge of pure, overwhelming emotion.

Her hands, freed from his grip, instinctively moved to cup his face, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a ferocity that matched his own.

The kiss deepened, a passionate make-out session that blurred the edges of reality, erasing everything but the undeniable truth of their intertwined breaths, their hungry mouths.

When they finally pulled away, breathless, the air around them thrumming with raw energy, Caleb’s eyes were still dark with an intense fire.

He carefully pulled her onto his lap, cradling her against his chest, her head resting just beneath his chin.

“So,” he murmured, his voice a little hoarse, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her waist. “Was I able to clearly show my true intentions this time, pipsqueak?”

MC, still flustered and blushing madly, buried her face in his neck, a shy smile gracing her lips.

She felt a lightness in her chest she hadn't realized was missing, a puzzle piece finally slotting into place. She just nodded, unable to form words.

Caleb chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound. He rested his head against hers, then buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent.

"Good," he whispered, the single word filled with an unspoken promise.

surprise. i couldnt leave caleb and mc hanging in the air like that. this time, it's truly the end of this story.

[monayen]

thank you for answering my question btwww :3 can i ask for a ftm reader who really likes to aggrivate Nyen for fun? he would steal his kills, borrowed romance mangas, cigarettes, favorite shirt, etc. maybe insult or even tease him occasionally ^^

but he doesn't often think about the consequences of his actions as he is slick enough to escape Nyen until he actually got caught by him.

i'd prefer if the reader was Luthers/Randals pet

also can i be known as shed anon?

Kurt Cobain didn't kill himself | Nyen

➷ paring - Nyen x FTM!Reader [randal's Friends / ranfren]

➷ cws - reader is a trans male, teasing, choking / breathplay, insults / aggression, slightest talks about killing and stuff... average nyen things

a/n - nyen might seem a little OOC here, considering he talks more than i actually think he would if this was real. but those are the liberties you take when you're writing for a character whose spoken like 100 words in canon. either way, a little cringe but i had fun :-) thank u shed anon !

It was incredibly easy to get under Nyen’s skin.

You knew it wasn’t exactly smart, but maybe that’s why you did it. You liked the way he looked at you when you pushed his buttons — tight-jawed, eyes dark, trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t bothered.

You made it a habit to keep stealing his last cigarette, to keep “borrowing” a manga or two without asking, to keep appearing and snatching the final blow to whatever poor pest decided to show up in the Ivory house. 

Nyen knew that Randal spoiled you enough for you to think there weren't any real consequences. That’s why the little weirdo loved you, you were eccentric in your own right, playful and teasing like you were the funniest thing in the world. 

Having that cocky sort of immunity that came from knowing that no one wanted to deal with Randal’s bitching if they reprimanded you. Even Luther didn't have that much of a spine when it came to you. 

It all drove Nyen to his absolute limit.

-

The CD player in the catmen’s room had been playing for fifteen minutes. The house was mostly empty, save for Nana somewhere in the walls, or the skeleton in the kitchen cabinet. You stayed home too, lounging around in your own room, and thankfully occupied for the meanwhile. It was at least as quiet as it can be without most of its residents. 

It should’ve been a relaxing evening. And it was for those fifteen minutes — Nyen had already gotten comfortable in a chair, a cigarette hanging from his lip as he listened to music. 

But of course, you had to ruin it. 

You had stepped inside the room without knocking, an already familiar smile on your face as you darted your eyes to the sitting Nyen and then onto the CD player. 

“I guessed it was you playing this loud ass music, I can hear it from my room.”

Nyen seemed to ignore you, taking another drag from his cig without sparing you a glance. 

You stood there for a moment, just watching him. His scowl was evident on his face when he noticed your presence, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t even shift in his seat.

So, you made yourself comfortable.

You crossed the room, dropped onto the edge of Nyon’s bottom bunk, and stretched your legs out, leaning back on your hands. The mattress creaked a little, but he still didn’t look at you.

“You always play your music this loud?” you asked, voice raised just a bit to cut through it, but it wasn't as loud in reality as you made it seem. “We could, like, get a noise complaint.”

Still nothing. The only sign that he was even listening was the way he began to bounce his leg impatiently. 

You squinted at the CD player, tilting your head. “This is Nirvana, right?”

That got a pause. His fingers stilled, cigarette balanced in place.

You grinned to yourself. “I don’t really get the hype. It’s kind of all the same, isn’t it? Scratchy vocals, sad lyrics, lots of noise. Feels a little overrated personally.”

He turned his head halfway toward you. No exact expression. Just that same unreadable, cold stare he always gave you when he was deciding whether or not you were worth responding to.

“Don’t start,” he said, voice gravelly and already annoyed. Like he’d already had the argument in his head and didn’t feel like playing it out loud.

You sat up a little straighter, letting your lips twist into something more deliberate. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying. It’s not bad, just… kinda mid.”

Now he was looking at you fully.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers. His jaw was tight, not clenched, but set in that way that meant he was weighing something else now. Perhaps now deciding if you were being serious, or really deciding if you were worth Randal being upset at him.

He settled on a glare, eyeing you, immediately noticing you were wearing one of his older shirts, a simple black shirt Luther had gotten him a long time ago. 

It hung a bit off your frame, loose around your shoulders and torso. The hem dipped just past your thighs barely and the shorts you were wearing underneath weren’t doing much to hide the fact.

Nyen’s stare lingered longer than he meant it to. His mouth twitched like he was biting something back an expression. He forced his gaze up, jaw tight.

“…Is that mine?” His voice came out low, flat, and a little too sharp.

You looked down at yourself, tugging at the hem of the shirt like you hadn’t even realized what you were wearing. A lie, obviously. You’d picked it out of his room on purpose.

“Yeah,” you said, feigning casual. “Figured you wouldn’t miss it.”

You shifted slightly on the bed, just enough to draw his attention again — the hem of the shirt riding up when you moved, shorts still barely visible beneath the fabric. His gaze dropped for a second, and when it came back up, it was darker.

“You like playing games,” he said quieter this time, getting up from his seat and reaching to pause the track, then moving to step towards you.

You smiled, slow and crooked. “Only the ones I win.”

His brow twitched, taking another step.

“You think you’ve got the upper hand because you're spoiled,” he spits, “Because no one tells you ‘no.’”

“I mean, you haven't.”

He was in front of you now, standing between your legs, one hand planted on the side of the bunk above you. The space between you felt hotter than it should’ve. Your smirk didn’t fade, but something in you tightened when he leaned down.

“I’ve been letting you get away with it,” he said, much louder now, but much clearer without Kurt Cobin’s voice in the background. “But you keep pushing.”

“Yeah?” is all you could breathe out, excitement already fluttering in your chest.

His hand moved at last — down to ghosting over your knee, then curling slowly around your thigh, sharp nails pressing into bare skin enough for you to wince slightly. 

“I should fucking throw you out,” he says. “but I’m sure you’re desperate for attention.”

A hum escaped your mouth, looking up at him with big eyes, “Maybe I am.”

Without warning, his other hand slammed down on your waist, fingers digging in hard, pinning you firmly to the mattress. The cigarette dropped forgotten between his fingers as he leaned over you, the heat of his body crashing down like a storm.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m done with you.” he snarls, the proximity allowing you to catch the lingering scent of smoke around him.

Your heart raced faster, but you refused to look away, too excited to not tremble slightly under him. “Is that a threat?”

“Guess.”

His fingers slid lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin that flushed instantly at his touch. You watched as he gripped the fabric, balling it in his fist before yanking you forward. 

You yelped instinctively at the sudden movement before catching yourself, quickly switching back to a teasing smirk as he held you closer. 

“So rough, Nyen. I think you might actually want to kill me for what I said about Cobain—”

Nyen’s hand just as suddenly moved to your neck, wrapping around before you could finish your jab about his favorite artist. The force pushes you back onto the bed, and you remember just who it is that is shifting onto the bed with you.

His grip tightened, enough to send a thrill sparking up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath his fingers as he leaned in closer. The mattress dipped under his weight as he pressed forward.

“I like you better when you’re not talking,” he says, low and hot against your ear. “I like you better like this.”

His other hand had already yanked your shorts and underwear down your thighs, tossing somewhere you couldn’t see. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he crowded closer, slotting himself between your legs with no real space left between you.

You squirmed slightly, not to get away, but just to feel the way his hips pressed flush against yours. He noticed, finger flexing where they held you. You could still breathe well-enough, though you're sure that's only because he wants you awake for this.

"I think you like it when I talk back," you managed to taunt, breathless but still loud enough he can hear. “It gets you all riled up, doesn't it?” you huff, “Knowing you— hah, can't do much about it.”

In response, Nyen's grip on your throat tightened fractionally, his own breathing becoming harder as yours stiffened with his grasp. 

The hand on your hip slid around to palm your ass, squeezing the plump flesh hard enough to leave indentions. He rocked his hips forward, grinding his clothed erection against you, your choked whines escaping with each rough pass.

“Fucking brat.”

Nyen’s hand left your ass for a moment, fumbling with the front of his jeans before freeing his aching cock. It sprung out, hot and hard and heavy against your thigh. 

"I'm going to fuck you until you learn to listen," he promised darkly, positioning himself at your entrance. "Until the only thing you remember is the feeling of my cock splitting you open."

He thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you to the hilt in one brutal stroke. A guttural moan tore from his throat at the sudden tight heat enveloping him, and he had to pause, breathing harshly above you. 

Your walls clenched around him, trying to adjust to his size. The lack of air made you a bit woozy, jaw clenching and unclenching as you tried to focus on your composure.

It was fruitless though, eyes fluttering once Nyen began to set a brutal pace inside you. He didn't hold back at all, rough and hard as his pelvis slammed into yours. 

Your moans came out in broken, breathless bursts, stifled by the hand gripping your throat. You reached up instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist in an attempt to anchor yourself underneath him.

His grip on your throat still remained unyielding, each thrust making your vision swim and your lungs burn for air. But even as your body struggled, you couldn't help buckling your hips into his.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Nyen grunted, his voice strained with exertion and pleasure. “I’m— I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He shifted the angle of his hips, letting you wrap your legs around his back as he somehow pushed deeper inside you. Your mind spun, clenching tighter around him as you felt your orgasm building. 

“Please,” You cried through ragged breaths, “I— fuck, need—”

Nyen didn’t let up. If anything, he pressed in closer, lips at your ear as he murmured low and sharp, “Please what?”

You shivered at his voice, heat curling tighter in your gut. His words were cruel on purpose — meant to fluster you more and tease like you always did to him.

“C’mon,” he said, biting back a grin. “Beg for it like a good boy.”

The taunt sent your heart racing. You embarrassingly whined, face burning, pulse hammering, and back curling as you choked out pleads to cum.

If your eyes could focus, you’d see the triumph glint in Nyen’s eyes at your cries, his own hips sputtering for a moment as he feels you reach your peak. His heavy thrusts became more erratic, chasing his similarly rapidly approaching climax. 

His grip on your neck and ass tightened once more, and with a final, brutal slam of his hips, Nyen buried himself to the hilt inside you and stilled. His cock jerked and throbbed as he emptied himself, triggering you to follow right behind him with a choked moan. 

Nyen finally pulled back when you both were spent, chest heaving, but his scowl hadn’t softened one bit. If anything, it deepened as he looked you over, like he couldn’t stand the sight of you — or maybe couldn’t stop staring. 

“You done acting like a brat?” he gruffs, voice hoarser than before.

You blinked up at him, lips parted as if struggling to form proper words through your haziness, still, you managed to let a smirk pull at your mouth, slow and infuriating as always, “Define ‘done.’”

Nyen scoffed, rolling his eyes as he sat on the edge of Nyon’s bed, passing over your body and still spread legs leaking with cum. “You're lucky I didn't break you in half.” 

“Please,” you breathed, your shaky hand dragging over your own form teasingly when you noticed him staring, “I wish you did.” 

He froze for half a second — then shoved off the bed with a sharp exhale like he needed to get away before he lost what was left of his patience. 

“You’re not funny at all.” 

You grinned wider. “Yeah, I’m hilarious.”

Nyen didn’t dignify that with a response. Just fixed his pants and muttered something under his breath that definitely was a curse. 

Finally, he turned towards you, a bit softer noticeably, but he still managed to keep his usual cadence before muttering, “Keep the shirt.”

You didn't get a chance to respond back with something witty, the door slamming behind him as you stayed where you were, still exposed, still sore, and still dripping juices onto a bed that's not yours.

... Sorry Nyon.