#Bare Knuckle Pickups

[musicmags]

[guitarbomb]

Unleash the Halloween with Bare Knuckle Orange Pumpkinheads

As Halloween approaches, it’s time to add a touch of spookiness to your guitar setup. What better way to celebrate this eerie season than with the Special Edition Holydiver 53mm Humbucker Set in a hauntingly cool orange Pumpkinhead finish? These boutique guitar pickups are a must-have for any guitarist looking to rock out in style during the scariest time of the year. The Perfect Halloween…

[brainddeadd]

Surprises

Reader is Jack's wife and comes into the ED during his shift because she was assaulted by a parent at work. Cue Jack freaking out, Dana being supportive, and the residents scared shitless cause they've never seen Jack like this.

Warnings: mention of blood and violence

Jack Abbot was halfway through a consult, his coat flared open as usual and tie nowhere to be seen, when the radio call hit the ED like a freight train.

“Possible assault victim en route—female, late twenties, head trauma, stable vitals. ETA two minutes.”

He didn't flinch—until Dana’s voice followed up a second later.

“She asked for Jack. Said he’s her husband.”

Jack froze. It was one word—husband—but it cracked something wide open. He barely noticed the file slipping from his hand or how the residents stopped mid-motion, watching him.

“Jack?” Dana prompted gently, already moving toward the ambulance bay.

He was sprinting past them a second later, lab coat whipping behind him like a cape.

She was seated upright on the gurney, but barely. Blood matted the edge of her hairline, a deep bruise blooming purple down one cheek. Her hands trembled where they clutched the blanket around her.

“Jack.” Her voice cracked.

His face broke. “Jesus—Y/N.” He dropped to his knees at her side like the world had ended. “What the hell happened?”

“Todd’s dad. He came back after pickup… he was angry I reported the bruises on Todd’s arm,” she whispered, wincing. “He hit me. I—I fell into a desk.”

Jack’s hand hovered near her cheek, like touching her would shatter her. “I’m going to kill him,” he said, dead serious.

“Jack,” Dana warned quietly behind him, but her voice was calm—supportive. She gave a look to the residents loitering at the edges, whispering, wide-eyed.

They’d never seen Jack like this.

He was always blunt, always sharp—but now his rage simmered under the surface, focused like a scalpel. Not yelling. Just quietly, terrifyingly furious.

“She’s going straight for a CT,” he said to the nurse. “Neuro consult. Full trauma panel. I want her monitored until I say otherwise.”

“Already paged,” Dana said. “Let’s get her comfortable. Jack, you’re not on shift anymore. You’re with her.”

He just nodded, eyes never leaving you. His hands were bloodied from where he'd clenched his fists too hard. No one dared point it out.

Dana placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got the floor covered.”

One of the interns leaned toward Dr. Ellis. “He looks like he’s about to murder someone.”

“Because he is,” she whispered back. “And I hope someone tells that asshole parent to lawyer up.”

Jack looked at the resident team, tone sharp as broken glass. “If anyone fucks this up, I’ll bury your med school dreams where no one’ll find them.”

They all nodded. Not one made a sound.

The curtain was pulled, monitors humming low in the dimmed room. You lay curled on your side, hospital bracelet loose around your wrist, the scent of antiseptic lingering faintly under the warmth of clean blankets.

Jack sat beside you, one hand cradling yours, thumb moving in slow circles over your knuckles. He hadn’t let go since you were cleared. Concussion. Some bruised ribs. A sprained wrist. Nothing internal. Nothing broken. But you were shaken.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” His voice was raw now—stripped of its usual edge. “Really okay?”

“I’m here,” you whispered, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “And you’re here.”

His jaw ticked. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your forehead so gently it made you ache.

“I should’ve been there,” he murmured. “I should’ve—”

“You can’t be everywhere,” you said softly. “You were here when it counted.”

He closed his eyes, forehead resting against yours. “I’ve never felt that scared before. Not even in med school. Not even in war zones or trauma bays. Just—you. Hurt. And me not there to stop it.”

You slipped your free hand to his jaw, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You’re here now. That’s all I need.”

Silence stretched, warm and heavy. Then you shifted a little, your voice barely above a breath.

“I was going to wait… make it special… but after today—”

Jack tensed. “Wait for what?”

You smiled, nervous. “They did a blood panel. One of the nurses saw my chart and asked if I knew yet. And I did because I was going to make it special but-”

He blinked, brows knitting, voice steady as he interrupted. “Knew what?”

You reached for his hand, and this time, you brought it low—rested it gently over your abdomen.

“I’m pregnant, Jack.”

He froze. Just for a second. His palm spread wide against your belly like he was afraid to press too hard.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re sure?”

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Six weeks.”

Jack let out a long, shaky breath, then leaned forward and kissed you—long, lingering, reverent. His hand never left your belly.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So damn much.”

“I love you too.”

Outside the curtain, Dana walked by with a quiet smile. One resident started to ask something, but she shook her head.

“Not now. Let them have this.”

[itsoutrageouss]

bae i NEED elliot smut where the reader has a hand kink PLEASEEEEEEEEE i need his fingers so bad

You got it babygirl ;)

something something Elliot’s hands are so mesmerising that when he talks all you hear is blah, blah, blah, backstory stuff.. and he lowkey gets more needy than you from putting his fingers inside… and dominant as hell???

—🧚🏼‍♀️

You couldn’t stop staring at them. It honestly wasn’t your fault- his hands were like magnets to your eyes, always finding their way back down to where they were in his lap, one of them clasped around a cold beer, condensation rolling down the bottleneck like sweat. It continued over his knuckles, dipping through the valleys of his knuckles and dripping onto his lap, little dark spots splattering over his pants where he sat next to you in the back of your pickup truck.

The beers were still cold from the gas station where you’d taken a pit stop before parking at an empty lot further away. His other hand fidgeted with a frazzled bracelet that fit snug around his wrist where the veins bulged and snaked up his hand. You gulped. Forced your eyes up to the twinkling stars instead. Slowly they slid down to the horizon. A little to the left. Down into his lap. Again.

“Doll you’re not listening” Elliot finally noted, his had lazily craning towards you, chin lifted as he leaned back against the back of the car. There was a small, amused smile splaying on his round lips, and his puppy eyes narrowed as he searched your gaze.

You grew hot, fire lapping at your cheeks and exposed neck. He waited patiently for a response, eyes never leaving yours and you broke the silence with an awkward clearing of your throat, lips parted softly like a fish out of water.

“No im listening, for sure” you said with a furrow in your brow and a rapid nod to try and seem like his insinuation was offending. It wasn’t, though, because you hadn’t heard a damn word he’d said. To your startling, mortifying realisation, his free hand came up to squeeze your thigh, and you gasped. You and Elliot were… well you weren’t just friends but… you’d never exactly- well- it was hard to explain, yeah? There was always something simmering there, and at parties you’d always end up making out in a corner until your lips were swollen and raw. But nothing more had ever happened- he always seemed to pull away with a wink and dissapear.

“Yeah? What’d I just say?” He asks, leaning towards you slightly, simultaneously making his hand slide higher up your thigh. Your jaw ticked. Was he doing this on purpose?

“Something about that… thing you did yesterday” you tried, deliberately turning your head away to seem distracted yourself, like you didn’t throb between your legs already. You tried to take a calming breath but his hand left your leg, leaving a cold feeling where it had rested, before it came up to the back of your head, grasping your neck tightly to force your head back to face him. Was he closer now? Your hands flicked down to his hand that flexed around the beer and placed it on the bed of the truck next to his thigh. He followed your line of sight.

He shook his head and grinned as his eyes shimmered with understanding. “Not at all what I said. But it’s cool.” He said, his hand staying on your neck, forcing you to keep looking at him. His fingers tightened slightly and a shiver ran down your spine. Visibly, you shuddered. He rolled his eyes.

“This really what’s getting you so distracted?” He asks, his voice teasing as his fingers slid down your neck, around to the front of your neck, gliding over your collarbone. You suppressed a whimper, his other hand trailing up the bare skin if your thigh. The summer heat was sticky around you, a light sheen of sweat over his temple, his curls messy in the humid air. He licked his lips unconsciously, both his and your eyes glued to his hand moving up to the hem of your shorts, long fingers skittering just under the material. Your eyes widened slightly at his boldness.

“Elliot- why- you never touch-“ you stammered foolishly, wanting to understand what had changed. He sighed softly, peeling his eyes from the sight of your thigh convulsing under his touch. He held it tight to stop them from pressing needily together.

“Didn’t want to overstep. Didn’t know what you… wanted. I might have a fucking clue now, though” he said, voice low as his hand dipped under your shorts, skimming the side of your panties in a dangerously light touch. Your eyes squeezed shut and thudded against the back of the car. He snickered and you spared him a side glance.

“They just- fuck they look so… good” you whined, inhibitions lowered at the way his slender fingers moved over your clothes cunt. God his ego swelled in his chest as he rapidly removed his hand, sitting up straighter, shadowing the stars from your view, one hand cupping your jaw as he frantically worked the button of your shorts. His veins pulsed, the matted blue bracelet you gave him adorning his bronze skin.

“You want them?” He asked in a breathy tone, the thought dizzying both of you as your zipper was undone, hips lifting so he could tug the shorts down just enough for hun to get to where he wanted like he had no time to spare, like a dog who was been waiting for permission and finally had it. Your eyes opened, snapped to his, down to this plump lips, where his mouth was open, hand hovered over your panties.

You couldn’t even speak, only nodding in a desperate manner and bucking your hips up slightly to try and meet his hand. But he moved it just in time for you to only graze the warm air.

“Have to say it or I won’t touch you” he stated and you pouted in embarrassment.

“Yes- yes I want them Elliot just fucking-“ you were cut off by the breath in your throat hitching, swallowing down a moan as his fingertips slid under your panties and slid down your molten, wet slit. He let out a low sound almost akin to a moan, and it was absolutely addicting.

“Jesus Christ did my hands make you this wet?” He asked, but not even in a mocking way, just un pure astonishment, maybe even feeling a little proud as he prodded around your went cut, mapping you out, spending extra time at your puffy clit. He bit down on his tongue at the way you whined and twitched when his middle finger slipped over the nub in messy, soft rubs.

“It’s not my fault” you protested. It was his hands that made you feel so unexplainable fucking needy, it was completely out of your control. He huffed, and in response slipped a finger inside of you. Your walls already pulsed around the sole finger as it curled up, feeling your scorching hot and creaming cunt suck it in. He was mesmerised as you both stared at where his hand moved under your panties. Your thighs clamped around his wrist and he tsk’ed at you, his other hand digging into the plush if your thigh and prying them open wide. It felt so exposing, here in this lonely parking lot, the way his eyes were burning holes into your went cunt like he was just as taken as you.

He couldn’t help himself to slip a second finger inside, stretching your walls to accommodate him in a delicious stretch. He moaned- he fucking moaned before you even had the chance to. Blatantly, whorish, unashamed as his pupils dilated, meeting yours.

“This all you wanted? Just needed me to stuff my fingers inside of you to keep you happy, hm?” He asked, voice suddenly more hoarse than before, curling his fingers and pressing them inside you over and over, as far in as they could go, the wet squelching making your lashes flutter.

“Yes- yes thank you, Eli” you moaned with a thick voice, not even hearing your own words as more than a distance sound.

“Fuckin’ thanking me for fingering you Jesus Christ-“ he muttered, more to himself than to you as his hand in your thighs tugged your panties down messily for more access, finally able to see where he dissapear into you, where his hand shimmered in your wetness. His other hand went down, spreading your lips to see better, the lewd action making your heart swell and stutter and another gush of wetness dripping to the bed of the truck. His thumb rolled over your clit in messy circles and your cunt clenched around his fingers rhythmically.

“That’s it- gonna cum already? I just started doll” he said, a little mockery in his tone that made you flush and shiver. His lips suddenly pressed to yours to swallow down your moans, and he sucked in a sharp breath of relief. You moaned into his warm mouth, breath intermingling.

“Gonna- elliot-“ you garbled out, the way your clit was so puffy and wet that his thumb moved even faster making your now free thighs choke his wrist as you pulse around him, locking down like a vice- his veins bulging from the efforts to keep moving. Your breath hitches before all the curses and whined you could muster tumbled out of your swollen lips.

“Good girl, good fuckin- that’s it- better than I imagined oh fu-“ he rambled on, apparently incredibly mouthy when his fingers were pressed into your wet cunt. You nearly blacked out, felt your thighs grow wet, his hand still moving to its last effort. After god knows how long he slipped his fingers out, pervertedly holding them up in the moonlight. You cracked an eye opened and your kith watered at watching those damned fingers shimmering with your cum.

“Now are you gonna focus on what im telling you?” He asked as he pulled your shirts and panties up over your hips again, wet fingers struggling with the button. You breathed out a soft giggle, looking over at him, all your limbs weak.

“Yeah. Go ‘head.”

[girly-girlk]

red light confessions

blue collar!rafe cameron x reader

summary: you text rafe after a bad date and then confess to him at a red light

the text you send is short, clipped:

“can you come get me?”

rafe doesn’t ask questions. twenty minutes later, headlights slice through the dark, and his old chevy pickup rolls up to the curb. you yank open the door, heart pounding harder than it did the whole damn date.

you barely say anything as you climb in, but he doesn’t press. he just glances at you—one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around it—and shifts the truck into gear.

his jaw is locked, like he’s been biting down words since he left wherever he was. you can smell the engine oil still on his skin, see the dried paint on his knuckles.

“didn’t go well?” he finally mutters, voice low and gravelly.

you huff out a bitter laugh. “he spent the whole time talking about his ex. and stocks. like… back and forth between heartbreak and crypto.”

rafe doesn’t say anything. his grip on the steering wheel tightens. you notice the little vein in his forearm twitch.

“he said i seemed like a ‘sweet distraction,’” you add.

that does it.

rafe slams his palm against the steering wheel—not hard enough to scare you, but enough to make his frustration known. “fucking prick.”

you glance over at him, surprised by the heat in his voice. “what?”

“you shouldn’t be going out with assholes like that,” he mutters, eyes locked on the road, knuckles white.

silence fills the truck. your heart starts doing that dangerous, traitorous thing again.

“then who should i be going out with, rafe?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

the truck slows. the red light catches you both, casting a low glow inside the cab. he turns his head, and in the hush of the night, the heat between you finally crackles.

“you know who,” he says, voice rough. “don’t make me say it.”

your breath catches. “say it.”

his eyes fall to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. “me. you should be going out with me.”

he laughs, almost bitter. “but i don’t have fancy dinners or polished shoes. just this truck and dirty hands and—”

you cut him off. lean across the center console and kiss him, quick but certain, like it’s the only thing you’ve wanted to do all damn night. he doesn’t move at first—shocked, maybe—but then his hand slides behind your neck and pulls you in again, slower this time. hungrier.

the red light lingers, like the world’s giving you a moment to catch up to the truth that’s been burning between you for months.

when you finally pull back, breathless, you whisper, “you smell like oil and sweat. abs i’ve never wanted anything more.”

rafe grins—sharp and stunned, a little crooked. “yeah?”

you nod.

the light turns green, but he doesn’t move right away. just looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

“you’re staying at my place tonight,” he says, more like a promise than a question.

and you are.

[zenithsturniolo]

introducing... dealer!chris

♪ yale by ken carson

chris. 22. leo. dealer. always stoned. cold. unreadable. dominant. impatient. reckless. blunt in every sense. jawline sharp. voice sharp. eyes red. hands always warm. hoodie up. rings on. blunt lit. smells like weed, leather, and you. acts like he doesn’t care, proves it every time. calls you angel only when you’re being a brat. only when he’s about to ruin you.

⇢ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 ↴

introducing... client!reader

♪ why don’t u by father

angel. 21. libra. client. soft. chaotic. lip gloss. mouthy. sharp tongued but always pretty. hopeless romantic. heart too big for her own good. flirts like it’s a reflex. talks shit just to get his attention. blushes when he stares too long. swears she’s not into him, but never leaves. anxious as hell. smells like vanilla, weed, and him. lets him call her angel. pretends it doesn’t ruin her every time.

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋

you weren’t even supposed to be there that night.

you were just tagging along with a friend. she needed a quick pick up, said the guy was quiet but solid. you didn’t expect him to be hot, or half-high, or leaning against a beat-up black civic like the world was boring him to death. his hoodie was half off his shoulder, the sleeves pushed up, and the first thing you noticed was how red his knuckles were. like he fought more than he talked.

you stayed in the car at first. watched the exchange through the cracked window, arms crossed, unimpressed.

then your plug ghosted you two nights later and you didn’t really have a choice. so you hit her up, got the number, and texted him. he replied, and that was it.

you didn’t know why you cared what he thought. didn’t know why you’d worn that top or why your heart kicked stupid in your chest when you saw him waiting again, same spot, same lazy posture.

“this how you treat all your clients?” you said as you handed him the cash.

“just the ones who talk too much,” he muttered, eyes dragging over your face.

you snorted. “you got a name?”

he paused. blinked slow, then said, “chris.”

you offered yours in return, and he barely reacted. just passed you the baggie like it was nothing, like you hadn’t just rewired your whole damn brain for how good his fingers looked doing it.

“thanks for the service, chris,” you teased, stepping back. “real gentleman shit.”

he shook his head, that tiny smile tugging at his lip for the first time.

“you’re real mouthy, hm?”

“better than being a dick about everything.”

“yeah,” he said, pushing off the car to open the door for you. like it wasn’t a big deal, like he didn’t do that for anyone else. “get in, angel. you’re annoying as fuck, but i’ll give you a ride.”

and just like that, the name stuck. and just like that, so did you.

—

𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒

she was loud from the second he met her.

not volume wise. just… loud. energy too big, mouth too quick, smile too pretty for someone trying to act like they didn’t care about anything. she was in someone else’s passenger seat, legs up, nails tapping against the window, acting like this was all beneath her. like she wasn’t just another client.

he assessed her in five seconds flat: hopeless, flirty, trying hard not to seem lonely. he didn’t expect to ever see her again, but two nights later, his phone buzzed with a number he didn’t know and a text that just said, “u got time?”

he did. and he hated that he wanted to see if she’d show up.

when she did— glossed lips, acting like this was casual— he knew she wasn’t just another pickup. he hated the way she teased, hated the way she looked at him.

“you got a name?” she asked like she didn’t already know it.

he told her anyway, and she smiled like it mattered. after that, she came back. not every day. not always for weed. sometimes just to sit in his car, vent about her day, borrow a lighter and complain about life being too slow. she had this habit of leaning into him when she talked, all attitude and perfume and wide eyes.

even with the mouth, the stubbornness, the way she picked fights on purpose, she was still soft. still sweet. still looked at him like he was something more than a dealer with blood under his nails.

he doesn’t say much now. doesn’t need to.

she’s always showing up. and somehow, she’s still here.

+ find the dealer!chris x client!reader taglist here + find more dealer!chris here + find my entire masterlist here

🏷: @drewswife @k4urltzx @courta13 @briizysturn @y2kstarr @adorechris @dolliraez @rriverscuomo @sturnsblogs @mattspillowprincess @mattsplaything @sturns-mermaid @auttysturnz @sonnyangelsweetiee @izzylovesmatt @ribbonlovergirl @matts-girlfriend @pair-of-pantaloons @444sturns @weron1ka @grrrrcherries  @matts-wife @thicknick19 @slvtf0rchr1s @devotedlyteenagemusic @adoremattsturns @slut4chrisloads @cayleeuhithinknott @lyingbymalcom @sturniolo1trips @chrissbxby @alexisa78 @ariheartsmatt @slutformatt17 @chestersturn @kenziesturniolo54 @malsmind @chrismoans @sophsturns @surprisecurlyfriess @sturnslutz @passionfruitchris

© zenithsturniolo

[mattsghoul]

STURNIOLO FANFIC ⇢ the word that broke and built him

sum. matt comforts liv after a rough daycare day, treating her to ice cream and park playtime. as they bond over swings and dandelions, she calls him “dad,” a heart-shattering moment that cements his role, leaving him teary with overwhelming love.

feat. matt sturniolo

cw. fluff. heartwarming. family dynamics. slice of life. no warnings. sfw.

wc. 1325.

ㅤ⊂⊃ ( mak.says ) ﹐⇅ quick psa: @55sturn has a really good storyline with chris as a dad (you can find one of her works here). it was posted before mine, and funnily enough, both our stories have kids with pretty similar names. if you're into the whole "triplets as parents" thing, you should 100% check it out.

matt’s hands gripped the steering wheel of his beat-up sedan, his knuckles white as he pulled into the daycare parking lot in los angeles, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows, the sky a bruised orange that mirrored the ache in his chest.

he was still navigating the weight of being y/n’s partner and step-dad to her three-year-old daughter, liv—a role he’d embraced with fierce love but gnawing self-doubt. y/n’s text from earlier replayed in his mind:

liv had a bad day at daycare. some kid upset her, made her cry. i’m stuck at the hospital, can you get her?

his heart had twisted at the thought of liv’s tears, and now, as he parked, his black hoodie rumpled from a day of errands, he steeled himself to be her rock.

inside, the daycare buzzed with the chaos of pickup time—kids shrieking, parents chatting, the smell of crayons and apple juice thick in the air. matt’s sneakers squeaked on the tiled floor as he signed in, his eyes scanning for liv. her teacher, ms. clara, met him with a gentle frown.

“she’s been off since lunchtime,” she said softly. “a boy teased her about her bunny. she’s over there.” she pointed to a corner where liv sat, her curls a tangled halo, her stuffed bunny clutched to her chest. her little face was splotchy, her big eyes—carbon copies of y/n’s—glossy with hurt.

matt’s throat tightened, a protective ache blooming in his chest. “thanks,” he murmured, crouching a few feet from liv, his voice as soft as he could make it. “hey, livvy. it’s me, sweetheart. ready to go home?”

liv looked up, her lips trembling, and something in matt cracked at the sight of her pain. she nodded, barely a whisper of movement, and shuffled over, her tiny hand reaching for his. her fingers, sticky from some forgotten snack, curled into his palm, and the trust in that touch nearly undid him. he lifted her into his arms, her bunny pressed between them, and grabbed her backpack, his heart pounding with the need to make her world right again.

in the car, he buckled her into her car seat, brushing a curl from her face. “rough day, huh?” he said, keeping his tone light, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “wanna tell me about it?”

liv hugged her bunny tighter, her voice small. “tommy said my bunny’s ugly. he said it’s old and i’m dumb for liking it.” her words wobbled, and a fresh tear rolled down her cheek, glinting in the fading light.

matt’s hands tightened on the wheel, a flash of anger swallowed by the need to comfort her. “livvy, listen to me,” he said, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “your bunny’s not ugly. it’s special because it’s yours, because it’s been with you through everything. tommy doesn’t get that, and that’s his loss. you’re not dumb—you’re the smartest, coolest kid i know.”

she sniffled, her eyes searching his in the mirror. “really?”

“really,” he said, forcing a smile past the lump in his throat. “how about we ditch this sad stuff? let’s get ice cream and hit the park. you and me, kiddo. sound good?”

her face brightened, just a flicker, but it was enough. “chocolate ice cream?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

“you got it,” matt said, his heart lifting. “chocolate for my favorite girl.”

they stopped at an ice cream truck near liv’s favorite park, the one with the yellow slide she could climb for hours. matt ordered her a small chocolate cone, the kind that always left her chin a mess, and got himself a vanilla soft serve, something simple to keep his hands busy. they sat on a bench, liv’s legs swinging, her bunny propped beside her as she licked her cone, chocolate smudging her cheeks. matt wiped it with a napkin, his touch gentle, his eyes tracing her face like he could memorize every freckle, every fleeting expression.

“better?” he asked, taking a bite of his own cone, the cold sweetness grounding him.

liv nodded, her smile shy but real. “yummy,” she said, then leaned her head against his arm, her warmth a quiet anchor. matt’s chest ached with love, with the weight of being her safe place, even if he still wondered if he was enough.

“wanna tell me more about tommy?” he asked, his voice soft, giving her space. “or we can just eat and forget him.”

she sighed, a big, dramatic toddler sigh. “he was mean. but you’re not mean. you’re nice, matt.” her words were so earnest, so pure, they hit him like a wave, stealing his breath.

“you’re nice, too, livvy,” he said, his voice rough. “the nicest. don’t let anyone make you feel less, okay? you’re my superstar.”

she grinned, chocolate smudged on her nose, and matt laughed, the sound shaky with emotion. they finished their cones, and he carried her to the playground, her bunny tucked under his arm.

he pushed her on the swing, her laughter ringing out as she soared, her curls flying in the breeze. “higher!” she squealed, and matt pushed harder, his hands steady, his heart full. they raced to the slide, matt pretending to lose as she scrambled up the ladder, her giggles echoing as he caught her at the bottom, spinning her until she was dizzy with joy.

as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the park in a soft twilight, they collapsed onto the grass, liv nestled between his legs, picking at dandelions. matt wove a flower crown, his fingers clumsy but careful, and placed it on her head, the yellow blooms glowing against her curls. she beamed, her earlier hurt forgotten, and leaned back against his chest, her bunny in her lap.

“you’re the best, matt,” she said, her voice sleepy, content. then, so quiet it could’ve been a dream, she looked up, her eyes wide and trusting. “dad, can you hold my bunny for me?”

the word—dad—landed like a thunderbolt, shattering matt’s heart and piecing it back together in the same breath. his breath hitched, his eyes flooding with tears he couldn’t stop, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. dad. she’d never called him that, not in all the months of bedtime stories, scraped knees, and tea parties. he was matt, her protector, her playmate, but dad? that was a gift he’d never dared to hope for, a word so big it felt like it could swallow him whole.

he blinked hard, trying to keep his voice steady, but it came out raw, trembling. “yeah, livvy,” he said, taking the bunny with shaking hands, holding it like it was sacred. “i’ll hold it for you, sweetheart.”

she smiled, oblivious to the earthquake she’d caused, and snuggled closer, her flower crown slipping, her breathing soft and even. “i love you, dad,” she mumbled, her words slurring with sleep, and matt’s tears fell then, silent and unstoppable, streaking his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around her.

“i love you, too, livvy,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his heart a beautiful, gut-wrenching mess of joy and awe. he wasn’t her dad by blood, but in that moment, with her warmth against him and her bunny in his hands, he was hers in every way that mattered. the doubts he’d carried—was he enough? could he be what y/n and liv needed?—crumbled under the weight of their trust, their love, that single, perfect word from liv.

the park was quiet, the sky deepening to dusk, but matt didn’t move, holding liv as she drifted off, her flower crown askew, her bunny safe in his grip. y/n would be home soon, and he’d try to tell her, his voice thick with wonder, about the moment their little girl made him whole. for now, he sat there, his daughter in his arms, and let the overwhelming, heart-shattering love of being dad carve itself into his soul.

©pokesturns any and all forms of modifications, reposts, and translation of my work are prohibited.

[skiesuconn]

love & basketball

paige bueckers & azzi fudd യ summary: just a little oneshot i wrote. basically p and az just playin a pickup game. p being a pain in the ass, and just a classic. literally love & basketball. 2k words (i think). യ notes: enjoy your friday, my loves. go for a walk, get some sunlight. and rest that beautiful mind of yours. happy reading!

it all started because azzi wanted something sweet.

not crave like a sudden need. more like the day had draped itself over her in layers of warmth and memory, and she just wanted something to cut through it. something cold. soft. maybe with strawberries. maybe not.

so they’d taken the detour.

now they’re walking slow, blizzards in hand, sugar cooling on their tongues, the sky bruised with the end of day.

azzi’s cup sweats in her hand, soft and steady, like it’s slowly letting go of itself. her fingers shine with it, that gentle melt, familiar now

she chose brownie temptation, of course. even after five whole minutes of staring at the menu like it might offer her a new life. even after all the “hm”s and “wait”s and the half-step back like she’s not sure.

paige had teased her, soft and close, shoulder nudging shoulder. something about decision fatigue, about being painfully predictable.

“how do you still not know what you want?” she’d said, grinning.

azzi had ignored her, like always. like she wasn’t smiling.

now paige’s rocky road is long gone, cup crushed lazily in her palm. she’s been crunching the last bits of chocolate shell between her teeth like it’s a sport.

gravel soft underfoot. azzi’s curls a little sticky at the edges from the breeze and the heat and the way paige kept looking at her like she was sunlight filtered through honey.

“you happy now?” paige asks, voice all sunlit and teasing. she nudges azzi with her elbow.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. instead, she scoops a bite of her blizzard and gently holds it out to paige, lets her taste it like that — spoon to lips, no warning.

“oh yeah,” azzi finally says.

paige licks the spoon clean. “mine was better.”

azzi shrugs, slow, like she’s too full to argue. “whatever.”

she tosses her cup toward the trash can up ahead, flicks her wrist like she’s pulling up from three. it arcs, perfect. hits the rimless bin with a soft thud and disappears. all net. even though there’s no net.

paige whistles low. “i can do that”

she squares up, feet shoulder-width, dips into her midrange bag—tight pocket, high release, classic follow-through.

cup bricks off the side.

she blinks. “nah run that back.”

azzi grins. “i think you need stronger prescription’”

‘’you are an idiot’’

‘’you are an idiot’’

paige spots something, squints against the sun that’s spilling across her face. “hey, there’s a court,” she says, pointing past the trees. and sure enough, half-buried in the green, a cracked little court where a group of boys are hoopin' like they’ve got all the time in the world. the ball slaps against the backboard. someone yells for a screen. it’s not much, but it feels like everything.

paige looks at azzi, waiting.

“i don’t have kicks,” azzi says, glancing down at her slides, all glossy and wrong for the court.

“you can wear mine,” paige offers, already undoing the laces.

azzi raises a brow. “and you’ll use your hands or...?”

azzi laughs, loud, open, unbuttoned. it catches in paige’s throat, lodges there, warm and aching.

“barefoot,” the older girl says, like it’s obvious. “i’m like that.”

her hand stays in paige’s, intertwined . and then, a kiss, featherlight to her knuckles. slow, reverent. like azzi’s trying to say something she doesn’t have language for, so she lets her mouth speak instead.

they sit on the bench at the edge of the court, letting the sun soak into their skin, watching the boys run their game like it’s the championship. a llake glints behind them, blue and blinding. it smells like fresh sap and leftover sugar, and the wind lifts azzi’s curls just enough to make paige look.

paige shrugs off her hoodie, arms bare now, the hem of her shirt lifting with it, just a bit. enough.

azzi sees. of course she sees. she tries not to, but her eyes betray her.

paige grins, already knowing. “like what you see, huh?”

azzi smacks her shoulder. “you’re so obsessed with yourself.”

“right, rightttt,” paige says, dragging it out like she’s not smug as hell.

paige bends down, starts unlacing her sneakers to hand them over. the same size, a quiet miracle neither of them ever talks about. azzi slips her foot into one.

“thanks,” she murmurs.

“should i take off my socks too?” paige asks, one brow raised.

azzi doesn’t even blink. “yeah, no. nobody wants to look at those.”

paige just stares, mouth open.

azzi smiles, all fake innocence. “i’m joking.”

she kisses her, mid-laugh, presses their mouths together. halfway through, she whispers against paige’s lips, “okay i’m not.”

paige pushes her by the shoulder, smiling like a fool.  the world sways gentle,  just them, the cracked court, and the faint sound of piano spilling from an open window down the street, notes drifting like fireflies in sunlight.

laughter breaks out sharp, not theirs.

some neighborhood kids, all cocky grins and busted-up sneakers, wander through the chain-link gate like they’ve been here forever. two of them pass a ball between them like it’s breathing.

“wanna run threes?” one yells, voice cracking in the middle.

brave, but not stupid. he knows who they are.

“hellllll yeah.”

paige doesn’t even blink. smiles at the younger girl.

like she’s been waiting for a reason.

azzi touches her arm, light and grounding.

“go easy on them,” she says, but there’s a flicker in her eyes, warning, maybe. or care. same thing.

paige leans in just enough to tap azzi’s lower back, fingers quick.

“you mean go easy on you?”

azzi’s team gets sorted, the kid they stick her with is taller than her by at least an inch, arms like wire, limbs still figuring themselves out. he’s quiet, but his eyes are sharp.

paige clocks it instantl.y

azzi doesn’t give her the satisfaction.

just mutters, “all that talk. he’s gonna dunk on your ass.”

and it’s not even a whisper. it’s meant for her, only her.

paige shrugs, playful.

“i got you a blizzard, az.”

middle finger, low by her hip. clean. practiced.

paige catches it. winks, like it’s the best thing she’s seen all week.

they call 1s and 2s. first to 15.

sun melting through the trees, all drowsy gold and biting heat. the blacktop is warm enough to hum. there's sweat already sliding down azzi’s neck, sticking to her chain.

paige’s hand’s on the ball like it belongs to her.

like she belongs here.

she tosses it over to azzi, light, easy.

it thuds against her palms, and she barely looks up before tossing it back.

just a rhythm between them now.

the taller boy’s already spaced out on the wing, waiting. on paige’s side.

she grins, teeth sharp, eyes hooded.

“let’s hoop.”

ball swings left. she dumps it off to the boy. azzi’s guarding him, low stance, arms wide, eyes locked. paige’s already moving. sets a screen, shoulder firm. azzi goes under, fast, but not fast enough.

the kid takes the bait. hard dribble, jab step. steps back, sells it like he’s gonna shoot.

azzi bites. just for a blink.

he kicks it.

quick drop to paige.

she catches it off balance but still finishes off glass.

clean. unfussy.

she daps him up near half-court, low and snug.

leans in real quick, not loud, just enough.

“pick her pockets and i’ll give you some KD’s.”

he says “bet” without even blinking.

other side. now azzi’s teammate’s got it.

he’s calm, light on his toes, dribbling toward the arc. paige is on azzi again. tight. too tight.

forearm brushing hers. feet nearly stepping on hers.

azzi tilts her head, smirking just a little, like she knows something.

“you can’t get enough, huh?”

paige breathes out a laugh. doesn’t give her the satisfaction.

“lock in.”

but her eyes are only on her.

the shorter kid’s guarding azzi’s boy, staying grounded, hips low, pestering him without touching. real defense.

azzi stays patient. keeps her hands on her knees like she’s chillin’. then, snap. she cuts hard to the paint. one sharp step like lightning down her spine.

he sees it. no hesitation.

threads the needle.

azzi catches and lays it in, smooth, like it was always supposed to happen.

paige’s jaw flexes.

1–1

she mumbles under her breath as she walks past, just for azzi:

“lucky.”

azzi doesn’t even look at her. just cups her hand to her ear, still backpedaling like she’s listening for the wind.

what? say it louder.

paige exhales through her nose, trying not to grin.

that was hot.

score’s 14–13. game to 15. paige up, barely.

azzi’s teammate jogs the ball up, relaxed. lazy dribble, like he got all the time in the world. but azzi’s already shouting:

“screen, screen, left side!”

her voice cuts through the heavy air, sharp. she sees it coming before it happens, dude steps into paige’s hip like he’s setting a brick wall. textbook. dirty.

paige slams into him, half-spins, arms flailing like windmill defense.

“yo! moving screen, that’s a foul!”

no whistle. no ref. just excuses and pride on the line.

azzi doesn’t wait. she slides out to the wing, shoulder twitch to shake her defender.

one-two step.

catch.

lift.

pure.

that jumper’s poetry. wrist snap so clean it’s like she knew it’d drop before the ball even left her fingers.

swish. not even rim. air don’t dare touch it.

azzi doesn’t celebrate normal.

she turns, slow and smooth, smile like honey laced with venom.

blows paige a kiss across the court. casual. criminal.

like she didn’t just steal the win.

paige catches it instinctively, fingers curled like she’s gripping something sacred.

throws it back, flick of the wrist, lip caught between her teeth, breathing hard, chest rising like she’s still fighting the screen.

she’s grinning. but her eyes? her eyes are locked. heat behind them. something simmering just below that smartass facade of hers.

“you’re annoying as hell,” she mutters under her breath, loud enough for azzi to hear.

azzi doesn’t miss a beat.

just jogs back past her, chin high, voice light like it ain’t the end of the world.

“game.”

paige’s jaw ticks.

“you hit that just to piss me off, huh?”

azzi shrugs, all faux-innocence, already untying her hair, curls falling loose like punctuation.

“don’t crashout.”

paige watches her walk away, long legs, slick shoulders, that bounce in her step like she knows she got the last word.

got the game.

got her flustered.

got her feeling 16 all over again.

they meet at half-court.

palms slap, a sharp, echoing sound swallowed quick by the trees and the hush of late-summer evening. the sun hovers low. there’s sweat clinging to both of them, staining the edges of their shirts, beading down azzi’s neck like honey.

but paige doesn’t look away.

not from her face.

not from the pink flush on azzi’s cheeks or the way her dark curls stick to her temple.

azzi meets her eyes like it’s a promise, teeth brushing her lip before she lets it go slowly but sure, like she knows what she’s doing.

she slaps hands with the boys, laughter slipping from her like she’s still high off the win, but she doesn’t look at them.

she keeps her eyes on paige.

they drift to the bench, not really speaking. their steps match up. always do.

azzi’s calf brushes paige’s shin. on purpose or not, it doesn’t matter. the contact sets off a tremor anyway.

paige grabs the water bottle, gulps like she’s dying.

azzi watches, eyebrows raised, chest still rising and falling in post-game rhythm.

"there’s barely any left," she says flatly, already reaching.

her hand curls over paige’s and yanks it free.

“bro,” paige says, eyes wide.

azzi tilts the bottle, drinks like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just snatch it from her hand.

“you’re a child stuck in an adult’s body.”

paige wipes the back of her mouth, leans back on her palms.

“i bench more than you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“yeah, i do.”

azzi doesn't even turn. “no you don’t.”.

“you played unfair,” paige mumbles, dragging her fingers over the concrete like she’s tracing shapes she doesn’t know how to say.

azzi shrugs. “and you played along.”

that pulls a quiet scoff out of paige. “did i?”

azzi’s looking at her again.

studying her.

lips, eyes, breath.

like she’s remembering something with her whole body.

paige swallows.

azzi looks away.

a tap lands on her shoulder, one of the boys they played with. a little shy, like the game shook something loose in him.

"can i get a pic?"

he’s looking mostly at paige, but not in that weird way. just… like he’s seen something cool and wants to hold onto it.

“for sure,” paige says, brushing dirt off her thighs as she stands. “can azzi be in it too?”

he nods fast, suddenly excited again.

azzi steps in. something in the air leans in, warm and weightless.

paige’s hand settles on azzi’s ass, almost casual, the other arm thrown around the boy’s shoulder. azzi stiffens for half a second, then softens.

the photo clicks.

paige smirks. “tag me as the winner, aight?”

the boy laughs. “i gotchu.”

azzi rolls her eyes so hard it looks rehearsed.

“you’re a loser,” she mutters under her breath as they sit again, legs nearly touching.

but she doesn’t move away.

paige’s arm is around azzi’s shoulder, loose, but not without intention. her fingers trail absent circles on azzi’s upper arm, like her body doesn’t know how to be still when azzi’s near. azzi’s head rests on paige’s shoulder, curls grazing collarbone, brushing the line of her neck. soft and ticklish.  she smells like spf and sugar, and whatever lotion she used that morning still clinging to her, still her.

paige tips her head down, nose wrinkling slightly. “you smell,” she says, a half-smirk in her voice.

azzi doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink. “your hairline is receding,” she says, calm and dry, like it’s fact. (it really is)

paige scoffs, soft and theatrical. “what’s with the attitude?”

azzi shifts, just barely, the edge of a grin pulling at her mouth. “the people are worried,” she replies, then adds without looking, “you started it.”

paige turns her head. azzi does too. they move like magnets, like they’ve done this before in a dream. blue meets brown. no one blinks.

paige leans in, slow. not dramatic. 

azzi meets her, steady. one hand rises, cradles paige’s jaw like something delicate. the other hooks a finger into the chain around her neck, tugs gentle, just enough to bring her close.

they kiss.

soft. certain. summer-sweet. colorado springs all over again.

azzi’s mouth curves against paige’s like she’s smiling into it. paige’s heart stumbles and then rights itself.

when they pull apart, paige grins, dazed and dumb.

“you almost choked me there.”

azzi’s fingers still on the necklace. her eyes shining like polished amber.

“you almost deserved it,” she says, and her voice is velvet with mischief.

and they laugh.

because they mean it.

and because they don’t.

[sunsetmade]

Stupid Mistakes

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: When she overhears Rafe joking about their closeness to his friends, she quietly pulls away, breaking both their hearts in the process. But Rafe isn’t about to let her slip away without showing her just how much she means to him.

The Boneyard wasn’t her scene—but Rafe was.

That’s why she was there, tucked into the shadows near the fire, the familiar heat brushing against her skin while the louder crowd pulsed with laughter and music. She didn’t know half the people here. She barely spoke to the ones she did know. But when Rafe had turned to her earlier that night and said, “Come with me?” with that tilted smile that made her stomach twist in that warm, dangerous way, she didn’t hesitate.

It was always easy to say yes to him.

Not because she was trying to impress him. Not because she felt like she had to. But because something about being near him made her feel like maybe—just maybe—he wanted her around.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it always felt like they were something. The way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention. The way he always found her hand when they walked side by side. The way he called her “sweetheart” in that low, teasing voice, just loud enough to make her heart stutter.

It wasn’t nothing.

At least, she didn’t think it was.

But tonight felt… off.

Rafe had vanished into the crowd not long after they arrived, drawn into the orbit of his friends with a quick, “Back in a sec, alright?” and a gentle nudge of his knuckles under her chin.

She stood alone now, arms crossed, fiddling with the sleeves of her hoodie. She told herself she didn’t mind. That she didn’t expect him to stick by her side the whole night. That it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

God, it did.

She watched him now, a little way off near one of the pickups. His voice carried through the smoke and music, low and rough, laughter spilling out in short bursts as he leaned against the tailgate with Topper and Kelce. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop—truly. But when his name floated to her ears, she couldn’t help but listen.

“You bring your little pet again?” Topper asked, smirking.

Rafe snorted, and her chest tightened.

“She’s like… attached, bro,” Kelce added with a laugh. “I’ve never seen a girl orbit someone that hard.”

“Clingy,” Topper offered with mock sympathy. “But in, like, a golden retriever way.”

And then Rafe, her Rafe, laughed. Not forced. Not awkward. Just… amused.

“She’s harmless,” he said, and her breath caught. “She’s cute, y’know? Like… a puppy.”

The world tilted slightly.

She didn’t wait to hear the rest. Didn’t need to. Her feet carried her back toward the edge of the trees before she could stop them, vision blurring at the corners. She could still hear the music, the chatter, the laughter.

But all she could really hear was puppy.

Harmless.

Clingy.

She’d told herself they were real. That the way he looked at her meant something. That when he touched her shoulder gently or sat too close or texted her late at night just to hear about her day—it meant something.

But maybe she was just a joke.

Some quiet little shadow who followed him around, waiting for scraps of affection he never truly meant.

⸻

She didn’t stop talking to him.

She wasn’t the kind of girl to make a scene. She still replied when he texted her. Still showed up when he asked her to come over and watch movies or take drives to nowhere. But there was a wall now—thin, invisible, but solid enough that Rafe felt it every time he tried to reach her.

She didn’t lean on him anymore.

Didn’t smile the way she used to.

And when he touched her, she didn’t flinch—but she didn’t melt, either.

Rafe wasn’t dumb. He knew something was off. He just didn’t know why.

He’d replayed the past week in his head over and over, wondering what he’d missed. Did he say something? Do something? Was she tired of him? Had he crossed a line he didn’t even see?

And then came the worst possibility—that she just didn’t feel the same way.

Because he felt it. Every time she looked at him with those wide, shy eyes. Every time she spoke just above a whisper but with enough softness to knock the wind out of his chest. He felt everything.

He just hadn’t said it. Neither of them had. That silence felt safe until now.

Now it felt like it was swallowing them whole.

⸻

“Hey,” he said one night as she got out of his truck, voice low, thumb tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. “You okay?”

She paused on the curb, turning halfway back. “Yeah.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

That made her stop.

He watched her for a long moment. The way she chewed the inside of her cheek. The way her fingers curled into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her defenses were small, quiet things—but he knew them.

“You haven’t looked at me the same since the party,” he said.

Her throat bobbed. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

She flinched. Not at the word—he cursed all the time—but at the sharpness in his tone. The hurt under it.

“Please,” he said, softer now. “Just tell me.”

She looked down at the ground, breathing slowly.

“I heard you,” she said finally. “That night. At the Boneyard.”

He blinked. “What—?”

“You were with Topper and Kelce,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t trying to listen, but I did. You called me a puppy.”

The silence hit hard.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said instantly.

She gave a shaky nod. “I know. But it still hurt.”

Rafe got out of the truck slowly, rounding it until he stood in front of her, hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t trust himself to reach for her.

“I didn’t think,” he murmured. “I was trying to shut them up. They talk shit constantly and I—God—I was just trying to get them off my back. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were some joke.”

She looked up at him, eyes glistening. “But is that what I am to them?”

“No,” Rafe said, sharp and quick. “No, you’re not. And if I’d known you heard that—I never would’ve—”

He cut himself off, raking a hand through his hair.

“I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t important to me. You are, okay? You are.”

She swallowed hard. “It felt like I cared more.”

Rafe’s chest ached. “You don’t.”

He took a careful step closer, his voice quiet and raw.

“I think about you all the time. And it scares the shit out of me because I’ve never… I’ve never felt like this before.”

Her breath hitched.

“I wanted to tell you a hundred times,” he whispered. “But I was afraid if I said it, I’d lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” she said softly.

“Then why does it feel like you’re slipping away?”

The question lingered in the air between them, heavier than either of them expected. Rafe wasn’t used to his voice sounding like that—raw, unsure. But he didn’t care. Not when it came to her.

She looked down again, toeing the ground with the tip of her shoe.

“Because I was scared,” she murmured. “Because hearing you laugh about me like that—it felt like everything I thought we were, maybe I just imagined it.”

Rafe stepped in then, so close she had to look up at him.

“You didn’t imagine it,” he said, low and certain. “Whatever’s been happening between us—it’s real.”

Her breath caught at the way he said it. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just honest.

He took another step, closing the final distance between them, his hands still jammed in his hoodie pocket like he didn’t trust himself not to grab her.

“I’ve liked you since… God, probably the first time you looked at me and didn’t run.”

That made her crack the smallest smile. Rafe noticed it instantly.

“I mean it,” he said. “You were quiet, but you looked at me like I was more than the guy everyone else saw. And that messed me up, okay? It made me want to be better. To be… someone you could actually trust.”

She blinked up at him, chest rising and falling a little faster now.

“But then I got scared,” he admitted. “Because this—what I feel for you—it’s not casual. It’s not a game. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

He paused, glancing down before locking eyes with her again.

“So I acted like a dumbass. Tried to downplay it with my friends, because I didn’t want them ruining this before I even had the guts to say something.”

She was silent for a long moment. The wind picked up, tugging her hair across her cheek. Rafe reached out before he could stop himself and gently tucked the strands behind her ear. She didn’t pull away.

“I thought you didn’t care,” she whispered. “I thought maybe you were just being nice to me because… I don’t know. Because I was easy to be around.”

“Jesus,” Rafe breathed, shaking his head. “You think I’d do all this—take you to my favorite places, remember every dumb little snack you like, call you at 2AM just to hear your voice—because I’m being nice?”

She blinked, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“I’m not nice,” he said, voice breaking just a little. “But I’m real with you. That has to mean something.”

“It does,” she said quickly. “It did. That’s why it hurt.”

And there it was—the truth, laid bare.

He watched her eyes, how they shined with unshed tears, and it made something ache in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I should’ve said something sooner. I should’ve told them to shut the hell up instead of letting them joke like that.”

She nodded slowly. “You don’t have to protect them. I’m the one who’s been here.”

“I know,” he said. “And I see that now. I see you. I always did. I just… I didn’t know how to show it the right way.”

Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t look away.

“So show me now,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

His heart thudded hard against his ribs.

“You want the truth?” he asked, stepping even closer, their shoes almost touching now. “Here it is—I’m in love with you.”

Her eyes widened.

“I’ve been falling for you since the second you smiled at me like I mattered,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “And every day since then, I’ve tried to play it cool because I didn’t think someone like you would ever feel the same.”

“Someone like me?” she echoed, voice soft.

“You’re kind,” he said, looking at her like she was a miracle. “You’re good. You give a shit about people. And you still look at me like I’m worth something, even when I don’t deserve it.”

She felt tears slip down her cheek, but she didn’t move to wipe them away.

“I was trying to protect myself,” she whispered. “Because I already felt too much. And if I was wrong about you…”

“You weren’t,” he interrupted, stepping even closer, his hands finally leaving his pockets to cradle her cheeks gently. “You weren’t wrong.”

She leaned into his touch, her forehead resting softly against his.

“I’m so tired of pretending like I don’t want you,” she breathed.

His eyes fluttered closed. “Then stop pretending.”

They stood there like that, still and close, breathing the same air. Her hands slid up to hold his wrists gently, grounding him.

“Do you mean it?” she asked. “What you said?”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Every word. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, so soft it almost hurt.

Rafe let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to hers again.

“God, I thought I lost you,” he murmured.

“You almost did,” she whispered. “But you came back.”

“I’ll always come back to you.”

He kissed her then—not rushed, not rough. Just slow and steady and full of everything they hadn’t said until now. Her arms slid around his neck, and he held her like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

And maybe she was.

When they finally broke apart, her smile was real this time—small, shy, but real.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she told him.

“Good,” he said, brushing his nose against hers. “Because I’m done letting you think you don’t matter. To me, you’re everything.”

⸻

The days that followed felt different.

Lighter.

The tension that had once coiled between them like a live wire had softened into something gentler, warmer. She still wasn’t used to the way Rafe looked at her now—open, unguarded, like every time his eyes met hers he was making a silent promise not to let her slip away again.

They didn’t talk about what they were, not right away. But she felt it in everything he did.

In the way he texted her first thing in the morning with “did you sleep okay, princess?”

In how he parked outside her place with no real plan except to see her.

In how his hands found hers every chance they got.

And she wasn’t afraid to hold on anymore. Wasn’t afraid to lean her head on his shoulder in front of other people or laugh loudly when he said something dumb. She wasn’t hiding how much she cared—because he wasn’t either.

Still, he hadn’t asked. Not officially.

Until Thursday evening, when he called and said, “Don’t make plans tonight. I’m stealing you.”

That’s how she found herself in his truck again, watching the golden sky melt into soft pinks and oranges as he drove toward the south side of the island. The windows were down, her hair whipping lightly in the wind, and Rafe had one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely on the console—close enough that their pinkies touched.

Every once in a while, he’d glance over and smile. Like he couldn’t help it.

She reached across and brushed his knuckles with her fingers. “You gonna tell me where we’re going or keep trying to be mysterious?”

He smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

“I like surprises,” she said, letting her hand slide just a little closer to his.

“I know you do, princess.”

⸻

The beach was almost empty.

Not the usual hangout spots—the loud, crowded parts near the boardwalk—but a quiet stretch Rafe had taken her to once before. That time, it had just been a detour during one of their drives. He’d barely spoken when they got there, just let her stand in the sand while he stared out at the horizon, something unreadable in his eyes.

Now, it felt different.

The sky was streaked with the last colors of the sun, and the air was warm, with the kind of breeze that carried salt and sea and peace. Rafe spread out a blanket near the dunes, tossed down a small bag with snacks and drinks, then kicked off his shoes and plopped down like they did this all the time.

She followed easily, sitting beside him with a little grin.

“Okay, beach blanket, sunset, snacks. This feels dangerously close to a date, Cameron.”

His smile tugged up on one side. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” she said, nudging him playfully with her shoulder. “Not if you’re trying to impress me.”

“Oh, I’ve got plans to impress you.”

She laughed and leaned into him, resting her head against his chest without hesitation. “Then get on with it, loverboy.”

His heart thudded hard under her cheek, and she smiled to herself.

“Better,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her in.

For a few moments, they just listened to the waves, her body warm against his, their fingers laced easily.

“You know I used to come out here alone?” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” she said, glancing up.

“Before you. This was the only place I felt like I could think.”

She ran her thumb along his knuckles. “And now?”

“Now I bring you,” he said, looking at her. “Because thinking without you kind of sucks.”

She smirked, but her eyes were soft. “That’s cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she said with a small laugh.

Rafe turned toward her more fully, his voice dipping low. “I brought you here tonight because… I needed you to know this isn’t just some passing thing for me. What we have—it matters. You matter.”

“I know that, Rafe,” she said, not looking away. “And you matter to me. A lot.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know I messed up. And I’ll probably mess up again. But I’m trying. For you. Because I want this to be something real.”

“It already is,” she said, without hesitation.

He smiled, touched her cheek.

“Then let me make it official.”

Her brows raised slightly, curious but calm. “Oh yeah?”

Rafe shifted so he was sitting up straighter, still holding her hand.

“I like being the one you trust,” he said. “The one who gets to see you when you’re a little bossy, a little flirty, and act like you’re not totally obsessed with me.”

She laughed. “Wow. You’re lucky I do like you.”

“More than like, princess,” he murmured, suddenly serious. “I want to be yours. Officially. If you want that too.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

She leaned in close, lips brushing his cheek. “I’ve wanted that for a while.”

Rafe turned and kissed her then, slow and steady, his hand cupping her face like she was something sacred. She melted into it, kissing him back without shyness, her fingers sliding into his hair.

When they pulled apart, she grinned. “Took you long enough.”

He laughed. “You’re mine now.”

She raised a brow. “Pretty sure I’ve always been.”

“And you’re keeping me too, right?”

“Obviously.”

They stayed on the beach long after the sun disappeared, wrapped in each other’s arms, stealing kisses between flirty jabs and warm laughter. It didn’t feel new or fragile—it felt like home.

Because they weren’t pretending anymore.

They were each other’s.

Finally

[200markies]

Requesting jisung type of boyfriend<3

　　　　jisung ♡ is the type of boyfriend to ... ⁺

jisung soft hours & headcanons. all are fictional.

pairing: park jisung x fem!reader

genre: romance, fluff

requested by anon !

author's notes: i didn't expect y'all loving the chenle soft hours post SO MUCH that someone actually requested to do a jisung one !!*#(!$ i'm so glad y'all liked it, i appreciate going onto tumblr and getting bombarded with lots of notifications :> anywayyyy, i hope y'all enjoy this jisung version (i tried brainstorming sm i'm trying to think what type of boyfriend jisung is atp)

also! i had to use a header for the pic cuz the two pics layout wasn't working TT

jisung is the type of boyfriend to be all so quiet & shy whenever he's outside or in public, whispering and talking to you softly in crowded places, but becomes flirty and affectionate towards you when he's with you at home! he loves to tell you affectionate pickup lines, making you blush whenever you two cuddle on the bed you two share.

"come here, pretty." jisung says as he reaches his hands out for you, convincing you to come to him and lay down beside him. you were too flustered to say no, as you dove to the bed and hugged him. you can feel him ruffling your hair, whispering to you as he softly whispers, "i don't care if your hair looks bad or your makeup looks bad. all that matters to me is that you're beautiful to my eyes. is that clear, pretty?"

jisung is the type of boyfriend to be very clingy once he puts his arms around you. he tries to resist the urge of not wrapping his arms around you but fails when he sees you around the apartment. just by he look on his face, it's obvious that he wants to cuddle you or snuggle up on you while you do stuff around the apartment.

"ji, not now..." you sigh as you slice vegetables on the kitchen counters, being barely able to move as he's fully latched onto you while you're trying to cook. jisung whines, shaking his head as he refuses. you sigh, trying your best to push him off as you can't move while he's hugging you tightly. "why, baby? you don't want my hugs?" he asks, pouting as he hugs you even tighter.

jisung is the type of boyfriend to spend all his free time to watch you do something. he doesn't care if he has games to play with his friends, or if he has something to do that's due tomorrow, all he wants to see is you do or play something because, according to him, he likes to watch you ace an activity. he's always your no. 1 supporter.

"ji... don't you have something to do?" you ask as you work, being concentrated and determined at the output that you'll submit later. jisung is in front of you, watching you as he shakes his head, fixing his position as his eyes are still fixated on you while you work. "i do but, i don't really care, i just wanna watch you work."

jisung is the type of boyfriend to kiss you any chance he gets. even if you're sleeping after a tired day, or even if you're doing something important. as long as he gets the urge or the chance to, his lips will land anywhere─ your lips, your knuckles, cheek, or forehead.

"adorable..." jisung mumbles, kissing your forehead 2 times as you slept on his arms peacefully after a long, tiring day. he smiles at you, taking your hand from his chest as he intertwines your fingers with his, kissing your knuckles while you sleep. "goodnight, pretty. i love you."

©️ 200markies / jyanihaes, 2024

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Hell Has Officially Frozen Over

Prompt Day 9: Icy Roads | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Future Fic, Reconnecting in Your Hometown, Old Friends, Pre-Steddie

It's bad. It's really, really bad.

Eddie white-knuckles the steering wheel of his pickup truck wondering if he's ever gonna make it to Hawkins as he barely crawls along. Not only is it nearly impossible to see, but the roads are slicker than shit already. It's like this snuck up on them, and the state didn't even have time to salt the roads.

He should have left an hour earlier.

Hell, he should have left a day earlier.

It's heading towards being a whiteout. Which is pretty fucking gorgeous, honestly, but not when he's having to drive in these blizzard-like conditions.

Easing down the highway, not another car in sight, he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. A slight glow, off to the left.

As he approaches, he's pretty fucking certain that he's seeing the faint glimmer of taillights off in the ditch. A car probably missed that little curve, and slid off in the ditch.

Fuck.

He should stop. But he isn't exactly sure how or where he might be able to do that safely.

Fuck it.

He hasn't seen anyone else out in miles, so he stops in the middle of the two-lane highway. He'll check real quick, see if there actually is anything, or if it's just his eyes deceiving him after all this white.

He turns on his flashers, but he's not sure that'll help anyone see him in this near zero visibility. 

Eddie pulls out his Maglite, and is thankful Wayne was always so adamant that he carried one.

He's pretty sure there is a car. Something covered in white, and lodged into the snowbank.

"Hey! Anybody in there!" Eddie hollers. 

He stops to listen, and he doesn't hear anything — then. A dull pounding. 

"Goddamnit," Eddie mutters, but slides down the ditch, and once he gets closer, he hears the pounding again. Hand against glass. 

The passenger window is covered in snow, and Eddie starts brushing it away as fast as he can. It's fucking freezing, even through his gloves.

He gets the window cleared, and a face appears.

"Eddie?!"

It's Steve Harrington. 

Shit.

Eddie leans down to get a closer look.

"You okay?" Eddie asks through the window and Steve nods.

"I'm stuck. I can't open either door, or the windows!"

"Want me to break in?" Eddie hollers, and Steve nods. 

Eddie moves to the back window of the car, and yells back, "Cover your eyes!"

Steve leans forward, and Eddie bangs the butt of his metal flashlight against the window. It doesn't give. Fuck. Apparently it's gonna take more power than that. 

He rears back and gives a really good whack this time, then another, harder, near the corner, shattering the glass into the car. 

"Hey! Still okay?" Eddie asks, brushing glass from the window sill with his flashlight. It's safety glass, and not sharp, but he can't imagine crawling out over it would be a whole lot of fun, still.

The soft glow of the lights Eddie could see goes out, and then Steve's head pops back into view as he crawls over the console of the car, and into the backseat.

"I'm good, I think. Just thought I might freeze to death before I was able to get myself out."

Eddie holds out his hands, and offers Steve help as he tries to slide out of the now broken window. It's a tighter fit than seems comfortable with his heavy winter coat on, but together they pull him out. 

"Sorry about the window."

"No, no. Thanks for stopping. I figured I was stuck until INDOT came out tomorrow."

They climb up the ditch and towards Eddie's pickup, to see if they can find something to at least cover the broken window.

After, Eddie can't get the traction to get going again. He looks around. He does have some gifts for Wayne, and unwraps one, dumping the contents in the seat, then with his pocket knife, cuts the box into four pieces, one for each tire.

It's enough. He's able to get them edging forward again.

Five miles to Hawkins.

But it seems like five-hundred at this rate.

"What were you doing out here?" Steve asks.

"I could ask you the same thing, Harrington?" Eddie banters back, and Steve laughs.

"Coming home from the airport-"

"That was a rental? Oh shit."

Steve laughs, but continues, "I promised I'd do Christmas at home this year," Steve admits.

"Oh, so this blizzard is your fault."

"Huh?" Steve questions, confused.

"Hell has officially frozen over," Eddie teases.

And Steve laughs. Eddie has missed him. It's been too long since any of them have gotten together. Once out of Hawkins, it's been really hard to return.

"Something like that," Steve says, but he's smiling at Eddie, "What brings you home?"

"Wayne," Eddie says. Wayne's the only reason he'll step foot into this town these days. 

There are no other cars on the road. They're the only dummies out and about in this shitshow.

When they pull up in front of the Harrington house, Eddie turns to look at him.

"Thanks for rescuing me," Steve says, meeting his eyes in the dark.

"Hey, I definitely owed you one. You rescued me first."

Steve reaches over and squeezes Eddie's hand, "You didn't owe me anything. It's been good to see you, man. You look good."

Eddie flips his hand over so he can squeeze back, "If the parents get too stifling, come to Wayne's," Eddie offers.

"Expect me. How long you here?" Steve asks.

"A week, you?"

"Same."

"Let's definitely catch up," Eddie offers, and Steve's nodding, hard. 

"Yeah, let's do that. You and me."

"The Hideout," Eddie laughs.

Steve grins, "All the shitty beer we can drink."

"Where's Buckley?" Eddie asks.

"She'll be here in two days, weather allowing."

"Let's gather up everyone who's home. Do something together again. We survived Hawkins once."

"Hell yes we did," Steve says, his blinding smile proof they can do it again.

This time, it's only Hawkins for Christmas.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

[dreamingofaizawa]

Violent Tendencies

Sheriff! John Price x Fem! Reader

~Small Town AU~

Warnings: Violence, blood, descriptions of injuries, reader is a litle unhinged, mentions of juvenile hall, mentions of mental illnesses, one suggestive line, hints at a blood kink? I think?

Word Count: 7.4k

Author's Note: Is this smut? No. Is this fluff? Also no. Is this hurt/comfort? ALSO NO. WTF IS THIS? I HAVE NO IDEA! I have no fucking clue what I've been on lately, my brain has just been tunneling while writing idk man. This got weird, idk, I've got some pent-up shit I guess. Currently self-indulging in this reader ngl. She's just like me fr. This got a way from me.

Series Masterlist

Part Two Here

Enjoy?

***

It’s a bad fucking day, you decide. 

It wasn’t terrible, up until this very moment, but this is going to ruin your whole goddamn week. If you had any more energy, you might scream. Or cry. Or punch your asshole boss in his ugly mug. Your fingers twitch at your sides, knuckles itching with the urge to feel the sting of his face splitting your skin. Images flicker through your mind, blood spattered and a skull caved on the pavement, the sound of a gurgling death rattle soaked in crimson rings in your ears. In another life, you got more than three hours of sleep. In another life, the effort it would take to land a solid, satisfying punch is readily available to you.

But you don’t. Have the energy, that is. You’re drained after a long, grueling thirteen hour overnight shift at the little 24-hour diner you spend most of your time at. You’d stopped listening altogether after the first thirty seconds or so, your mind going straight to violent daydreams because anything else takes too much effort you aren’t willing to exert. It’s cold this early in the morning, not having bothered grabbing your jacket on your way in last night. Sun’s just barely coming up over the horizon, but your breath still fogs in the air. So does his. He should stop breathing.

The boss caught you as you were leaving, yanking you around to the back door where he’d begun spitting obscenities at you. Something about a broken door from a few nights ago, when an angry customer shoved it hard enough on the way out he actually busted the hinge and dented the metal handle bar. There wasn’t much you could do, outside of reporting the incident over email to the owner, then your boss, then calling the sheriff’s office. Nothing else to do, in a town as small as this one. One of the three deputies came in to look at it, did an incident report, and took a description. You knew the man, always angry, always one step from pummeling the next person on the wrong end of his warpath. Everyone knew him, really. Especially the tiny four-man police force. 

If you weren’t constantly exhausted, you might be in the same boat. Maybe worse. Maybe in a padded room somewhere. Maybe on death row.

If you could focus on anything, you’d have heard the Sheriff’s pickup pull into the parking lot. If you could hear anything outside the buzzing in your head, you’d hear the crunch of gravel under thick-soled boots, heavy where they step up behind you. If you had any awareness about you, you’d watch your boss’s face drop at the sight of the town’s lawman, fixing his posture and plastering a too-wide smile onto his face.

“Sheriff Price! What brings you all the way out here this fine morning?” The words barely flicker across your consciousness. You’re still out of it. Until your boss reaches a hand out and slaps it down on your shoulder, making your entire body flinch hard, hard enough to have you stumbling backward into a brick wall of a man. 

“Easy, sweetheart.” Blearily, you tilt your head back to look up at him, still unfocused but slowly coming back. After a good, long look at you, his attention returns to your boss.

“Laswell is gonna have your ass, Graves. If there’s one thing she doesn’t tolerate, it’s a damn bully.” The two have some back and forth, you can’t be bothered to pay attention when your body is starting to feel the cold seeping into your bones, limbs shaking uncontrollably. Warmth surrounds you suddenly, and you can’t help but soak in the heat as a weight settles on your shoulders. Still, between the exhaustion, stress, and the cold, you’re not feeling great. A door slams somewhere, and your vision is blocked with a different man. A bigger man, wider and sturdier. Big hands grip your shoulders as he leans down into your line of sight, blue eyes and thick mutton chop beard filling your vision.

A memory flickers, blurry and clipped, of a younger boy with those eyes. Piercing cerulean gaze cutting through the red like a hot knife through butter. He was strong then, too, all those years ago. You were reckless, back then. Your knuckles are still scarred from teeth and bone, an ache in your wrists returning every so often to remind you of the past. The good old days. Teenage years littered with blood and violence and the walls of the nearest juvenile hall. That’s where you met him the first time, the two of you locked into that fortress miles away. The two of you learned to hit the same punching bag, holding it steady while the other ripped into the canvas, to avoid punching each other. There’s a dull throb in your shoulders, that punching bag flooding your memory, the patchwork repairs it had to go through after the two of you nearly tore it in half. 

You both seemed to have mellowed out, since then. You haven’t talked to him directly since you both got out of juvie a decade ago.

“You look like you’ve been better, sweetheart.” Now that the threat is gone, you’re able to think past the vermillion fog. 

“Sheriff Price? What are you doing here?” He hums, tugging the thick fabric of his jacket tighter around your shoulders. Ah, that’s what’s warm. And it smells like old worn leather and tobacco, probably from the cigars he smokes. You find comfort in it. 

“It’s Saturday. I’m pickin up breakfast for the boys at the station. What are you doing here, huh? I don’t usually see you working Saturdays.” Great question. What are you still doing here? Oh yes that’s right, getting cursed out by your boss. Wishing you had a hammer to smash his face in with.

“Had a long shift. Got off a half hour ago.” He flicks his wrist up, glances at the old watch with a concerned expression.

“You worked the graveyard shift?” You nod.

“Every day.” It’s not insanely fun, but it’s work you get paid well enough for, especially when the hours between 10pm and 3am are an extra five bucks an hour and nobody tends to walk in besides the odd drunk. Nights are when you’re most active, anyways. Your mother used to call you a nocturnal creature, when she was alive.

“Kate’s gonna be hearin about this.” 

“You don’t need to tell her. I don’t hate it, and nobody else will do the work.” He huffs, then guides you to his truck, holding the passenger door open.

“Get in. I’ll be right back.” Usually you walk home, but right now you don’t really have it in you to decline, especially when he starts the engine and cranks the heat on. He disappears into the diner, leaving you to your devices. You can feel your body shutting down, feel your eyes falling shut. Maybe you can rest your eyes, just for a minute. 

That minute turns into twenty, and you’re jolted awake when Sheriff Price shakes you by the shoulder. A glance outside shows the Sheriff’s Station. Damn, you knocked out. You didn’t even hear him open the door, let alone feel the drive.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart. You need to stop anywhere?” 

“No, thank you.” You rattle off the address, though you’re sure he probably knows where every soul in this town lives by heart. Even you, who he rarely ever sees or interacts with. He walks you to your door, making sure you’re alright as you step over the welcome mat and into the house your parents left to you. The floorboards creak beneath your feet.

“You should start locking your door, sweetheart.” You shrug.

“Small town. Few visitors. Not a whole lot to feel threatened about, if I’m being honest.” Not a lot to worry about, yes. There’s the tiniest sliver of you that waits for the day someone tries something. You’ve got baseball bats and heavy mallets stashed around the house, easily accessible and collecting dust. You shuck his jacket from your shoulders, briefly mourning the loss of heat, ignoring the pang of longing that strikes through you like a thunderbolt when you lose his scent.

“Thank you for taking me home, Sheriff.”

“Just John is fine, darlin. Get some rest. You work tonight, don’t you?” Head heavy, you nod.

“7pm tonight.” That’s your usual shift. Start at 7pm, sometimes 8pm. Last night you just covered for someone, going in at 4pm instead of your normal. He nods, then he’s off. Briefly, you wonder if he ever reminisces about those days, back in juvie. The two of you like two sides of the same coin, fire on fire, unstoppable force and immovable object. They aren’t the fondest memories, but sometimes you can feel yourself flitting back to the impulses, beyond what you let your mind imagine. 

Tonight when you go in, you hear the news that your boss, Phil, has been fired. No more Phil means no more screaming and swearing. No more being backed into a corner. No more dissociation when you’re on the bad end of his ire. Kate comes in, too, along with the Sheriff. Neither of which have ever been seen around the diner this time of night. 

“You alone tonight?” You nod. 

“I’m alone every night, Mrs. Laswell. Once I relieve the night shift, it’s just me until I tag in the morning crew at 4 in the morning.” Her whistle is low over her cherry pie slice.

“Damn. Shoulda known Graves was pulling shit like this.” You shrug from behind the counter.

“I don’t mind. I’m a night owl anyways. ‘Sides, it’s not like there’s a whole lot for me to be worried about around these parts.” John clears his throat then, grabbing your attention.

“That’s actually why we’re here, darlin. A few of your coworkers were here when Graves was let go, and he wasn’t happy. According to them, he was especially cross with you. Figured you should know about it, and we’re going to stick around for the night to make sure nothing happens.” Christ. 

“Phil’s got anger management problems, sure, but I really don’t see a world where he’d actually do anything except cry wolf. He’s like a chihuahua, all bark and no bite.” Kate coughs through her laugh, John is less amused.

“Sometimes people do crazy things when they’re angry and drunk, and Graves is a regular at the bar a few blocks down. The man just lost his job and associates it with you. I’d rather not take that chance.” That’s a fair point. Not like you couldn’t just shoot him, though.

“If it makes you feel any better, I know how to use that.” You hook your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the double–barreled shotgun mounted on the wall. There’s a box of buckshot in a locked drawer, and the keys are on you at all times, passed between the leads throughout the day. John grunts, nods roughly. 

“It does. Still, we’ll be around tonight.” That’s just fine by you. They’ll probably leave in a few hours.

They don’t leave in a few hours. Both of them stick around and make conversation with you while you clean through your entire shift. Phil doesn’t show up, but you hadn’t expected him to. Coward. John drives you home again, telling you to lock your door. You don’t.

That’s how the next week or so develops. Every night you greet either the Sheriff or one of the Deputies, get them a plate or a pie and clean through your shift. Johnny’s a chatterbox, really keeps the conversation going with his quick wit and endless babbling. Gaz, whose real name is actually Kyle, is less bubbly but still keeps light conversation. Simon’s like a damn ghost. He doesn’t speak, hell you aren’t even sure if he breathes under that black bandana he keeps over his face and the black cowboy hat he never takes off. You could mistake him for an outlaw in an old western if you thought about it hard enough. They all drive you home at the end of your shift, choosing to ignore your protests with the same answer: Sheriff’s orders. Your sigh goes ignored, too, and you generally lack the energy to do anything but accept.

John comes in every other night, too. Most times he’s alone, keeping you company when you’re alone. Being alone together isn’t terrible. 

“This is what you do every night? Wait around and clean?” You nod from your spot on the floor where you scrub the baseboards you’d missed yesterday. 

“Nobody else does this kind of work throughout the day. Last time I skipped over a task it got bad. Sometimes I wonder if the whole place would go down in flames if I weren’t here.” You know it’s not the best situation. If the shop falls apart when one person doesn’t do something, then the place was doomed from the beginning. But it keeps you busy, keeps the itch down.

“I find it hard to believe they can’t do this shit.” 

“Won’t,” you correct, “They won’t. It’s not that they can’t, the whole lot is fully capable. I love most of my coworkers like family, even if I don’t see them very often, but most of them just won’t get down and dirty to scrub the grease from the grout.” His eyebrow lifts, and you ignore the strange glint in his eyes in favor of returning to your task, scrubbing the corners where wall meets floor with a brush and grout-safe cleaner.

He’s always asking you things, when he comes in. How often you actually cook this late at night, if at all. The menu reduces once you’re alone, all simple things you don’t need to make in big batches. Burgers, fries, pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, lunch sandwiches. The pasta dishes get shut down, just because the sauce morning crew preps tends to run out just after 6pm.  Sometimes you’ll have leftover pies from earlier in the day, but all the pastries are delivered from the bakery down the street. He asks what you do on your breaks. You usually whip up a small meal for yourself, and eat at the counter to be able to watch the diner. It’s pretty rare you get anyone coming in during your allotted hour of mealtime.

“You look tired tonight, darlin.” It’s good to know you look how you feel. He’s at the counter, elbow leaning over his mug of coffee. Two raw sugars, no cream. You’ve found a lull in your cleaning frenzy, just having finished a task and looking for the next, leaning directly across from him while he asks his questions.

“I’m always tired, John.” Insomnia is a bitch, truly. Sleep is a battle every day, some days more than others.

“Why’s that?” Shrugging seems to be your default.

“Insomnia. Most days I’m lucky if I get more than six hours.” Worry flickers across his face, but only briefly.

“That’s not good, love.” Again, you shrug.

“That’s life for me. Medication only does so much. Being here every day helps, keeps me on a schedule I can’t deviate from. I didn’t have the energy to work days, dealing with customers had me drained, so I took nights. It works for me.” His nod is heavy, letting the weight of his head tug it down. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s seen it before. You don’t doubt he has. You don’t tell him how dealing with some people makes your blood boil. You don’t mention that, if given the chance, you’d pummel anyone stupid enough to grate on your nerves. Part of you thinks he already knows, and you wouldn’t need to tell him anyway. The voice of a therapist from long ago says you have anger issues. It’s a voice you choose to ignore.

“You didn’t have insomnia back in juvie.” Your spine prickles. He remembers you, there.

“It came after. After I learned to curb the aggressive tendencies.” After you learned to bottle it all up and shove it away, trapped in your head and never expressed. You think, without an outlet, all that leftover energy made you restless. That’s not what the therapist says, though. She says it’s something to do with the depression. You can’t be arsed to remember the intricacies of it all.

“I liked the violent streak you had.” It almost makes you laugh. There’s a small flame in your chest at the notion he'd find your volatile nature amusing.

“The first time we met, I broke your nose for stealing my punching bag.” His smile is lazy, fond.

“Yeah you did. Gave me a shiner, too.” You remember that vividly. The way he’d shoved you out of his path, taking the bag for himself with a ‘get lost’ thrown over his shoulder. He’d been there a month longer than you, and had laid claim on the damn thing apparently. You hit him, then, square in the nose, and when he fell on his ass you got on top of him and didn’t stop throwing punches until he grabbed your wrists and shoved you off. The pummeling match went on for a full, glorious minute, blood flying and fists colliding. It’s a miracle you both dodged and blocked each other enough to avoid losing a tooth, but you came out of it with a black eye, a split lip, and a fractured collarbone. You think you fell in love with him, when you both were yanked apart by officers and got a good, long look at each other. Blood pouring down his neck and shirt, eye starting to swell shut, nose crooked, knuckles bleeding and torn. But those eyes never lost their shine, never faded into dissociation, always sharp and gleaming

“It’s a miracle we ever learned to share the bag.” 

“No miracle, sweetheart. 17-year-old John Price got a hard-on holding that bag while you ripped it to shreds.” The revelation has you frozen solid. You can’t pry your eyes from his gaze, locked onto the tension holding the two of you so still your breathing stops. Blood rushes in your ears, and that itch is back tenfold, your arms throbbing, wrists tense, back coiled. Your muscles aren’t what they used to be, having kept yourself under wraps for so long, not even daring to go to the tiny gym in town to hit the bag there since you’d left the hall. Still, they remember.

The bell on the diner door chimes, jolting you from your trance. John smiles to himself. 

The next time he’s in, it’s like nothing ever happened. Like he didn’t admit to finding you hot back in juvie, like he hadn’t just turned your head inside out. He ignores it. So you do, too. It’s what you’re good at, ignoring the urges. Indulgence only ever in your mind.

“Are you going to be alright, Sheriff?” Confusion etches across his features, head tilting just so.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean you never used to be around this late. Most places are closed, and I’ve never seen you in here until recently. As far as I know, you’re a daytime person. And judging by your fourth cup of coffee in two hours, I’d say you’re running on fumes.” It’s only midnight, there’s still four hours left in your shift. He doesn’t show the exhaustion, though, eyes alert and bright, those cerulean blues striking as always. This close you can see the flecks of deep sapphire.

“I’ll be alright, sweetheart. I’m here to watch over you.” He’s still hanging onto that, huh? You’re sure he knows you can take care of yourself.

“Honestly John, it’s been over two weeks. He’s probably moved on with his life. As pathetic as he is, I doubt he still poses any kind of threat.” It’s a shame, really, you just wanted one reason to beat him senseless. It’s his turn to shrug, eyeing you with something serious in his eyes.

“Can’t be too careful. Some people will wait years to settle a score, no matter how shallow it’s been carved in the pavement.” He says it like he’s seen the work of someone like that, been on the brunt end of it and come out the other side a different man. A headline from a few years back flashes in your mind, the local news covering something big you never looked into, and the name John Price was in that same article. That was before he became sheriff, when he was out in a different town doing who knows what. Maybe he’s a little paranoid.

You’ll let him stay, let his deputies all keep a close eye on you for as long as he needs to assuage his anxieties.

Simon’s here tonight, silent, haunting, as he always is. He doesn’t watch you, intent on studying the intricacies of the diner, committing it to memory. He’s been in here enough he should already have the entire floor plan memorized. In an attempt to keep him from dying of boredom, you offer to make him something to eat. His voice is rough, deep, carries a little too loudly across the empty diner but you don’t pay it any mind.

“What do you have?” You rattle off your list, burgers and fries and most breakfast foods. You didn’t pin him as a french toast guy. 

“Eggs? Bacon?”

“Sunny side. Extra crispy.” It’s easy enough. Two thick slices of french toast sat on a platter, two large eggs, sunny-side-up, and a few of the thicker slices of bacon you can find, fried extra crispy, a little char on the edges. You call out to him from your station at the stove.

“You want powdered sugar on the french toast?”

“No, thanks.” That’s a damn shame. His loss, you suppose. You take the plate out to him with a glass bottle of maple syrup. You nearly jump out of your skin when he tugs the bandana off his face, choosing to turn away like he’d need privacy. It’s weird, his face being exposed. He groans at the first bite, and satisfaction rips through you. It’s always nice knowing people enjoy the food you make, even if people are few and far between. People you can tolerate, that is.

“Nobody makes bacon like this. Even the mornings Price brings food from here, it’s not this good. What the hell kind of crack cocaine did you put in the bacon?” A laugh claws from your throat, a bursting thing you can’t help but let out. When he’s not brooding, Simon’s a comic.

“No cocaine, swear it. I leave the grease over it extra long, it almost deep-fries. Then sear it with high heat for the char.” He eats the plate like he’s never eaten before and will never eat again. Damn. You suppose, being as big as he is, he must burn through calories like there’s no tomorrow. After the meal he opens up a lot, much more than he ever had in the last two weeks. He’s funny as all hell when he wants to be, puns and clever phrases always on the tip of his tongue. It’s always delivered dry, like he doesn’t find it funny at all, but you can’t help but notice the little smirk on his face when you snort out another laugh from where you scrub the tile.

Part of you hates that you hadn’t found this side of Simon sooner. Maybe then he’d be less grumpy.

Another thing you don’t find out until tonight, is that Phillip Graves is more of a threat than you’d bargained for.

He waits until Simon pulls off down the road to make his move. If it weren’t for the old bones of the house, constantly moving and creaking, you’d have been a goner. Floorboards creak from behind you as you shut the front door, and all the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. Knuckles itch, wrists throb, back coils tight.. This is it. The bat under the lamp stand fits well in your hands, and you don’t even wait to see who’s dared to intrude, just turn and swing. The blow is blocked with an arm, a shout and wince echoing from your former boss. He reorients, and you swing again. And again. And again, until he can’t keep up and block anymore. Red colored glasses tint your vision. Something shatters, but you don’t pay it any mind, not when the fog crawls over your head, not when you’ve got something to pulverize. When he finds an opening, he tries to grab the bat, but you yank it and jab it right into his stomach. You need to get out of here. He's still moving. You’re exhausted, you aren’t hitting hard enough.

He keels over, thrown off balance enough for you to sprint up to your bedroom and barricade the door. You’re smart enough to know he can overpower you, especially considering not a single one of your blows managed to topple him. You can hear him shouting obscenities, calling you every colorful name in the book, and he’s at the door trying to knock it down. Thank fuck your dad was the town’s carpenter. Even in a house as old as this one, it’s sturdier than most of the newer construction. Still, you don’t have all the time in the world here. 

Your heart is in your ears as you scramble around the room, punching in the code for the safe where you keep your dad’s old revolver and the box of bullets. It’s loaded as Graves shouts and kicks the door, and you stand in the furthest corner facing the door, gun in hand. Surprisingly, you hadn’t bothered to take anything off in the scuffle, so your bag and your phone are still on you. You call the station.

“Sheriff’s station, what can I do for ya?” That’s John’s voice. An especially hard hit on the door has it rattling and you let out a squeak. 

“Hello? What’s happening?” His tone has grown serious, and it snaps you into gear. Shakily, you find the energy to speak, find your voice in the fading rage and rising fear. You’re an animal, backed into a corner.

“J-john he’s here. Graves he’s,” the door frame starts to creak and splinter, and you yelp, “he’s in the house!” There’s a curse and a couple shouts on the other end.

“Stay there, we’re on our way. Get somewhere safe.” Then he’s gone, and you’re alone. Graves shouts from the door, banging a fist as if knocking was going to let him in.

“Come on, missy. You’ve got some nerve, gettin me fired then gettin all buddy-buddy with the Sheriff.” His words are slurred, he’s definitely drunk. But no less of a threat.

“I didn’t even do anything! You got fired cause you’re a dick!” The anger rears its head through the fear and adrenaline. It’s making you steady yourself, your heart erratic in your chest. 

“Fuckin cunt. Shoulda fired you a long time ago. Laswell’s a bitch that doesn’t know what she’s lost gettin rid of me. Shoulda got rid of you.” What a fucking nut case. When you don’t answer this time, he throws his weight against the door.

“Let me in, little missy.” You have half a mind to fire a warning shot through the door, or five, regardless of whether it’ll hit or not, but you’d be giving yourself away. He doesn’t know you’ve got a gun, and he clearly doesn’t have one or he’d have used it by now. There’s every chance you fire a shot, miss, and he takes off. An involuntary scream crawls up your throat when one of the door panels breaks through, a fist coming through and reaching around to the handle. It’s clumsy, the way he flails around for it, but he manages to unlock it. Not that he can get though now, not with the dresser lodged up against the door, tucked against the uneven floorboards to anchor it. 

“Fuck, you little bitch! I’m coming in sooner or later! You got nowhere to go!” He’s right. The adrenaline alone isn’t enough to keep you alive, throwing weak punches never helped anyone. But all you need to do is hold out until John gets here. He’s furiously trying to widen the hole he made in the door, chipping away at it until he’s got his whole shoulder through in an attempt to move the dresser. In his drunken state, he seems to be ignoring the splinters shredding his skin through the thin flannel he’s wearing. Suddenly you hear a siren, the telltale noise of the Sheriff’s truck barreling down the street, and Graves stills with a curse, his shoulder still embedded in the door, his entire arm on your side of the wood. In some insane stroke of luck, he tries to pull out and gets stuck on an especially thick scrap, digging sharp into his shoulder, drawing blood when he tries again. 

This is the one shot you’ve got. 

You’re on him in a split second, grabbing his hand while he’s distracted and twisting his wrist painfully enough to have him screeching out expletives. But he’s strong, and you don’t think you can hold him long enough for John to get up here. The sirens are still a few houses down at least. If you’re not careful, Graves is gonna grab you and he won’t care how he shreds his arm if he can get to you. The only other thing you have is the revolver, and you can’t know what you’ll hit on the other side. But you know what you’ll hit on this side. With little other choice, you yank his arm as hard as you can and press the barrel right up against his forearm. His arm goes limp, and you hold fast as he stops tugging.

“You move at all, damn it all to the fiery pits of hell I’ll blow your goddamn arm off your body Phil.” You can hear his breathing pick up, the little twinge of fear in his voice. It sends a thrill down your spine.

“You wouldn’t dare. You ain’t got the nerve.” You pull the hammer back, rest the length of the barrel over his arm to point the business end at the wall and pull the trigger. He jumps, screams just a little, before he realizes he hasn’t been shot. Yet.

“That was the only warning shot you’re getting.” He’s still, then, when you reorient the end to pin his arm. He flinches, but that’s all he dares to move. You hear it, then, the front door slamming open and shouting through the house. Heavy boots stomp their way through the house, more than one pair, and John’s voice comes through, rage carrying it enough you can feel the baritone through your chest.

“Graves!”

“Here! Upstairs, he’s stuck in the door!” You yell through the house, and you can hear them coming up like a stampede, stopping on the other side of the door. With Graves stuck as he is, John’s attention is quickly on you, calling through the door.

“Are you alright, sweetheart? Are you shot?” 

“No, I’m fine. It was a warning shot, I’ve got a revolver.” There’s a small curse on the other side, and you decide it’s best you put the gun away. It’s unloaded, the chamber cleared, and locked away in its proper place in the safe while John and whoever else he’d brought, probably Simon, works to get him unstuck. He’s towed off somewhere, and between your own fading adrenaline and climbing exhaustion, you manage to move the dresser enough to yank open the splintering door. John is there, two big hands on your shoulders and leaning down to look you in the eyes. His own baby blues flutter over your form, checking you over for anything amiss. 

“You alright, darlin?” With everything catching up to you, you’re a bit fried, and you’re trembling where you stand. He yanks you in, wrapping his arms tight around you and all you have the energy to do is shake and weep. Rage and fear and exhaustion, all pouring out. Rough fingers dig into your scalp, a big hand rubs across your back, grounding you while you sob until your body is slumping into his.

“Alright, there you are. You alright to come down to the station?” Not really, but you know you have to go and give a statement, especially now while everything’s fresh. Besides, you don’t know if you can actually sleep despite the exhaustion. So you nod, and let John herd you into his pickup. All the deputies are already there when you arrive, and Graves is in one of the two cells, bandages and stitches covering his arms and face. He’s got a swollen eye, cheekbone already purpling, and his left arm is in a full cast. At least you did some damage.

Part of you feels for the guy, but that gets overlooked when he sticks his head in the spaces between the bars and sneers at you.

“This ain’t over.” Simon reaches through the bars and grabs him by the collar, yanking him forward to whack his head on the bars. It’s jarring, and John tells him to cool it, but you nearly laugh at the state Graves is in. 

“Somethin funny, darlin?” John asks, stepping behind his desk to get the paperwork started. You find some of your courage, you think, or maybe the exhaustion has doused all your common sense and fired your nerves, but you step toward the cage. When Graves lunges for you, you stay just out of his reach. Simon steps forward first, Kyle and Johnny not far behind, but you hold a hand out to keep them back. He’s mine.

“It’s fine, he can’t touch me. He’s trying to be threatening but…I’m out here. And he’s in there.” You look him in the eyes when you say it, even though you’re talking like he isn’t even in the room. You can see the anger take over, a vein bulging so far out in his neck it might just burst. Now here, in the light, you can actually see the damage you’d done. There’s a cut stitched through his eyebrow, the swelling tugging at the sutures. He couldn’t block everything with his hand, that’s for damn sure. There’s blood seeping through the bandages on his right arm, and his wrist is wrapped tight. Pride swells in you, you must have sprained it with how badly you twisted it. 

“You’re gonna pay for what you’ve done, little bitch.” At that, you really laugh, out loud, in his face.

“See, here’s the thing, Phillip. I haven’t done jack shit and you know it. But you? You’ve been nothing but a self-serving, hypocritical, micro-managing, bullshit-spewing, no-good, rotten piece of horse shit who only cares about intimidating the women that work under him for some sort of power grab to compensate for the shrimp you’ve got between your legs.” You can hear blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline coming back as you finally let out the years of pent-up rage you’ve got toward this guy.

“Not a single human being on this damn planet would touch you romantically or sexually with a ten-foot pole even if their lives depended on it, and instead of trying to be a decent human being you’ve decided to make that everyone’s problem.” You’ve leaned in, just a little, and he reaches for you again through the bars. But this time you’re ready, your vision sharp and your reaction time quick. It’s his bandaged wrist he reaches for you with, but it doesn’t really matter, not when you force his palm down in a 90-degree angle and push his arm so the bar digs into the divot behind his shoulder socket, his chest and face squished against the bars of his rat cage.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the Sheriff stand slowly from his desk, and the three deputies step just a smidge closer to you. Whether for your safety, or Graves’, it doesn’t matter, but you need to make this quick.

“It wouldn’t even be hard, Graves. Just a little push and your shoulder is coming right out of the socket.” He’s trembling, you can feel it, with the exertion he’s using to attempt to get out. He’s right where you want him though, no amount of significant movement will result in anything less than excruciating pain and a dislocated something. When you lean just a little, he’s crying out.

“Fuck! You’re a crazy bitch! Let me go!” The interaction has made your vision go so sharp you can’t really see anything outside of Graves’ body, his arm bent at an awkward angle where you hold it hostage, his face screwed up from the pain and a few small tears falling down to his neck. If you focus hard enough, you can feel yourself shaking, vibrating, with the adrenaline rush. For a split second, you consider dislocating his shoulder for the hell of it, consider pushing until you feel it pop right out for all the torment he’s given you. John’s large, warm hands come to your shoulders, thick fingers digging gently into the muscles you’re only now realizing are coiled tight like a cobra. You can smell him, cigar smoke and leather, men’s deodorant and the crisp morning air. His voice is rough in your ear, breath hot on your neck when he leans down.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” One of his hands drops to your stomach, right below your ribcage, and he pushes down to cage you against his body. The action pushes the breath from you, and when he lets up you breathe it right back in. 

“There you go. Relax. Let him go now, don’t waste your energy.” His other hand comes up and grabs your wrist gently, pressing a rough thumb into the tendons in your wrist, and the moment you let your grip lax, Graves yanks his hand from you and stumbles back into the furthest corner of the cell. 

“Good girl.” If you were a little less rattled, if your mind were a little less frayed, you wouldn’t preen at the praise. And if you had any mind left you’d pull away from the kiss pressed into your temple, not melt into it.

With Graves gone silent, the paperwork gets done in about twenty minutes. You relay the events of the day; when you got home, when he’d attacked, what you’d done to defend yourself. Your nerves are shot, your head is pounding, and the sun shining in through the window is making the space between your eyes hurt. But it’s done, and John drives you home after calling Kate and explaining the situation. Whatever happens with the diner, it’s not your business or your problem for the next four days, seeing as she’s ordered you to take time off and recover. 

Stepping into your house is jarring, to say the least. The entryway is covered in shards of ceramic, the lamp atop it having shattered in the scuffle. The carpet is rumpled from where Graves stumbled over it. The lamp’s cord had been ripped from the wall, and the outlet cover had come with it, the old plastic brittle and fragile. You’ve gotta clean this up. John comes up behind you, pressing his chest into your back.

“Get to bed, darlin. You can clean it later.” You shake your head.

“I won’t be able to sleep yet. Might as well get this out the way.” He huffs, but you know he’s not going to force you into bed. Instead, he helps you clean. The carpet is picked up and dusted off outside while you sweep around the table the lamp used to sit on, clearing most of the debris with the broom. There’s probably a few miniscule shards around, so you take a vacuum over the hardwood then a damp microfiber cloth to really make sure you get it all. John says he can help replace the outlet cover, but you know how to do it. You’ll just have to go buy a new one later.

The bedroom is another story completely. The door is ruined, a hole splintering near the handle. When you try to swing it, you find it’s only hanging by one hinge. You’ll have to replace the whole door, but thankfully the hinges themselves only popped free and didn’t tear from the frame. John makes quick work of the door, popping the last hinge and taking the whole thing out to his pickup. Somewhere in your brain, you note that he’s still damn strong. He helps return the dresser to its original place, and you clean up the splintered wood from the floor and carpet. By the time everything’s done and dusted, you can feel the exhaustion tugging your body down. 

“Get some sleep now, sweetheart. After a day like today you need the rest.” You hum, nod, but you don’t move toward the bed. Paranoia crawls over your skin like mites, as you glare at the empty doorway. No door, no barrier. Your skin begins to itch. John steps toward you and rests his hand on your shoulder, dragging his rough palm up to hold your neck and jaw.

“He can’t get you. You saw him down at the station, he’s not getting past the boys.” Deep breaths, you remind yourself. Breathe. Still, your fingers twitch. John doesn’t stop you when you take off down the stairs, only to watch you lock and deadbolt the front door, then yank on it as hard as you can. You do the same for the kitchen door, and without a deadbolt you wedge the step stool beneath the handle. The windows are next. Locking and jiggling them to make sure they don’t shimmy open. John only watches you as you bounce around the house, securing the perimeter like you’re in some kind of a fortress. When you’re done, he drags you up to your bedroom again. 

“Better?” When you nod, your eyes droop and threaten to close on you for good. You can feel yourself sway on your feet, and John catches you before you can stumble and fall, gently pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Now sleep.” You almost nod off, but then realize something.

“Wait, I have to let you out. I just locked you in here.” He shushes you, planting a hand on your chest and holding you down when you try to get up.

“None of that. I’m staying here.” 

“You are?” Why would he do that?

“Graves is locked up tight, but you clearly don’t feel safe in your own home. I’m staying for your peace of mind. And mine, knowing you’ve gone to bed.” Huh. You suppose that’s reason enough. You don’t dwell on it, can’t dwell on it, when your body feels so heavy. Sleep pulls you under the moment you curl up on the sheets.

Back in the station, the three deputies share a knowing look. Graves is still in his corner, brooding. The tension from your little outburst lingers in the air, the anger having dissipated but the memory fresh. Johnny speaks first.

“She’s just fuckin’ like ‘im, eh?” Simon snorts.

“I’ll say. You think he’d have let her dislocate his shoulder?” It’s a rhetorical question. Kyle chuckles from his perch against the wall.

“I think he wanted her to do it. I think if he weren’t trying to keep her from dealing with the legalities of it, he’d have let her do that and more, and he’d have helped.” The three nod in agreement, a rare sight. Simon’s laughing to himself again.

“Two angry peas in a violent little pod, they are. Both of ‘em ready to strike on a hairpin trigger. John won’t be able to stay the bigger man for long.” Kyle shakes his head.

“In another life, those two rule a damn kingdom with iron fists and velvet gloves. If he has any say in the matter, she’ll be learning how to fight proper soon. When do you think he’ll finally get off his ass and ask her on a date?” Johnny cackles, full-chested.

“Date? John Price doesn’t ask women on dates. He’s gonna swindle his way into her life and one day she’ll look at the ring on her finger and not know when he’d slipped it on ‘er.”

[bisexualhedgehogs]

I had a silly idea about a possible way Shadow could meet the Wachowskis again after falling back to earth, so I wrote something for it. I'll make an ao3 account at some point and post it there as well. Warnings for injuries i guess? Nothing too bad tho.

Anyway enjoy my dumb one shot (also hints of possible sonadow but way too early for either of them to understand any feelings yet)

Shadow's first thoughts after landing hard into the ground were how dizzy and cold he was. He had to think for a moment, had he survived that blast? Must have. You dont feel this sore all over if you're dead. He groaned and slowly rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky. It was a vibrant shade of blue, similar to Sonic, he realized. He hoped the idiot was alive as he watched some clouds go by. He was so distracted by his anger the last few days that he had not noticed how beautiful the sky was during the day too. He could feel the burns on his skin start to heal, and he stayed there for a while until the sun began to set. Then he had to force himself up and search for his disgarded inhibitor rings. Luckily, they landed nearby.

Once they were found, he tried to figure out where he was. He was in a crater among some tall snow-capped mountains. He had landed in some sort of dense wilderness. The view was wonderful, but the air was starting to get even more of a chill. His gloves had partially disintegrated during his fall through earths atmosphere, and he could feel the cold on the pads of his hands. Honestly, he could feel it down to his core, like his bones were cold. He had to move though.

He checked if his air shoes were still in tact enough for him to glide instead of walking, and thankfully, they were. He didn't have enough chaos energy at the moment to just teleport down the mountain. His lower left leg was trying to heal from what he guessed was some sort of fracture or strain, and putting weight on it was incredibly uncomfortable. Even gliding still hurt, but he was able to ignore it for now. He had to. He stopped to hide in various small caves and under fallen tree roots when he thought he heard humans nearby walking around or needed to rest his leg.

After over a week in the forest, around dusk, he came across a large sign that read, "Welcome to Green Hills." He moved slower as a brief rain and snow shower mix blew through. He shivered and tried to stay hidden as he approached town. He realized the glow from his shoes could give him away, and now he had no choice but to walk, which turned into a limp.

"Fuck, maybe I did break something," he hissed as he stopped to rest again. The lack of food was slowing his healing. He ended up taking his shoe off on that foot and carrying it. The weight of it was hurting too much. He realized he had never felt grass under his bare feet before. It was nice, even if it was crunchy and cold.

He continued walking along the road, avoiding stepping in any patches of snow as best he could, just out of sight in the treeline. He was lost in thought when a deer ran out in front of him and startled him enough that he used what little chaos energy he had to move. Big mistake since he didn't have a specific location in mind. He panicked and landed hard on the road, directly in front of a large pickup up truck that had swerved to miss the deer from seconds ago, and it did not have time to brake fully. The pain in his leg and blinding headlights in his eyes made him freeze as his ears went flat against his head.

‐---------------

About 10 minutes earlier, Sonic was helping Maddie load some groceries into the back of the truck. Normally, all three boys would tag along, but with Tom still healing and insisting he needed the air, Knuckles and Tails stayed home to prevent any accidental added stress. Sonic tagged along since he did not like leaving Tom's side yet.

Speaking of Tom, there was some short bickering between the two adults, as Tom had snuck into the driver's seat while she was loading everything into the back.

"It's 15 minutes back home, let me drive. Please? I drive with one arm all the time."

Sonic laughs, "Yeah, when you're stuffing your face full of donuts, but you could still use that arm."

Maddie groaned, "Okay fine, but if you're so healed and competent now, you can also make dinner when we get home."

"Deal." Tom couldn't hide his grin, and Maddie looked ready to slap him on the back of his head. Sonic was seatbelted between them, kicking his legs, happy his family was getting back to normal. He opened the sunroof so he could look at the stars that were peaking out behind some clouds. He became uncharacteristically quiet and lost in thought.

"You thinking about Shadow again, Bud?" Tom finally asked him.

Sonic nodded, "yeah, I just miss him. He deserved a second chance, and he didn't even get to fully take it. Doesn't seem fair."

Maddie pet his head, "I know, sweetie, earth failed him. I'm just so glad we found you before GUN did. We are definitely never trusting them again"

Sonic leaned against her and watched the stars for another minute or so until they completed disappeared behind some clouds. He closed the sunroof when it started to rain and snow a bit.

He shivered, "I thought I smelled snow. It sure felt cold enough."

Maddie side eyed her husband, "Tom, I swear if you crash in this weather, I will kill you."

Tom laughed nervously, "Relax, it's not even sticking to the road at all. Actually, it looks like it stopped up ahead."

Suddenly, Sonic started sneezing, repeatedly.

Maddie groaned, "Sonic, is there just something in your nose, or is danger coming."

Tom scoffed, "Oh come on, him sneezing is not a sign of danger, that's just a coincid- ... OH SHIT."

They all screamed as a deer suddenly ran out in front of them, and he had to swerve and brake.

Sonic yelled, "SEE NOT A COINCID- ... LOOK OUT!" Something black and spikey suddenly appeared on the road as well. They were still mid swerve, and Tom could not swerve again without risking tipping the truck. He also was a bit too shocked to see those red eyes glowing at them. All he could think to do was slam on the brakes as hard as he could. They felt one of the front truck tires bounce over something.

Shadow managed to duck his head down in time, but said truck tire went over his already injured leg that he couldn't curl up to his body as fast as the other one. There was a lot of screaming from inside the truck that was now above him. One of the voices sounded familiar. He couldn't chaos control himself again, still entirely too worn out. He was afraid he would land somewhere worse anyway and could only mentally prepare himself to run if need be.

Inside the truck, Maddie and Tom slowly looked at each other before finally looking down at the Sonic. Sonic looked just as shocked as them before he finally unbuckled himself and stood up on the seat, "Tom, we told you you shouldn't drive with one arm! You just got out of the hospital yesterday, and you hit a ... a ... hedgehog? wait. Wait. ... was that Shadow. Is he alive? ... oh god, the truck bounced ... OH MY GOD, DAD, DID YOU JUST RUN OVER SHADOW?????." He zipped out of the car in a flash, and Maddie gave her husband an exhausted look before she soon followed.

Tom needed another moment before he got out as well. 'What the hell just happened', he thought. These kids were going to give him a stroke.

Sonic quickly got on the ground behind the truck and looked under the bed. Yep, there was Shadow, curled up between the back tires with his quills sticking out in all crazy directions in defense, clearly giving into the instinct to make himself as big and scary as possible. "Jeez, you look like a wet feral cat under there. Why are you missing a shoe? Are you okay?"

There were some orange sparks and a low growl before he realized who was talking to him. "... Sonic? What are you -"

Before he could register anything, Sonic grinned and quite literally yanked him out from under the truck by his quills and pulled him into a hug. Shadow actually hissed at him.

"Oh, come on, it's just a hug, relax. And the quill thing was payback for throwing me by mine back at that base." He laughed, and then paused. "I'm so glad you're alive, Shadow." Sonic sounded almost ready to cry from relief. Shadow could even hear Sonics tail moving behind him, softly thumping against the road.

Shadow sighed. "It's not that," his voice was a bit shakey from adrenaline still. "I hurt my leg in the fall, and then whatever idiot is driving your truck ran it over. If it wasn't broken before, it sure is now"

Sonic pulled away from him and looked over at his leg. It looked swollen, some skin and fur was also scrapped off. "Oh, that's why you're holding your shoe. MADDIE, he's hurt. Come quick. Tom ran over his leg"

Shadows quills bristled as she slowly approached with a first aid kit and a flashlight. "Who is she?"

"Shhh, relax, Shadow. I won't hurt you. I'm Maddie. Tom's wife, otherwise known as the idiot who ran you over. You've, uh, met before." Her tone was a little sharper at the end than she meant for it to sound. She felt bad when shadow flinched at her tone. He looked incredibly pathetic with his ears back like that and visibly shivering. And young. He must be Sonic's age. 'Oh no, we're going to adopt this one too arent we?' She thought to herself.

Sonic was about to reassure Shadow that it was safe when Tom got out of the truck.

"I'm an idiot? Why is he appearing out of thin air into traffic? I didn't even know you kids could do stuff like that" He didn't sound mad. He was even laughing a little. Until he saw Shadow's leg. He frowned and knelt down beside them. Shadow backed up into Sonic and growled again. He looked very nervous now. Both adults felt their heartstrings tug a little. He just looked like a scared kid to them. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hit you. You're safe, don't worry."

Shadow stopped growling and just titled his head confused, " ... you didn't hit me on purpose? For revenge?"

Sonic rolled his eyes and hugged him again, "Dude, we seriously need to ban that word from your vocabulary."

Tom laughed, "No, of course not." He realized Shadow was being completely serious and not joking. "Wait, why would I purposely try to run you over?"

Shadow glared, "Do you have brain damage? I almost killed you. I'm a little impressed you survived actually." He added dryly.

"Oh trust me, I remember. But you think that means I should try to get back at you, though? You're a kid." He seemed concerned at his way of thinking. Especially when Shadow just answered "yes" like it was the most obvious answer in the world. He even almost seemed annoyed now that this wasn't on purpose.

"I don't need your pity." He just leaned into Sonic, quills deflating finally. He was so focused on Tom that he didn't even realize Maddie had begun to check his leg until he felt pain from her moving it. He shot her a warning glare and growled, "I didn't say you could touch me."

Sonic squeezed him, "Hey, easy, she's a vet. If you dont trust her, at least trust me. Besides, if you don't let her splint that, I'll have to. And I'll make Knuckles restrain you." Sonic smiled but also looked completely serious.

Shadow groaned, "is he the red one?" Sonic nodded in response, resting his head on top of Shadow's. He couldn't even use his chaos control now even if he wanted to with Sonic having such a firm grip on him. Something told him Sonic was aware of this too. "Fine, but only because I want that big brute touching me even less."

Maddie laughed a little and finished bandaging his leg. She also examined his bare foot for injuries. "Well, I'll have to properly resplint this later with better supplies, but all your adorable little toe beans look in tact besides being cold."

Shadow looked at her like she was insane, "what the fuck is a toe bean?" Sonic started laughing into Shadows quills. Even Tom laughed, which startled Shadow. "I don't get what's so funny."

"Just the way you said it, and it's a cute way to refer to pawpads." Maddie joined in the laughter and rubbed his foot to warm it up a little.

"Stop that. I'm fine. ... and I'm not cute"

Sonic looked at his face and grinned, "I'm telling you from experience. Pouting does not help. They also think that's cute. Humans are weird like that."

Shadow tried to finally squirm out of Sonic's embrace, "Can I get up now? The road is cold and staying here will draw too much attention"

Maddie nodded and helped Sonic get Shadow into the truck. She had to move to the middle so Shadow could rest with his back against the door and his leg over Sonic's lap. Thankfully, him and Sonic were small enough to both fit onto the passenger seat without being too squished. He also obviously trusted Sonic and didn't mind being so close to him. If Shadow didn't look so apprehensive of them still, she would have commented on how cute they looked together like that.

Instead, Maddie just turned up the heat when she realized Shadow was shivering still. "You look cold. Do you want a blanket? I think there is one behind your seat. How long were you in the woods?"

He sighed as Sonic made the decision for him and got the blanket out, and draped it over him. "A week, I think. Maybe longer. I landed in the mountains."

"Well, when we get home, you can have a nice warm bath and something to eat. You're probably starving. ... and dehydrated. Oh no have you been without water this whole time?"

Shadow snuggled a bit more into the blanket (and Sonic) before answering, "No, I drank from a couple streams, I'm fine." He still didn't understand why they were being so kind. He didn't feel he deserved it. After a long silence, he finally spoke again with a low voice. "Sorry."

Tom pulled into the driveway of their house, and him and Maddie exchanged looks before looking back at Shadow. "For what specifically?"

Shadow's ears were flat against his head again. He looked quite sad and guilty. "For attacking you, I ... I thought you were Walters. He's the one who froze me for 50 years. I was just so angry ... and I wanted him to hurt. He didn't even let me finish saying goodbye." He hated how his voice cracked at the end. He wanted to curl up in a ball, but his leg wouldn't allow it.

Sonic pulled him into another hug, or as much of one as he could with Shadow's left leg also resting on his lap. Maddie slowly put a hand on his head. Shadow flinched a little but didn't protest. She softly pet behind one of his ears, like she does with Sonic when he's upset.

Tom finally spoke, "I hold no grudge against you Shadow, you're just a kid like Sonic. And I can't say I wouldn't have also punched Walters if I went through something like that. Besides, you also saved the world, which includes us. Now, let's get you inside."

Shadow just hid his face into the blanket. "I don't deserve your kindness." His voice cracked more. He really really didn't want to cry, but he was so tired of it all, tired of fighting and hating himself, tired of being so cold. Just everything. It was becoming harder to keep it together. He was absolutely exhausted. He could feel himself shaking more, and he hoped they just assumed it was only because he was cold still.

Maddie pet his head again, "You know, the friend you lost would probably want us to be kind to you. And for you to accept it. So let us."

This time, when he tried to talk, he couldn't find his voice. A small sob escaped instead, and he covered his head with the blanket, which caused Sonic to hug him as tight as he could. They were right, Maria would want someone to help him. It was just hard to accept. He needed a minute to calm himself, but he eventually allowed Maddie to pry him away from Sonic and carry him inside.

He tried to protest being carried like a child, but she would not allow it, not with a broken leg anyway. So he accepted it and rested his head on her shoulder, sniffling a few times as quietly as he could.

Once inside, Sonic got his other shoe off, and what was left of a very dirty burned sock, and placed both shoes by the door next to his. Knuckles and Tails looked up from the couch, and Tom shushed them before they could react too loudly. Even though Shadow was mostly covered by the blanket, the other two instantly recognized the fur pattern on his legs and feet. Tails ears were back, clearly concerned about how bad the one leg looked.

"Is that the more impressive hedgehog? Is he alright?" Knuckles finally asked.

Maddie held Shadow tighter when she felt him tense up, "Yes, and he'll be fine, mostly cold, I think. I'm going to take him upstairs for a bath and a proper look at his leg. Go help Tom with dinner since he still has his arm in a sling. He'll explain everything. You too, Sonic."

"Yeah, let me tell you both how Tom clearly shouldn't be driving yet and literally ran Shadow over with the truck."

Maddie could hear them bicker about it while she walked upstairs. She set Shadow down on the bathroom counter while she got the bath started. His eyes were still a bit wet, but he looked calmer now, just tired. She held some bottles up to him, "Which of these scents do you like better?"

Shadow seemed surprised, "I get to pick? Why?"

Maddie looked concerned at his confusion, "I want you to like it. No one wants to smell like something they don't like."

He slowly sniffed the bottles, and finally picked the lavender ones. He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself while she undid the makeshift splint and checked his leg.

"If you'll trust me, I would like to get this x-rayed tomorrow. Sonic can stay with you. You might need a cast"

"You don't need to, just splint it so the bone is straight, and it should fully heal in a few days as long as I eat something."

She sighed, "I shouldn't believe you, but nothing would surprise me these days with you bunch. Oh the skin has already healed from being run over. Alright, but if there is no improvement in a few days, I'm taking you. Now, let's get you warmed up. You're still shaking."

"Yeah, well, I went from nearly burning as I fell through your atmosphere to plumetting into a snow-covered mountain."

Maddie paused for a moment, "You fell? All the way down to earth? How are you not burned and more injured ... how are you even alive." She began to palpate him, discovering some cracked ribs.

"Stop, I'm fine. The burns healed already. Bones just take longer. ... and I'm not sure, honestly. ... I wasn't expecting to live."

She really didn't like how disappointed he seemed to be over being alive. Might be time to finally look for a therapist. She brushed the thought aside and picked him up again to help him get into the tub, which he grumbled about but couldn't really stop her. "Well, I'm glad you're alive. You can't make up for what you did if you're dead. And Sonic would have kept being sad."

He slowly sank down into the water, covering himself up to his chin. At least he looked more relaxed now. Finally he asked, "Sonic was sad? Over me?"

She began to wash his quills and detangle them. She was a pro at this after having to help Sonic with his so often. "Of course he was. He hasn't stopped talking about you. The first thing he did when Tom woke up was tell him about what you two did. I'm pretty sure he has some sort of crush on you. It's cute."

Shadow chose to ignore the part about Sonic liking him like that. Clearly, this woman was just stupid. "Yeah, well, he's weird." Despite that, he began to purr softly as she washed his quills, at least until something fell out of his quills and startled them both. He slowly lifted a green gemstone out of the water.

Maddie laughed, "Oh my god, that's where the last one has been. They've been looking for days. Knuckles will bear hug you when he finds out it's safe"

Shadow winces, "Uh, maybe the blue idiot can give it to him then."

She went back to detangling his quills and scrubbing his head, "You know, you'll have to get used to them since you'll be staying here now"

"I didn't make that decision," he tried to sound more serious, but his voice turned into a purr and clicking noise when she scratched his head again. He looked a bit surprised by the noise. Before Maddie could say anything, he looked her dead in the eyes, "Do not call me cute again."

She smiled at him, "Fine, I won't. You're definitely a hedgehog like Sonic though. Also where would you stay if not here? This is the safest place from GUN. Any weird energy outputs, and we just can blame it on Sonic. Unless you want to live outside. During the winter. It gets very cold here." She knew if he was like Sonic, he hated being cold.

Shadow shivered at the thought, "Fine ... why you insist after I almost killed your husband, though, is still strange. You're all strange" He really was starting to think they all had brain damage.

"You're not a bad kid, Shadow. You're just a teenager. A very traumatized one, I assume, from what I've been told. You deserve a second chance. Besides, Sonic wouldn't forgive us if we didn't try. He could have easily ended up like you."

"I guess ..." It was clearly going to take some work to get him to feel like he deserves kindness. He just rested his head on the side of the tub while she finished washing his back, then she let him do the rest.

Once finished, she wrapped him in a big towel and placed him back by the sink. She put a proper splint on his leg and blowdried and brushed him as much as he would allow before bringing him downstairs where Tom was finishing up dinner. Tails and Knuckles were sitting at the table. Sonic had finished telling them what happened and to be nice to Shadow (mostly aimed at Knuckles), and they agreed. They were also glad Shadow was alive. Knuckles commented that he deserved a second chance like he had gotten. Although he wanted a rematch once the black hedgehog was healed.

When Maddie walked into the dining room still holding him, Tom couldn't help but laugh, "Wow, he gets even fluffier than Sonic does."

She smiled at him, "Right? And look at these cute little ear tufts too. He's more Maine Coon cat than he is hedgehog."

Shadow scowled as one of his ears twitched, "Why does everyone keep comparing me to a cat." Maria used to do it too. He never understood.

She ignored him and sat him down on a chair beside Tails. Sonic ran up and put a stool under his leg. Then he suddenly grabbed one of Shadow's hands.

"Well, these don't help the cat comparisons. jeez, these claws are crazy sharp. We're filing those later so I don't get shredded in my sleep. Do you want some gloves though? We're usually pretty sensitive about our hands being bare. We can make you some new ones."

"No I'm fine, I don't really care. Just stop touching me." He shook his hand out of Sonics, a little overwhelmed at all the attention on him.

"You literally cuddled with me the whole ride home." Sonic teased him.

Before Shadow could respond to him, Tails suddenly was much closer to him. Too close. "Hi Shadow. Good to see you're alive. How do your shoes work? Do you want me to fix them up? They look so cool." He had been inspecting Shadow's shoes that Sonic put by the door earlier.

Shadow looked surprised and even more overwhelmed. But slowly, he tilted his head, "Why do you want to?"

Knuckles caught on to Shadow's body language and pulled Tails back properly into his seat, and gave him a look.

"Oh, sorry," he laughed, his tails swishing behind him. "And I dont know, they look important to you, I didn't see any power source though, how do you hover?"

"They are, a friend made them for me. I power them with my chaos energy. I still don't understand why you want to help me though." Kindness was definitely going to take a while to accept.

Tails just smiled at him, "Well, Sonic trusts you, so I will too. And you saved us all. So you can't be that bad." Knuckles nodded in agreement.

Shadow just blinked at him, "I kicked you and threw a car at you."

Knuckles laughed, "That was nothing for me and my muscles. Besides, when I first met the fox, he hit me with a police car. It's practically tradition at this point."

Shadow looked surprised, "why?"

"I was trying to kill the less impressive hedgehog." He laughed as he said this and pointed at Sonic. "The fox was protecting him."

"Dude, just say our names. You know our names. And that's nothing. Tom shot me when we first met." Sonic finally took a seat on the other side of Shadow.

Shadow just slowly looked over at Tom, who was carrying some food in.

"With a tranquilizer gun! No bullets. Jeez. Sonic, please stop leaving that part out."

Sonic just laughed.

"The fuck is wrong with your family Sonic." Shadow finally commented, he looked bewildered.

They all laughed despite his use of language again. That was a conversation for a different day. Tom put a hand on Shadows shoulder, "Well, maybe now you can see why I dont hold a grudge for you punching me. I'm pretty used to this kind of chaos."

Shadow still thought they were all crazy, but he stopped fighting it. Maddie got him to eat a little pasta, and Shadow just observed them all laughing and talking with one another.

Sonic finally spoke to Shadow again after a bit when he noticed him looking lost, ear twitching again as he was listening to everyone. "Oh, uh, Shads. I noticed you tilt your head whenever you're confused about something. That also doesn't help the cute thing. Even I think that's a bit adorable. Why is your ear doing that?"

Shadow scowled and swatted at him when he tried to touch his ear, "Stop calling me cute, I am not cute. I am the ultimate lifeform."

Maddie burst out laughing before stopping, "Oh my god, oh. ... Tom, I think he's serious. Of course you are honey."

Shadow growled, but she didn't seem phased. "You know, if you are the ultimate lifeform, then you would be the best at everything. Including being adorable. Yes?"

Shadow slowly relaxed and stared at her for a moment, seriously contemplating her words. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

Sonic huffed and faked being offended, "Are you implying that you think he's cuter than me? Mom."

Knuckles laughed loudly, "Well, he clearly is the superior hedgehog."

Sonic looked actually offended now, and everyone laughed. Even Shadow smiled a little.

After dinner, Shadow got Knuckle's attention and slowly handed him the missing emerald, "I was told this belongs to you."

Knuckles looked beyond surprised and thrilled, "The last one! It is not lost forever after all! I will visit Wade tomorrow and reform the Master Emerald." He went to hug Shadow.

Shadow quickly put his hands up, "No, no, broken ribs. Hug Sonic instead in my place"

Before Sonic could register what was happening, he was pulled into a bone crushing hug. Literally you could hear them cracking. Sonic groaned. "Please let me go, I'm not dying like this."

Knuckles laughed and put him down, "Don't be so dramatic blue hedgehog. This is the best news we have had all week! We can continue our pact to protect the emerald. Thank you, Shadow."

Shadow gave him a small smile before Sonic interrupted, "What you can't call me by my name. Why are you so weird."

Before Knuckles could respond, Shadow got off the chair, using it to support his weight so he could keep his leg off the ground. He ruffled Sonic's quills and then flicked his forehead, "He probably does it because you get so worked up. You're an easy target."

"Wow, rude. I am not. ... wait" Sonic suddenly realized how much shorter Shadow looked. He grinned ear to ear, "Oh my god, am I taller than you? Aren't you older than me?"

Shadow scowled, "Absolutely not ... okay, maybe. Barely."

Sonic just laughed as Shadow started to pout. "I told you pouting also makes you look cute. Especially combined with the ear twitch."

Shadow covered his ears and growled at Sonic and Knuckles, who was also laughing loudly. Even Tails laughed a little.

Maddie and Tom interrupted them before the bickering got any louder, especially since Shadow was starting to spark. "Okay, enough picking on each other for one night, go settle in upstairs. Knuckles carry Shadow. ... gently."

"I will make sure not to make his injuries worse."

Shadow protested, but he couldn't exactly outrun anyone right now and had to accept his fate. Once upstairs, everyone talked a bit and played some board games. Sonic and Shadow immediately were competitive. Sonic also kept his word and forced Shadow to let him file down his nails a little bit. Just enough they weren't so sharp at the tips.

When it was time for bed, Sonic insisted that Shadow share his, especially when he found out Shadow had never slept on an actual bed before. Shadow was pretty sure Sonic just wanted to keep a hold of him so he wouldn't chaos control himself out of there in the middle of the night. He did consider it, but he also felt safe and warm for the first time in a very long time. And he let himself finally rest.

___________________

(Little note, the sneezing thing I got from someone talking about how in one of the earlier sonic games, it was strongly suggested that sonic had some sort of danger sense. It manifested as him sneezing right before something was about to hurt/kill him. I thought that was really funny and cute so I added it in here)

[pedrosbish]

Logan f*cking Howlett

pairing: (old!man) Logan x reader

outline: you somehow get roped into looking after Charles and end up falling in love with the grumpy man who you barely see around

warnings: very brief descriptions of smut, swearing, angst

He found you standing by the beat up gas station, a pathetic cardboard sign advertising for any job people were willing to offer.

You looked young, a pretty thing still full of life but your eyes didn't have that glint in them anymore, something that Logan recognised all too well after spending so long staring at what he had become over the years.

He was getting old - could feel it in the way his bones cracked when getting up, the wrinkles on his face spreading out and crinkling whenever he showed any other facial expression, and how his healing isn't how it used to be.

"I'm not a prostitute." Your voice snaps him out of it and he realises that he must've been staring at you for quite a bit now. "So you can fuck off to your buddies over there if that's what your after."

He glances over his shoulder at the group of men, crowding around a pickup truck, eyes ogling you and whistles reaching across the parking lot.

"I'm not-" He sighs, eyes closing for a split second before he turns back to you. "Are you good with old people?"

He had taken you to the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dirt and train tracks and for a split second you had a moment of panic surge through you. What if he was a serial killer? He had the blood on him already for that role, red spots dotted all over his fancy white shirt and on his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.

But then he had stopped in front of an old decrepit building and a calming presence had suddenly clouded around you. Logan had led you around the back to a decommissioned water tank, littered with thousands of tiny holes.

Eyeing him wearily as he opened the hatch, he stood to the side as you walked past him, eyes falling to an old man sitting in a wheel chair before a chess table.

"Good evening." The old man's voice echoed around the large space. "Do you like chess?"

Wake him up at 8 every morning with breakfast and two tablets. Bathroom, wash him up, chess. Lunch then nap, followed by dinner with two more tablets and sleep.

It was an easy job, although a little too boring for your liking sometimes. Logan had stressed on the tablets everyday before leaving to go and work for the night, making you weary of what you were actually giving the old man.

You cleaned every day, the dirt and dust from outside always finding its way inside. The TV worked but only occasionally when you hit the specific spot on the back. You read a lot, either by yourself or to Charles.

"Such a soothing voice." He had murmured after you had tucked him in, eyes drooping closed. You had been looking after him for 4 months by that point and had placed a gentle kiss to his forehead for the first time, missing the small smile on his face as you left the tank.

Logan was still an enigma to you, his time mostly spent either working or sleeping. He usually came back once you had gone to bed, too anxious to actually fall asleep until his return. You usually peeked your head around the open door to see if he needed patching up, blood covering his bruised knuckles and red staining his shirt.

This was a common occurrence, one that made you feel nervous. Who had he been fighting that night? Why did your heart always flutter when you had to stand between his legs to stitch up a wound that would heal up entirely after a couple of days?

The first time you kissed him, he had pushed you away, hands a little rougher than either of you were expecting. Silent cusses had poured from his mouth as he stood up from the chair, stumbling off to his room where the door slammed loudly behind him.

That ache in your chest when you looked at him that night was growing ever so slowly into a large cavity that only he could fill.

By the time you woke up the next morning, he had already left for the day - to pick up Charles' medication, supplies, to work and to do whatever else gave him those wounds. Ignoring that ache in your heart, you had tried to go about your day, Charles' gaze holding a certain sorrow that made the lump in your throat harder to swallow around.

He hadn't come back for dinner, your own food having grown cold as you waited for him. After covering it up and putting it in a place where he would be able to see it, you had gone to bed, drifting away uneasily.

The sound of your door opening woke you, and you watched as the light from the next room poured in, casting the shadow of Logan onto your wall. Turning around slowly, you looked at him standing in your doorway, an almost nervous look on his face.

"I, uh," he winces, hand clutching at the red patch slowly staining his shirt. "Need your help again."

You were quiet, which made in all honesty Logan nervous as he looked up at you, your gaze locked onto stitching his stab wound back up. Usually he could never get you to shut up.

Throwing away the cloth which you had used to wipe away the rest of the blood, you turned your back without a word, ready to go back to your bed. Without thinking, Logan had grabbed onto your wrist, standing up and looming over you.

It was difficult to look at nothing but him. Even though he was old, Logan was still possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen. Watching silently, you waited for him to say something, to say anything.

"Fuck it." He murmurs under his breath, the hand on your wrist tugging you forward so that he can crash his lips to yours.

It's not a loving touch. His hands are rough and hard against your skin, desperation coursing through him as he takes you right there on the kitchen table, shorts tugged down to your ankles and shirt hanging low enough for him to stare at your chest.

He collapses against you, a low groan reverberating through his chest. In this moment of intimacy, you allow your fingers to gently scrape against his scalp and you smile at how he melts against you.

He silently lifts you, placing you gently down onto his bed where he climbs in after you, hand dangling around your waist as he places a quick kiss to the back of your shoulder.

Your heart soars, a giddy smile spreading across your lips, so much that your cheeks ache. He's warm, snuggling back into him in the cold air of the old building, your hand tangling with his own as your eyes droop.

Wake him up at 8 every morning with breakfast and two tablets. Bathroom, wash him up, chess. Lunch then nap, followed by dinner with two more tablets and sleep. Make dinner, patch up and fuck Logan.

It always hurt after. He treated you as if you didn't exist or that you were simply not there the following morning. He usually left for work before you were awake but on the rare occasion where he didn't need to leave in the morning, his replies mainly consisted of grunts.

For now, Logan seeking you out for relief was enough. But in those rare moments of intimacy following after sex, you could almost picture a different life for you two. One where he wouldn't return from work with holes and blood covering his shirt, or the energy being sucked out from him to the point where he was almost losing himself and who he used to be.

After a particularly gruelling day with Charles, one where it had taken him a lot longer to remember who you were and where he was, you decided to talk to Logan properly. You needed more from him.

This night, he hadn't gotten into trouble and returned with no blood on him or his shirt. It was a small victory for the both of you at least.

He had snuck up behind you as you were washing the dinner plates, hand snaking its way down from your stomach to between your legs. It was easy to forget that you were meant to simply talk to him, to ask him what you were to him when his touch could be so distracting.

Laying down next to him that night, your hand on his chest which was beginning to slow, you had quietly murmured your question into the dark.

He had tensed up immediately, shifting away and sitting up, legs swinging over the side of the bed.

"Please, Logan." It's almost embarrassing at the way your voice cracks, wet tears pouring over your cheeks. "I-I love you."

"Don't fuckin' say that." His voice is sad, head hung low in his hands as he hears you move from your side of the bed, sitting beside him. "You think you do but you don't."

That ache in your heart burns with intensity at the way his voice sounds, almost as if he feels bad for you.

"I'm pretty sure I know how I feel, Logan." Your hand reaches out, gently moving his hand from his face. "What are you so scared of? Why can't you believe that I love you?"

"I'm not talkin' about this."

He shoots up, slipping his clothes and boots on and stalking towards the front door. You follow behind him, trying to match his stride as you call after him, voice cracking as you watch him grab his keys.

The sun is just rising beyond the horizon, painting the sky a beautiful hue of pink and orange. His car engine starts up just as you step outside, the dirt staining your feet as you watch him speed away.

You may not have known Logan that well or for that long but you did know some things about him. He was scared of caring for people again, having lost so many throughout the years. He thought that he was incapable of being loved, his years of ageing souring his thoughts of himself.

You knew that he cared for you, in whatever capacity and way he was capable of. And you hoped that he would come back to you and accept that he was worthy of your love.

But he was just a man.

_______________________________________

a/n: hey...so it's been awhile since I've posted any of my own work (and by awhile I mean 3 years oop) but thankfully seeing Hugh Jackman has gotten me sitting up again. I don't know if that means I'll be back but have a crumb for now...

[magnoliasandarson]

a sleigh of sorts

Dick wasn’t religious, he didn’t care for capitalism (even though he kept claiming billionaires for family), but he was absolutely determined to embody the Christmas spirit. Dick had to make things right- and to do that, he had to abduct his siblings. 

He wasn’t doing this for selfish reasons, even if it might sound like this was for him. His siblings deserved a break; they deserved to feel loved and important. He owed them that. The gifts sitting on the floor in front of Tim’s legs were only part of the equation. Rounding them all up and being together was the much bigger part. 

So maybe he was driving like a maniac through empty Gotham streets because Duke was walking alone in the dark on Christmas Eve. Sure, Duke’s an extremely capable hero, but Dick’s his big brother. It’s his job to worry. He worries about all of them, which is why he has a screen fixed above his radio displaying their real-time locations on a grid map of Gotham. 

Tim had stared for all of five seconds at the tracking display before wisely deciding to drop it (Dick knew the younger had his own trackers), instead choosing to rapid-fire question the elder to determine the reason behind his new mentality, “Did Kori bring you weird candy again?”

Dick swung the pickup through a narrow corner, laughing when Tim muttered shit and reached for the handle above him, “Tim! Timmy! Timmers,” he turned down the best of the 80s channel just enough to be heard, “This is the holiday spirit! Get with it!” 

He was so tired of the family being so dark and miserable; they were a family, they loved each other, and they could be happy for ten minutes. Was it so hard to believe that Dick wanted to be with his family?

Tim shifted so his back was against the door and fixed him with a look, lips barely forming get with it as he processed what was happening. Even if the younger was actively doubting his sanity, Dick was quietly ecstatic that Tim was even slightly playing along. It meant he didn’t hate him as much as Dick feared he did. Maybe there was still a shot at them being close again. 

Without drawing attention to it, Dick reached forward and turned the dial on the heat up. He knew that Tim would be pissed if Dick asked him if he was cold, but he also knew that without a spleen, a cold could be a lot worse for Tim than the next person. He felt his brother’s eyes on his face but chose to keep staring ahead. If Tim wanted to talk, he would. Pushing with Tim never worked; Dick knew from pushing and fucking things up countless times. 

Instead, Dick loudly sang along to Princes of the Universe by Queen while speeding hazardously toward the yellow dot on his map. Sue him, but he color-coded his siblings. Not like Bruce hadn’t done it first. 

Tim finally snapped, slapping the dial on the radio to silence it before demanding, “Why are you trying so hard?” A glance away from the road showed Dick that Tim’s body language was completely closed off, posturing like they had all been trained to do during interrogations. 

Dick pursed his lips; he didn’t want to be mad- he couldn’t be mad at Tim for not trusting him to have good intentions. He had screwed up enough with the younger over the years, but he desperately wanted to make amends. He just needed Tim to accept the olive branch for what it was, “Because you deserve it,” Dick tightened his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles popped, “this family is beyond messed up, but it’s a family. You’re my brother- and that means something to me, Tim.”

Tim stared for maybe a minute, eyes dark and shining in the low light of the truck cab, before nodding once and turning the dial on the radio up, the loud sounds of I Wanna Dance With Somebody filling the now-heavy air. 

Despite the tension hanging between them, Dick did what he knew to do, what all older siblings are obligated to do. He loudly sang along, putting his chest into every high note he could not reach. Even though Tim was definitely still dealing with emotional turmoil of his own, Dick caught him struggling not to smile at a spectacularly missed note. 

“There!” Tim interrupted, gesturing out the windshield at Duke, standing frozen on the darkened sidewalk, staring bewildered at the hurtling pickup blasting Whitney Houston. His jaw dropped when it screeched to a halt directly in front of him.

“Heya, Dukey, wanna hop in?” Dick grinned as he turned the radio down. 

Duke’s bewildered face soured at the nickname, “What-”

Tim cut him off as he leaned out the window, “C’mon, Dukey, it’s Christmas. Get with it.” 

Dick felt his face burn with how wide his smile grew, his brother was humoring him, but he was having fun. He knew it. The plan was working.

Duke’s eyebrows furrowed aggressively as he and Tim had some sort of eye conversation that Dick wasn’t privy to before he shrugged, “Getting with it,” and hopped into the back seat. 

The truck tires squealed as they took off, “Welcome aboard, Duke!” Dick turned the dial back up on the radio and started speeding to the purple and pink dots, “We’re on a mission to save Christmas; you in?”

Tim twisted in his seat to face the back, “Just say yes; otherwise, he gets emotional.”

“It’s true!”

Duke laughed, loud and bright, “Yeah, of course I’m in!” 

Dick eyed his newest brother in the rearview, watching as he immediately clocked the blood-staining Tim’s shirt. It was funny listening to Tim bitch at someone else for being concerned. It was even funnier watching Duke smack Tim on the back of the head for “being a spleenless jerk with no self-preservation or decency to let other people be concerned about you.”  People forget, but Duke was a poet. It made for hilarious arguments.

The trio sped down the mostly empty streets, and Dick felt lighter than he’d felt in a long time. He had some of his siblings with him- and they wanted to be there. They were going to go pick up Steph and Cass, ambush Jason before he could skip town, and coerce Jason into feeding them while watching holiday episodes of crime shows. 

Easy enough, they were Robins, after all. 

[semperama]

prompt: buddie + airport (pickup, reunion, pre-flight jitters, etc.)! <3

Eddie starts to lose it as they take the exit for the airport. He’s been holding it together for months, white knuckles, barely breathing, his body going through the motions of working and eating and sleeping and laughing while his mind was shut off, like a medically induced coma, keep it quiet and hope it’ll heal.

It hasn’t healed.

“Eddie,” Buck says, reaching across the center console and squeezing his thigh. “Eddie, breathe.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, meaning to lighten the mood, but instead he sounds watery and pitiful, a hitch in his chest. He lets his hand fall on top of Buck’s, squeezes his fingers, and asks what he should have asked months ago, the question he’s been gritting his teeth against. “Come with me,” he says. “Please?”

They’re about to pass the parking garage. Buck jerks the wheel. “Shit,” he says, but he turns his hand over, laces their fingers. “I, uh. I actually—I bought a ticket. Already. Just in case. I’m sorry, it was weird of me, but I—“

“Thank fuck.” Eddie lets his head thunk back against the seat, shuts his eyes against the tears that threaten to spill over. “I should have asked sooner. I just thought—I was supposed to do it alone.”

“Never,” Buck says. And yeah, that tracks. Eddie feels like an idiot. Why would he do it alone? Why wouldn’t Buck come with him everywhere?

“Okay.” Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand and tries to breathe, in and out, timing it with Buck’s pulse against his wrist. “Let’s go bring him home.”