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usomads · 7 months ago

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Pin Me // Roman Reigns x Reader

Author's Note -> Hiii I’m back! Had a dream about this recently and figured I’d write it out for y’all. 🤭 Also, tysm for the feedback on the first one shot I did! I wasn’t expecting that big of a response lmao, but I figured I’d write another one to feed y’all. Happy reading! 🖤 Link to Part 2

Plot -> You’re an up and coming wrestler on the main roster, working mid card matches to make your way through the ranks and into the main event scene until you find yourself teaming up with the main event.

Pairings -> Roman Reigns x Fem!Reader (Y/N)

Warnings -> Cursing, Daddy Kink, Spit Play, Oral Sex (M!Receiving, F!Receiving), Hickies, Spanking, Unprotected P in V, Creampie, Not Proofread, MDNI

Word Count -> 3.6k

“Miss Y/N, I know you took some bad bumps out there but please try to sit still so we can examine you,” the trainer pleaded. You just had a dark match against Piper Niven before the show opened and you were hurting badly, taking some brutal spots in the process. In the end you had pulled out the win, but you didn’t feel like a winner at that moment. You felt like your ribs had shattered into a million pieces, and it didn’t feel good. “So there’s no breaks or anything like that, you’re just understandably banged up. Keep icing it like you’re doing now and take a Tylenol every now and again, and you should be good to go. Just, don’t go jumping off of things for the next couple days and you’ll be good,” the trainer chuckled. You weakly smiled at him and attempted to get up from the table, but the TV broadcasting Smackdown caught your attention. Roman Reigns caught your attention.

The Bloodline story always captivated you, and it’s part of the reason you started seriously working on your in-ring character. They were the top of the food chain, the blockbuster event, the money ticket, and you hoped one day to grow to their level of popularity and success. Roman and Solo were both cutting a promo, and at first it seemed like the typical stuff. Both claiming to be the Head of the Table, both wanting the crowd to acknowledge them, but it was something Solo said that immediately piqued your interest. “Nobody in the locker room likes you, Roman. The men hate you, the women fear you… you know what-,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I challenge you to find any woman back there that’s dumb enough to team up with you and go against me and my partner next Saturday at Main Event. You win, and I’ll let you have a shot at my ula fala” Roman scoffed, clearly unamused that Solo was doing everything but facing him one-on-one, but agreed to his challenge.

“Wiseman,” he turned to Paul, his longtime advisor as he spoke, “You know what to do.”

Paul wasted no time, making sure to acknowledge his Tribal Chief before he hurried backstage to find the general manager. Now that the segment was over you had no excuse to sit in the trainer’s room, so you walked out and made your way back to the women’s locker room. Still clutching the ice pack to your ribs, you walked gingerly but not before being stopped. “Excuse me, miss Y/N, could I borrow a minute of your time?” There before you was the Wiseman himself, looking more stressed than usual. You were stunned, why would Paul want to talk to me of all people? “Of course, Mr. Heyman. I was just heading back to the locker room. Is everything okay?” “Oh please, call me Paul,” he paused, carefully choosing his next words, “I saw your match with Piper tonight, you looked like a star out there. The splash from the top rope to the announce table was incredible. I-” he stopped his ramblings as his eyes drifted to your ice pack on your ribs, a look of (fear? worry?) evident across his face.

“Oh don’t worry, Mr. Hey- I mean Paul, nothing’s broken. Just a little banged up is all, I’ll be good to go in a couple days,” you smiled as relief washed over his face. “Good, good! I mean- not good that you’re banged up, good that you-” “I know what you mean, Paul,” you chuckled at him, trying to calm him as best you could. “But you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Yes, right! Well-” he clears his throat, “As the Wiseman to our esteemed Tribal Chief, Roman Reigns, I have been tasked with finding a suitable partner to join him in taking down Solo Sikoa and… whoever his partner is… so I was wondering-”

“Hold on a second, Paul, you want me to be Roman’s tag team partner? I mean forgive me for saying this but isn’t there someone… I don’t know… more worthy of a main event spot than me? Does he even know you’re asking me?”

“Well, not exactly,” he hesitated, “the Tribal Chief has… how do I say this… never been one to make friends. So I’ve so far been unsuccessful in finding him a suitable partner, but you’re here and the match you just put on was phenomenal! Even the Tribal Chief himself said you had a lot of promise, which is more than he says about anyone else…” he continued, “but no, I have not told him I was going to speak with you.” “Then let’s go talk to him, I want him to be okay with me being his partner before I agree to anything.”

“You can’t be serious, Paul.” Roman sighed in clear frustration with the whole thing, “I mean she’s basically a rookie. And you think it’s a good idea for her to partner with me?” “Well yes, my Tribal Chief. I would never lead you astray.” You squirmed where you stood across the room, uncomfortable with the tension in the air surrounding your presence. Paul continued, “I asked everyone else in the locker room, and all of them declined. If you want to reclaim your ula fala, she’s your only option.” It was then that Roman finally glanced in your direction, eyeing you up and down as he pondered on his decision. His stare alone was enough to make you feel weak in the knees, but you hid that as best as you could. Or tried to, anyway. The silence in the air was thick, and before you could stop yourself you were already speaking. “Ro- I mean, my Tribal Chief-” “Please, Joe is fine.”

“O-okay, Joe-,” you stammered. No man has ever made you act like this; you were always so confident, but here you were fumbling your words and stuttering through your sentences like you were a little girl all over again. It was almost pathetic how much of an effect he had on you, but you continued, “I- think Paul is right. I know I-I’m not a b-big name in this business yet but- you need to win back your ula fala, and you need someone willing to team with you to do it. I’m willing. I’ll help you.” Joe studied your body language as you spoke, watching the way you stood nervously across the room from him and how you were slightly shaking due to the pressure you were under. He watched your breathing, noticing you were breathing heavier with each word that came out of your mouth. He also noticed your lack of eye contact with him, your eyes glued to the floor afraid to look at his reaction to your sudden outburst. Joe had been wronged so many times before by people he loved dearly. Being forced to trust a complete stranger in his quest to regain what was rightfully his seemed unfair, but Paul and Y/N were right- it was the only way he was going to be able to do it. “Come here, Y/N.” Your eyes shot up from the floor at his response, looking at Paul for assurance. Paul gave you a small smile in return, letting you know it was okay to approach him. You made your way to him slowly, still looking anywhere but at him as you did so. When you finally reached him your eyes were still down, not daring to make contact, but a jolt of energy made you do so. With a singular calloused finger he lifted your chin until you were staring back at him. He towered over you and his dark brown eyes stared into your own with a burning intensity you couldn’t quite place.

“You both are sure this is going to work?” He asked you and Paul, still maintaining his gaze with you. “Yes, my Tribal Chief,” Paul replied, a little more confident in his decision than he was about 10 minutes ago. “What about you, Y/N, you’re sure it’ll work?” You swallowed hard, feeling more pressure than ever before. This has to work, you thought, there’s no other option. Letting out a heavy breath you didn’t know you were holding, you breathed out just loud enough for him to hear, “Yes, my Tribal Chief.” “Wiseman, go let Aldis know I found my partner. Oh, and make sure it says between us; I don’t want Solo to see this coming.”

The day of Saturday Night’s Main Event was finally here, and neither Solo nor the WWE Universe knew you were the ‘mystery partner’. That wasn’t for a lack of trying though, Solo tried every trick in the book to figure it out. Harassing Nick Aldis, sending his lackeys to break into Joe’s dressing room for clues, none of them worked. You both had kept tight-lipped about your partnership, having secret training sessions together in the week leading to the match and keeping creative meetings to ‘need to know personnel’ only. Their plan was executing flawlessly but just had one more step to go: the true element of surprise.

Solo and his partner, Nia Jax, made their entrances into the ring and stood in wait for Roman and his ‘mystery partner’, but were shocked to find that Roman was making his entrance alone. That’s because you were lying under the ring, waiting for your cue to strike. Roman finally entered the ring prompting Solo to start antagonizing him and Nia getting in on the action. Her and Solo’s backs were turned and that’s when you made your appearance, striking Nia from behind and throwing them both off guard.

The match itself was pretty standard, Solo and Roman starting things off. Roman had the upper hand very quickly, but over time that changed. Near fall after near fall from both men ensued, with Superman Punches, Samoan Spikes, Spears, and everything in between. It was apparent that Roman was trying to use most of the time in the ring, he was trying to win this all by himself. But eventually that came back to bite him in the ass, as now he was beaten badly and needed help. His body nearly on the brink of exhaustion as he desperately tried to win in every way possible, to no avail. He knew in the back of his mind you were going to have to finish this match, and that his fate was ultimately in your hands. You knew it too, so while he laid limply in the ring after kicking out of two Samoan Spikes you were screaming for his attention. He dragged himself across the ring to you, finally relenting and giving you the chance to win this, and tagged you in right as Solo was tagging Nia. You entered the ring and suddenly every doubt you had and every insecurity of yours quadrupled as you stood across the ring from the Smackdown Women’s Champion. She came in with a fury you had never encountered before, or seen, and was countering every piece of offense you could get in. But after her initial rush of offense she slowed down, and that was when you struck. You start throwing heavy strikes, tackles, drops, you were unloading the clip of your entire move set on her, and it was working. You had her down on the mat, and were climbing the top rope to hit your finisher on her and nailed it. You immediately crawled on top of Nia to use your signature pin, by straddling her head and using your knees to keep her shoulders down. It was at this moment you locked eyes with Roman who had a different look in his eyes than you’ve ever seen before, eyes darker than ever as they trailed down your body and stared at your suggestive pin position. 1… 2… 3…

You won. You pinned Nia, and you just secured Roman’s opportunity at the ula fala. Both of your names were being announced but you couldn’t hear it, stuck in this trance of Roman’s stare. He entered the ring and stood over you as you were still straddling Nia, looking down at you as you were practically on your knees in front of him. He guides you to your feet by lightly grabbing your chin, making sure he keeps his eyes on your facial features.

“Be at my locker room in 10 minutes,” he says loud enough for only you to hear, “we’ve got some celebrating to do.”

You had only given one soft knock on the door before it flung open and were dragged inside, now roughly pressed against it as bites and bruises were being scattered across your neck.

“You did so good for me out there, baby, winning for me all by yourself,” Joe growled against you, “So daddy’s gonna reward you, all you gotta do it be a good girl f’me and you’ll get want you want. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, f-fuck, yes sir.” Joe groaned in response and ripped off your ring gear, as you now stood completely bare before him. He drank in your naked body, how it was curved in all the right places with your beautiful breasts and ass perfectly on display for him. It was then that he noticed the artwork decorating your hip and thigh, a true masterpiece that would make Botticelli’s portrait of Venus look like a kid’s drawing. One that he would have no shame in hanging above his fireplace and admiring it for as long as he lives.

He attached his lips to yours in an instant and you felt as though you were putty in his hands. This kiss was needy, desperate, and your hands felt the same as your hands wandered up and down his torso and his gripping your ass and breasts like his life depended on it. Joe removed the shirt he was wearing to reveal his god-like body to you, and you felt your wetness begin to drip just from the sight of him alone. His hands continued to wander, reaching your aching core as he let a singular calloused finger drag itself through your wetness. You bucked your hips in response, wanting more of him, but instead felt another large hand grab your waist. “Uh-uh princess, none of that. You’re gonna take what I give you, when I give it to you. Understand?”

“Yes daddy, I just-,” your sentence was halted in its tracks by a rough smack to your ass, making you cry out in pleasure with a hint of pain.

“Don’t talk back to me baby, Daddy doesn’t wanna have to punish you before you get your reward,” he leans into your ear, lips brushing your earlobe as he whispers, “and you don’t want that, do you baby?”

“N-no, no sir. I’ll be good.”

“Good girl, now show Daddy how good your mouth looks full of his cock.” You drop to your knees, hands fumbling with the belt around his hips. Finally you unbuckle it, removing it and releasing him from the confines of his pants and boxers. His cock is as god-like as the rest of him, perfect length, thickness, and the right amount of veins that you know will have your head spinning the moment it enters you.

“Look at me baby,” he tilts your head towards him with his finger, “open your mouth for me.” Reluctantly, you obeyed as he leaned down and spit in your mouth, giving you more to coat his dick with. Still looking up at him, you wrap your hand around the base and spit on the tip, bringing your hand up to pump his cock and fully coat it. You stroke him a few more times before dragging your tongue along one of the veins, making him shudder and let out a low groan, bringing his fingers to your hair and tugging lightly.

“Mmm baby don’t tease Daddy, go ahead pretty girl.”

You wrap your lips around the tip, giving kitten licks and sucking the sensitive head. He hisses and tugs harder on your hair, encouraging you to take more of him. You relax your jaw as you slowly bob your head up and down on his cock, using your tongue and hollowing your cheeks with your movements. Looking up at Joe you see he is a mess above you, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, and moaning your name. To you he always looked like a god among men, but seeing him in this state and being the one to get him there made you want him more than anything in your life. “F-fuck Y/N, you take me so well sweetheart, but I wanna cum in that pretty pussy of yours.” He helps you to your feet and guides you to the couch. He lays down, and as you move to straddle his waist, he stops you. “No, baby. I want you to pin me.” You look at him confused for a moment, unsure of what he’s saying. “Your pin tonight,” he adds, “pin me like you did Nia.” You hesitate before climbing on top of him, straddling his shoulders and resting your calves on them. “Like this, daddy?” You ask nervously.

“No baby, like this.” He lifts your hips from their seated position and brings your pussy directly to his face, where he latches his lips to your aching core. The feeling of his lips and tongue eating you with such desperation makes you jolt forward, grabbing onto his hair for support. He chuckles against you briefly before going back to work on you, licking your folds and wrapping his lips around your clit. His tongue is working wonders on you as he plays with your entrance before slipping it inside. The feeling is overwhelming, both tender and rough at once. You feel yourself getting closer, your walls fluttering around his tongue with every movement it makes. All of a sudden though, he stops, and you whine in response. “As much as I’d love to eat you for every meal and then some, I think the winner here deserves to cum around my cock. Would you like that, baby?”

“Fuck yes, Daddy please, please fuck me.”

“You’ve been such a good girl tonight, I think you deserve it baby. Come on.” You both get up as he bends you over the couch, teasing your entrance with his cock before roughly slamming into you from behind. You scream out in response, which makes him cover your mouth and bring you close.

“Now baby, as much as I’d love to hear you scream my name over and over, I gotta keep you quiet. You wouldn't want someone barging in, would you?” Your pussy tightens around him in response and you moan into his hand. “Oh, you dirty girl… I gotta keep you around, don’t I princess?” He removes his hand from your mouth and brings it to your hair, wrapping it around his wrist for leverage and tugging it as he pounds you from behind. His free hand is roughly smacking your ass as he roughly fucks you, making your pussy squeeze his cock. Your mind is completely blank, the only thing you can think about is him and how good he’s fucking you as you become a moaning mess beneath him.

“Fuck Y/N,” he groans in your ear, “your Tribal Chief wants to fill your pretty pussy full of his cum, can I baby?” “Mmm, y-yes m-my T-tribal chief. Want y-you to f-fill me up.” He moans at your response, speeding up his thrusts. The sounds of your skin slapping and moans have completely filled the room. You knew if some poor soul walked by they’d know exactly what was happening in here, but neither of you cared. Right now, the only thing on both of your minds was how incredible you felt. It didn’t take long for him to figure out where your spot was, feeling your pussy react to him with every snap of his hips. Both of you were close now, you could feel it, but your orgasm was the first to hit. And it was intense. Your knees buckled under you as you spasmed under him and pushed back further into him, driving him deeper than before. The feeling of you cumming around him was what did him in, releasing himself into you in waves that had him coating your walls completely, marking your pussy as his. He admires his work in front of him; you completely fucked out before him, neck covered in marks he left on you, pussy swollen and red from the beating he just gave it, and best of all, leaking his cum. He takes a moment to come back down to Earth and takes in his surroundings, eyes landing on the ripped up garments on the floor that was your ring gear. Chuckling, he picks up his phone and dials a number. “Hey, Paul. I- yes, we’re fine. Listen, I need you to bring an extra set of clothes with you. There was, um,” he pauses, watching your glossy eyes close and your breathing soften, “an incident.” Paul begins to tease him through the phone, but Joe isn’t listening; he’s admiring the woman sleeping soundly before him and realizing that maybe the match wasn’t the only thing she won tonight, but she had won his heart too.

#roman reigns #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x female reader #roman reigns oneshot

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goldfades · 7 months ago

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TROUBLE ─── RAFE CAMERON (part two)

part one!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | after that fateful night, you begin to see rafe cameron differently - and it seems like he feels the same.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | ooc!rafe, teasing, descriptions of bullying (?), sweet rafe, a lot of word vomit, um... idk what else? it's pretty sweet and wholesome

⟢ ┈ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 | @psychicnatural @evermorx89 @slipawaylrh @renasjourney @aesthetic-lyss

The thing about Rafe Cameron is that he doesn’t linger.

Not in the way you might expect. He has a reputation for showing up, making noise, and leaving behind chaos in his wake. Rafe doesn’t hover, doesn’t check back, doesn’t get involved. But ever since that night—since the low rumble of his voice pulled you from the edge of panic and his steady presence walked you safely out of danger—it feels like he’s everywhere.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. A coincidence. But the truth is, you’ve caught him watching you more than once. At Sarah’s party last weekend, his eyes found you across the bonfire, the flickering light sharpening his sharp features and softening his smirk. At The Wreck, when you stopped by for takeout, he was there at the bar, casually nursing a drink, his gaze flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And now, standing in the backyard of the Cameron estate during Sarah’s infamous summer party, you can feel the weight of his presence even though you haven’t seen him yet tonight.

It’s like he’s threaded into the atmosphere now, an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

You’re holding a drink in one hand, the other resting on the edge of the pool as Wheezie chatters beside you about some drama from school. Sarah is off somewhere playing hostess, and the crowd is a mix of Kooks, tourists, and a handful of Pogues Sarah deemed “cool enough” to make the cut.

The air is warm and heavy with the scent of salt and chlorine, and you’re doing your best to pretend you’re not scanning the crowd for him.

You tell yourself you’re not hoping to see him.

But then, you do.

Rafe steps out onto the patio, a drink in hand, his posture relaxed but commanding as he surveys the party. He looks effortlessly at home here—like the house, the lights, the music all belong to him in some unspoken way.

When his eyes find you, it’s immediate, like he knew exactly where to look.

Your pulse quickens, and you glance away, trying to focus on Wheezie’s story. But even as she rambles on, you can feel Rafe’s gaze burning into you. It’s a mix of heat and challenge, daring you to acknowledge him.

And when you finally give in and glance back, he’s smirking.

He doesn’t approach right away. He never does. Instead, he takes his time, drifting through the crowd like he’s in no rush, talking to people here and there, all while his attention keeps circling back to you.

It’s maddening.

You take a sip of your drink, willing the flush in your cheeks to disappear, and try to focus on Wheezie’s latest complaint about her friends. But then Rafe’s voice cuts through the noise, low and unmistakable.

“Having fun?”

You look up to find him standing beside you, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other holding his drink. He’s close enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you—something warm and sharp and entirely too intoxicating.

“Trying to,” you reply, your voice steadier than you expected.

His smirk deepens, and his eyes flick to Wheezie, who’s already grinning at him. “Don’t let her bore you to death,” he says, nodding toward his sister.

“Hey!” Wheezie protests, shoving him lightly.

Rafe chuckles, the sound low and easy, but his attention is back on you in an instant. “Come find me later,” he says, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with a racing heart and Wheezie’s teasing grin.

“Are you blushing?” Wheezie asks, her tone all too knowing.

“Absolutely not,” you say quickly, turning back to your drink.

But you are. And the worst part? You know Rafe knows it too.

There was a time when the idea of Rafe Cameron being anything but insufferable would have been laughable.

You remember those long, sticky summer evenings spent at the Cameron house, sitting at the kitchen island with Wheezie while her parents were out at one fundraiser or another. Babysitting wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it was better than working at the marina, and Wheezie was sweet enough to make it bearable.

Rafe, on the other hand, was a different story.

He had this knack for showing up just when you thought you’d have a quiet night. You’d be helping Wheezie with her math homework or making her one of those ridiculously specific sandwiches she liked, and then—bam. There he was, leaning against the doorway with that signature smirk plastered across his face.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he’d say, nodding at whatever you were doing, even if it was as simple as slicing bread.

“Doing what wrong?” you’d snap back, barely sparing him a glance.

“Existing,” he’d tease, stealing a chip off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he owned the place.

It was endless. He’d make fun of your clothes, your car, your playlist. Anything and everything was fair game, and he never missed an opportunity to remind you that you didn’t belong in their world. You were a Pogue, after all, even if your dad’s business had climbed its way into something respectable.

But there was one night—one moment—that always stood out, no matter how much you hated to admit it.

You were sitting at the island again, Wheezie at your side, her little hands clutching a glass of milk while you tried to get her to eat a handful of carrots. Rafe was there too, slouched in one of the barstools with his phone in hand, half-listening to whatever you were saying just to mock it later.

Everything was normal—until Wheezie came stumbling into the room, tears streaming down her face.

“What happened?” you asked immediately, rushing over to her.

“They—they were making fun of me,” she hiccuped, her words barely audible through her sobs.

“Who?” you pressed gently, crouching down to her level.

“Those boys…from down the street,” she managed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “They said I was weird and that no one likes me.”

Your heart clenched, and you reached out to pull her into a hug, murmuring something soothing about how those boys didn’t know what they were talking about. But before you could say much else, Rafe stood up.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud. He didn’t say a word. He just… stood.

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him as you sat there, stunned.

“What—where’s he going?” you asked, looking down at Wheezie, who just shrugged.

Fifteen minutes later, Rafe came back. His knuckles were scraped, his nose was bleeding, and there was a bruise already forming on his cheekbone.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What the hell happened to you?”

He grabbed a dishtowel off the counter, pressing it to his face as he shrugged. “It’s taken care of.”

“Rafe…” you started, but he just waved you off, heading for the stairs like nothing had happened.

Looking back on it now, it’s almost funny how you didn’t see it then. He didn’t make a show of it or stick around for the praise. He just… handled it. The same way he handled everything, quietly and with a bluntness that often left more questions than answers.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t always like this.

You can still remember the version of him from when you were younger: loud, impulsive, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously. He was the type of kid who would shoot spitballs in class just to watch people squirm, who cared more about his next thrill than the consequences that followed. There was a recklessness about him then, a streak of carelessness that made you write him off without hesitation.

But now, standing on the edge of Sarah’s party and watching him weave effortlessly through the crowd, you can’t help but notice how much has changed.

His hair, once a shaggy mess of blonde that fell into his eyes, is buzzed now, the sharp cut emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the defined shape of his cheekbones. He’s leaner, but more solid too, his movements deliberate instead of erratic. Even the way he holds himself is different—confident but restrained, like he no longer feels the need to demand attention because he knows it’s already his.

It’s not just his appearance, though that’s hard to ignore. It’s the way he seems more grounded, more present. You’ve heard whispers about him stepping up to help his dad with the family business, even if people still question his motives. You’ve seen him around town, not in his usual haunts, but at the construction sites or walking out of Grady’s hardware store with blueprints under his arm.

He’s working. Actually working. And it’s not just for show.

The realization hit you that night, downtown, when he pulled you out of a situation that could’ve gone sideways fast. The way he handled it—calm, capable, and protective—was so at odds with the Rafe you thought you knew that it left you reeling. You’d always thought of him as a spoiled rich kid, someone who relied on his family name to coast through life without lifting a finger. But in that moment, when his steady presence shielded you from danger, you saw someone entirely different.

And now you can’t unsee it.

It’s driving you insane, honestly. Because no matter how mature he’s become, no matter how different he seems now, he’s still Rafe freaking Cameron. The boy who used to mock you for your Pogue roots, who once threw a party so wild that Wheezie had to call you to help clean up the next morning. The boy who, for years, seemed to exist solely to prove that Kooks always win.

And yet, here you are, catching yourself looking for him at every party, every gathering, even when you don’t want to admit it.

You hate it. Hate how your pulse races whenever his sharp blue eyes meet yours, how your mind replays the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay that night. Hate how, even now, as you stand with Wheezie by the pool, your thoughts are consumed by the memory of him leaning closer in the kitchen just a few nights ago, his tone teasing but his eyes saying something else entirely.

It doesn’t help that Rafe seems to sense it. The shift in the air between you, the way you’ve started noticing him in ways you never did before. And the worst part? He seems to enjoy it.

He’s not obvious about it, not in the way he used to be when he was younger. No, this Rafe is far more subtle. He doesn’t shout or flaunt or draw attention to himself. Instead, he waits. Watches. Pushes just enough to leave you questioning everything but never enough to let you get comfortable.

It’s infuriating.

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping the buzz will drown out your spiraling thoughts. But even as you try to focus on Wheezie’s chatter and the hum of the party around you, your eyes keep drifting back toward him.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even have to try.

It’s like he’s rewritten the rules of who he is, and now you’re stuck trying to figure out where you fit in the story.

You shake the memory from your mind, blinking back into the present as the Cameron estate buzzes around you. The party has shifted into full swing now—music booming from portable speakers, a few brave souls splashing in the pool, and clusters of people laughing and drinking under the string lights that crisscross the patio. Wheezie’s long gone, swallowed up by her friends, and Sarah is playing hostess somewhere, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Or rather, alone with the memory of Rafe, the boy who used to tease you mercilessly but once left the house with a determined glare and came back bloody for his sister’s sake.

The worst part? That moment, that side of him, wasn’t as much of an anomaly as you’d tried to convince yourself. Sure, he was arrogant and annoying and drove you up the wall, but when it came to the people he cared about, Rafe was all-in. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t back down. And now, years later, you can’t stop replaying the way he showed up for you downtown, the same intensity in his eyes, the same protective edge to his voice.

It’s maddening, really.

You hate that you’re noticing these things about him. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt fits just snug enough to hint at the strength beneath, the way he moves through the crowd like he knows exactly how to command attention without asking for it.

You catch sight of him again, standing near the bar and laughing at something one of his friends says. The golden glow of the string lights above him catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, the subtle curve of his smirk. He’s relaxed, leaning casually against the counter, completely at ease in his element.

You should look away. You should focus on something else, anyone else. But your gaze lingers, drawn to the effortless way he commands the space around him. It’s maddening.

And then, as if sensing your attention, Rafe’s eyes flick up and find yours across the yard.

The breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze. He doesn’t smirk this time, doesn’t do anything but hold your stare, his expression unreadable. It feels like an eternity before he finally moves, pushing off the bar and heading in your direction with that same unhurried confidence that drives you crazy.

You glance around, your nerves buzzing. Part of you wants to walk away, to avoid whatever game he’s playing. But your feet stay rooted in place, and before you know it, Rafe is standing in front of you, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his cologne—something warm and woodsy that makes your pulse race.

“Looking for someone?”

Speak of the devil.

You turn, already knowing what you’ll find, and there he is—Rafe Cameron, standing just a few feet away, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His smirk is firmly in place, but his eyes carry that same quiet intensity you’ve come to associate with him, the kind that makes your stomach flip in a way you’re not proud of.

“No,” you say quickly, too quickly, and his smirk deepens.

“Sure about that?” he asks, stepping closer.

You resist the urge to step back, holding your ground even as your pulse quickens. “Positive. Just enjoying the party.”

“Right,” he drawls, his voice low and amused. “Because you look like you’re having so much fun standing over here by yourself.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. “What do you want, Rafe?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that always feels too knowing. “You,” he says finally, his tone soft but laced with something that sends a shiver down your spine, “are way too easy to mess with.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat rising in your cheeks. “Glad to know I’m such a source of entertainment for you.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” he replies, his grin widening.

He’s teasing, you know he is, but there’s something else beneath his words tonight, something that feels more real than the surface-level banter you’re used to.

“Seriously,” you say, trying to shift the conversation before your heart gives itself away. “Don’t you have a crowd to charm or something?”

“Maybe I’m right where I want to be,” he says, leaning just slightly into your space. His voice drops a fraction, soft enough that it feels like it’s meant just for you. “Ever think of that?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t think of a single thing to say. He’s too close, his presence overwhelming, and all you can do is stare at him, your mind spinning with thoughts you shouldn’t be having.

You huff, turning to look out at the pool instead of his stupidly smug face. “What do you want, Rafe?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you glance back at him, surprised to find his expression softer than you expected. “You looked like you needed saving,” he says lightly, nodding toward the now-empty lounge chair where you’d been sitting.

You roll your eyes. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Are you?” He leans a little closer, just enough to make your heart skip. “Because you seem a little... tense.”

Your breath catches, and you hate the way your body reacts to him—like it’s tuned to his every word, every movement. “I’m not tense,” you manage, though your voice betrays you with its slight waver.

He grins, and it’s infuriatingly charming. “If you say so.”

The silence stretches between you, charged and crackling with something you can’t quite name. You expect him to keep teasing, to push just far enough to leave you flustered before walking away like he always does. But instead, his gaze softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you—really looks at you, like he’s trying to figure you out.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.

The words catch you off guard, and your brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he says simply.

And maybe you do. Maybe that’s why your chest tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing something even you don’t fully understand.

Before you can respond, one of his friends calls his name from across the yard, breaking the moment like a snapped string.

Rafe sighs, glancing over his shoulder before turning back to you. “Guess I’m needed elsewhere,” he says, his usual smirk returning as he steps back.

“Shocking,” you mutter, trying to ignore the weird ache in your chest as he starts to walk away.

But then he pauses, turning back to you with a grin that’s equal parts mischievous and genuine. “You ever need saving again, you know where to find me.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you standing there, flushed and frustrated and entirely too aware of the fact that Rafe Cameron is under your skin.

The rest of the night passes in a haze of chatter and laughter, but you barely hear any of it. Your mind keeps circling back to Rafe, to the way he looked at you, the way his words lingered in the air like a challenge and a promise all at once. It’s maddening.

By the time the party winds down, you’re exhausted—not from the noise or the crowd, but from the mental gymnastics of trying to convince yourself that Rafe Cameron doesn’t affect you. It’s a losing battle, and you know it.

Wheezie insists on walking you to your car, her arm looped through yours as she chatters about some drama with her friends. You do your best to focus, nodding at all the right moments, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

When you finally get into your car and start the drive home, the silence feels heavier than usual. The streets are dark, the glow of the headlights bouncing off the familiar bends in the road. You roll down the window, hoping the cool night air will clear your head, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the memory of Rafe’s gaze feel even sharper, like a ghost you can’t shake.

You pull into your driveway and sit there for a moment, the engine ticking softly as it cools. Normally, you’d go straight inside and crash, but tonight, you linger, your fingers drumming against the steering wheel. The night feels unfinished, like there’s something left unresolved.

You shake the thought away, grabbing your bag and heading inside. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards under your feet. You kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the counter, and start the familiar routine of winding down.

But even as you wash your face and crawl into bed, you can’t stop thinking about him.

The next few days pass without incident, but the memory of Rafe sticks with you, weaving itself into the mundane moments of your routine. You see flashes of him in the strangest places—in the sharp line of a customer’s jaw at the boutique, in the golden sunlight filtering through the trees on your drive to work, in the steady confidence of someone walking down the street.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s Rafe.

And yet, no matter how hard you try to push it away, the memory of that night lingers. The way he stepped in without hesitation, the quiet assurance in his voice, the way he didn’t make a big deal of it afterward. It’s all so at odds with the version of him you’d built in your head, and it’s throwing you off balance in a way you can’t quite explain.

The next time you see him, it’s at the Cameron house again. Wheezie had texted you, begging you to come over for dinner, and you’d caved, mostly because you missed her and partly because you were curious.

You tell yourself it’s not about him.

But when you walk through the front door and spot Rafe leaning against the kitchen counter, his head tilted back in laughter, your pulse stutters.

“Hey!” Wheezie greets you, bounding over to give you a hug.

You hug her back, trying to focus on her and not the sharp blue eyes that flick over to you from across the room.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Wheezie says, pulling you toward the dining room. “Come on!”

You follow her, keeping your head down, but you can feel Rafe’s gaze on you as you pass.

The meal is lively, filled with chatter and the occasional bickering between Sarah and Wheezie. Rafe is mostly quiet, chiming in here and there but keeping his attention on his plate. You try to ignore him, but every time he moves, every time his fork scrapes against his plate or his voice cuts through the conversation, your stomach twists.

After dinner, Wheezie and Sarah disappear upstairs, leaving you alone in the kitchen as you help clear the table. You’re stacking plates by the sink when you hear footsteps behind you.

“You always this helpful?”

The voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

You glance over your shoulder, finding Rafe leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Just trying to earn my keep,” you say lightly, turning back to the sink.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “You don’t have to do that here, you know. You’re practically family.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you pause for a moment before setting the plates down. “Didn’t realize you thought of me that way.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he says, his voice closer now.

You glance back again, finding him only a few steps away. His expression is softer than you expected, his smirk replaced by something more thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Guess I figured you’d still see me as the annoying Pogue babysitter.”

Rafe’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back a grin. “You were annoying,” he says, his tone teasing. “But you’re not a babysitter anymore.”

The air between you shifts, the playful edge to his words giving way to something heavier. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your nerves buzzing like live wires.

“I should—” you start, but your words falter as Rafe takes another step closer, his gaze locked on yours.

“You should what?” he asks, his voice low.

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you do, but it’s lost somewhere in the haze of his closeness, the way his presence seems to fill the room.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the tension crackling like a live wire. And then, just as quickly as it started, Rafe steps back, his smirk returning as he grabs a glass from the counter.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he says, his tone light but his eyes lingering on you for just a second longer than necessary.

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the overwhelming realization that you’re in deep trouble.

That night, lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling, your thoughts running wild. The familiar shadows stretch across your walls, the faint hum of the ceiling fan filling the quiet room. Normally, this is when your mind would wind down, drifting into blissful silence. But tonight, there’s no such luck.

Rafe Cameron is an enigma that refuses to leave your head.

You keep replaying the evening in your mind—his teasing smirk, the way he stepped closer like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way he looked at you with something you couldn’t name. It’s maddening.

And then, unbidden, another memory surfaces. One you haven’t thought about in years but suddenly feels impossible to ignore.

You were sixteen, still babysitting Wheezie regularly, and you’d just gotten a new pair of shoes. Nothing extravagant, just a pair of sneakers you’d saved up for with months of odd jobs. You were excited about them, maybe a little too excited, and you made the mistake of mentioning it when Rafe wandered into the kitchen where you were helping Wheezie with her art project.

“Nice kicks,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned against the counter. “Did they give those away for free at the thrift store?”

You glared at him, bristling. “I bought them, actually.”

“With what? Spare change you found under the couch cushions?” he shot back, smirking as he reached over to steal a cookie from the tray you’d set out for Wheezie.

“Leave her alone, Rafe,” Wheezie piped up, frowning at her brother.

But Rafe didn’t listen. He kept going, poking fun at everything from the color of the shoes to the brand, all with that infuriating grin plastered on his face.

At the time, you’d been furious. You’d wanted to snap back, to tell him off, but you didn’t. Instead, you’d rolled your eyes, muttered something about how he didn’t know anything about fashion, and went back to helping Wheezie.

Now, though, lying in bed, the memory feels…different.

You remember the way his eyes lingered on your shoes, the way his teasing felt more pointed than usual, like he was testing you. You remember how, when you finally left the house that night, you caught him watching you from the window, his expression unreadable.

And then there was Ward.

Ward, who always seemed to have some sly remark about how much time you spent at the house, about how Rafe “just couldn’t leave you alone.”

You’d dismissed it at the time, laughed it off as some weird dad joke that didn’t land. The idea of Rafe Cameron—spoiled, obnoxious, impossible Rafe—having a crush on you was absurd.

But now?

Now, as you lie there, replaying every interaction in excruciating detail, the idea doesn’t feel so absurd anymore.

The way he teased you relentlessly, always finding a reason to be around when you were at the house. The way he’d watch you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his smirk would falter sometimes, just for a second, like he was debating whether to say something more.

It all takes on a new light, and the realization sends a shiver down your spine.

Rafe Cameron had been in your orbit for years, a constant, infuriating presence that you’d never thought to question. But now, as the pieces start to fall into place, you can’t help but wonder if you’d been blind to something that was always there.

And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to see it now.

The realization lingers with you, threading itself into your days like an invisible tether you can’t shake. Every time you think you’ve managed to push Rafe Cameron out of your head, something brings him back. A passing thought, a fleeting memory, the sound of a voice that’s too close to his. It’s driving you mad.

It doesn’t help that the Cameron house has become a second home again. Sarah and Wheezie keep pulling you into their plans, which always seem to conveniently land you back at the sprawling estate. And Rafe? He’s there more than ever now—clean-cut, focused, and still as infuriating as ever.

You keep telling yourself it’s nothing. That whatever strange shift you’re feeling is in your head. But the tension between you is undeniable, crackling in the air every time you’re in the same room.

The Cameron living room was alive with laughter, the sounds of dice clattering against the wooden coffee table and Wheezie’s triumphant cheer filling the air. Game night had started with its usual chaos, everyone fighting over who got to pick the first game, but now the competition was in full swing.

“What are the odds,” you muttered under your breath, eyeing the tiny slip of paper in your hand with a mixture of resignation and disbelief.

Sarah leaned over your shoulder, peering at the name written there, and burst out laughing. “Oh, this is too good.”

You shot her a look, crumpling the paper in your fist. “What’s so funny?”

“Just… you and Rafe? On the same team? It’s poetic, really.” She wiggled her eyebrows before ducking out of reach as you swatted at her.

Rafe, of course, was leaning back against the kitchen counter like he didn’t have a care in the world, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. His eyes slid to yours as if he’d been waiting for this moment, his smirk just wide enough to make you want to throw something at him.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

You forced a tight-lipped smile. “Looks like it.”

It wasn’t that you disliked Rafe—not anymore, at least. But being paired with him for family game night meant opening yourself up to endless teasing and that annoyingly competitive streak he’d never quite grown out of.

“Don’t worry,” he added, pushing off the counter and heading toward you. “I’ll carry us.”

“Oh, how generous of you,” you shot back, earning a quiet laugh from Wheezie, who was busy setting up the game board in the living room.

By the time everyone gathered around the coffee table, the mood had shifted to something lighter, easier. You found yourself sitting shoulder to shoulder with Rafe, his broad frame taking up far more space than was necessary.

“Alright, Cameron Dream Team,” Sarah said with a grin, motioning between you and Rafe. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first few rounds went about as expected—Rafe being overly confident, you rolling your eyes, and the rest of the Camerons watching the two of you with varying degrees of amusement. But as the game wore on, you realized something strange: you and Rafe actually worked well together.

It wasn’t just that you were winning (although that certainly helped). It was the way he’d glance at you for confirmation before making a move, or the way your banter seemed to flow effortlessly, pulling laughter from the rest of the room.

“Unstoppable,” he declared after another win, leaning back with a satisfied grin.

You snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Rose, who had been quietly observing from her spot on the couch, chimed in then, her voice cutting through the lighthearted chaos. “You two make a good team,” she said, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “In the game and… otherwise.”

The words hung in the air like an errant firework, startling and impossible to ignore.

You felt your face heat immediately, your fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe shift in his seat, his expression unreadable for a moment before a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips.

“Maybe she’s right,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

Your stomach flipped. Whether it was the implication behind his words or the way his gaze lingered on you just a moment too long, you weren’t sure. All you knew was that the heat in your cheeks was impossible to shake.

The rest of the night passed in a haze of laughter and friendly competition. Rafe stayed closer than usual, his elbow brushing yours every so often as he leaned over the board or reached for the dice. You told yourself it was nothing—coincidence, proximity—but your heart betrayed you, skipping every time his eyes found yours.

By the time the last game wrapped up, the clock had crept past midnight, and everyone was beginning to drift. Sarah and Wheezie headed upstairs, Rose disappeared into the kitchen, and Ward had retreated to his office hours ago.

You stood by the front door, pulling on your jacket, when Rafe’s voice stopped you.

“Hold up. I’ll walk you out.”

You turned to find him shrugging into a hoodie, his hands already sliding into his pockets.

“You don’t have to,” you said, though you didn’t mean it.

He shrugged. “It’s late. Humor me.”

The cool night air hit you as the two of you stepped outside, the faint crash of waves in the distance punctuating the quiet. You walked side by side down the driveway, the gravel crunching under your feet.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “remember when Wheezie tried to convince us she’d trained that stray cat to do tricks?”

You laughed, the memory flooding back. “She was so serious about it too. I think she even made a schedule for ‘training sessions.’”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “And then it scratched the hell out of me when I tried to pick it up.”

“Serves you right for thinking you could pet a feral cat.”

“It wasn’t that feral,” he said, grinning. “Just… misunderstood.”

The conversation flowed easily, memories and laughter spilling out like water from a cracked vase. It felt natural, effortless, like no time had passed since the days you spent chasing Wheezie through the halls of the Cameron estate.

When you finally reached your car, the laughter faded, replaced by a quiet that felt heavier than before. You turned to face him, leaning against the door as his gaze dropped to the ground, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

“So, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was thinking…”

You tilted your head, waiting, your heart thudding in your chest.

“Would you wanna grab dinner sometime?” he blurted, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Like… just us?”

For a moment, you stared at him, thrown by the nervous energy radiating off him. This was Rafe Cameron—confident, sharp-tongued Rafe—and yet here he was, looking at you like a boy afraid of being turned down.

You couldn’t help it—a soft laugh escaped you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“Nothing,” you said, your smile widening. “You’re just… nervous. It’s kind of cute.”

He rolled his eyes, but the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Is that a yes or not?”

“It’s a yes,” you said, still smiling.

His relief was immediate and almost comical, his grin spreading wide enough to make your chest ache. “Good,” he said, nodding like he was trying to play it cool. “Good.”

As you slipped into your car, he leaned against the door, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“Drive safe,” he said, his voice softer now.

“I will,” you replied, your heart still thrumming as you pulled away.

For the first time, the idea of Rafe Cameron didn’t feel impossible. It felt… right.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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tonguetyd · 1 year ago

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I was trying to think of the last time I was this excited about a guest stage appearance at a show. Cuz I have watched every angle many times over and I will never get over it.

And the most recent that happened before was TWENTY THIRTEEN. When The Maine and TBS had just started their friendship, and had a show together that TBS was headlining, in SOUTH CAROLINA, that *I WAS AT* because it was the SECOND TIME I met my best friend in person, where Adam of TBS was on Dad Duty™️ because his kid had just been born so he wasn’t playing the show.

So SPENCER CHAMBERLAIN FROM UNDEROATH was doing main vocals the whole show, and they spontaneously were like “hey, is it ok if we have our friend John from The Maine song with us?”

And it was more than okay and I still think about it

But anyway the fact that THIS IS AT THE SAME LEVEL. AS MY TWO FAVORITE BANDS EVER PLAYING TOGETHER? AND SHOWING ME WHAT BECAME MY FAVORITE TBS SONG?! FOR THIS TO BE AT THAT LEVEL?!

Sleep Token is officially #3bands guys.

Full Antivist featuring IV.

youtube

#drift stop rambling about bands challenge #but here it is #the official crowning of ST #3bands #the maine #taking back sunday #sleep token #iv antivist #Timberwolves at New Jersey

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thir10th · 9 months ago

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Soft Strands and Sweet Interruptions - October writing challenge day 2

summary: Emily is trying to tell you about her day, but you get distracted tw: a tiny mention to typical show violence at the beginning, no smut, this is so sweet it's literally just tooth rotting fluff a/n: i think i forgot to mention this, but i will be posting on alternate days, so instead of a fic a day, it’s going to be a fic every two days. Here’s the second one!! Happy 3rd of October! 💘

"I'm telling you" Emily stops mid-sentence to swallow a big bite of her spicy noodles before finishing her point "they don't even take it seriously anymore"

The containers lay empty all scattered over the coffee table, you sit with your legs crisscrossed on the couch in front of your girlfriend. After a whole day of work. she called you asking if you could come around, and only five minutes later you were at her door with takeout from her favorite chinese place, and asking what's wrong.

After the third spring roll and some noodles, her rambling had gotten lighter, and she was feeling better already.

"mh- and don't even get me started on today's training!" she says rolling her eyes and taking another bite"

"this young generations of agents think they can just shoot at whatever they want without consequences! They ignore my guiding, It’s like everything I said went in one ear and out the other.”

You nod, letting her vent "Mmhmm, sounds like a classic Prentiss-the-new-agents-trainer day.”

"Oh no! this is temporary, as soon as Morgan's arm is better, they're all his." She scoffs "I've been doing this- what? years? I remember i used to listen to my supervisory agent when i was training"

“I don’t even know how you deal with it.” you try comforting her, resting your hand on her lap, watching her and smiling softly.

Emily throws up her hands, hair falling into her face “I honestly don’t know either. By the end of the day, I just wanted to—” her words trail off as she looks down, clearly still worked up, but before she can continue, you gently reach over and tuck her hair behind her ear, taking her by surprise.

Truth is- you've always loved Emily's hair, more than you care to admit, always glowing, the dark almost black strands always falling over her face now that she's letting her bangs grow out.

She blinks, her expression softening in confusion "What are you doing?"

"Distracting you" you say, smiling as you continue to run your fingers through her hair, gently brushing it back.

Her voice softens as she looks at you “Well, it’s working.” she scoffs in surprise and a bit embarrassed.

Your fingers linger in her hair, and you lean in closer, your thumb brushing her cheek “Good.” You close the distance and kiss her softly, feeling her relax into you.

Emily sighs against your lips, clearly surprised but smiling “Wow, you’ve got great timing.”

You giggle softly, pulling back just a little “I have my moments.”

She grabs your face so softly with her hand, her thumb caressing your cheek. Still smiling, her rant forgotten, she rests her forehead against yours “You’re a very good distraction, you know that?”

You whisper, running your fingers through her hair again “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you’re this worked up.”

You peck her lips one more time, fast and sweet "it's not worth it my love, they'll learn when they learn, it's not your responsibility, and i don't like to see you so affected by it" you touch her nose with yours, the childish gesture makes her laugh

"and i'll keep distracting you if it means you'll relax this frown a bit" you touch the spot between her eyebrows, and she giggles.

She chuckles softly, eyes closing as she leans into you “I might just start ranting more often if this is the reward.”

You smile, still threading your fingers through her soft, dark hair. “I wouldn’t complain.” Your voice is gentle as you tilt your head, watching the way her expression has softened, the tension from the day finally melting away.

Emily hums, her eyes drifting shut, clearly savoring the feeling of your touch. “You know,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, “you’re really good at this.”

“At what?” you ask, laughing softly.

“Calming me down. Just being here.” She opens her eyes again, her gaze full of warmth as she looks at you. “I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

You brush a few more strands of hair away from her face, your fingertips lingering against her skin. “You’d be fine,” you tease, though your heart flutters at her words. “But I’m happy to help, especially when it means I get to play with your hair. You know how much I love it.”

Emily smirks, but there’s a softness in her eyes that tells you how much she appreciates it. “You and my hair, huh? Guess I should let you mess with it more often.”

You grin, pressing another quick kiss to her lips. “I’m holding you to that.”

She laughs before she leans in again, pressing her lips to yours in a slower, sweeter kiss this time. When she pulls back, she tucks her head into the crook of your neck, wrapping her arms around you.

“Thanks for always knowing how to make things better,” she whispers. You feel so grateful to be her safety net, that she feels safe enough with you that she will share this things with you, letting her armor down every once in a while, so she doesn't have to carry it all herself.

You hold her close, your hand still gently running through her hair. “Always,” you promise, feeling her relax completely in your arms.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There you go! I wanted to start slow for day 2, lmk what you think! Remember any kind of feedback is greatly appreciated

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #wlw #emily prentiss imagine #criminal minds x reader #emily prentiss lesbian #lesbian #lesbian pride #wlw fanfic #wlw smut #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss x y/n #criminal minds evolution #jennifer jareau #thir10th's october writing challenge

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sunflowerbower · 5 months ago

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Got inspired or perhaps just got my heart broken by @voyage-of-the-porn-spreader’s post here about Francis dreaming of James after the end of the show…and ended up writing something because of it!

More “terror” than my usual ramblings, Francis dreams.

Francis had thought that James Clark Ross speaking his name would be the last time he heard it in someone else’s voice. Fitting. His closest friend from before all of this. He is Aglooka now, Francis is scattered to the arctic winds. Blown across the shale and the ice with the rest of his men. He has possibly never been more wrong. He struggles against the call of sleep, the fur blankets he’s buried in cocooning him in soothing warmth and weight. The fear of his own subconscious is not entirely new to him, but it seems more insistent now. Life in the Arctic is a challenge, even for the Netsilik people who make their home here, and he is exhausted, his eyes slip closed and the spectres blossom in his dreams. Unfurling in shocking colours that don’t exist in his life anymore. The whispers build, intelligible as they rasp over each other, until they become a scream, silence, crooked teeth.

“Francis. Francis Francis Francis…” the deep honeyed voice separates itself from the others. Clear as a call on a deck. Clear as four bells. In his tent, Aglooka twitches. In his dream, Francis smiles.

The haze of his dream world is such that the edges never fully form, Francis stands in focus, life fading into nothingness around him. Shadows lurk in the fog, he’s briefly reminded of their camp, as it was all falling apart, he shakes his head and pushes the thought away. There’s not much around him, there rarely is. Francis knows, in that dreamlike certainty, that he’s in the wardroom aboard Terror. The fire stoked and warmer than it ever was in reality, and that’s not where the disparities end. His chair is even more uncomfortable than it used to be, the windows pitch black as though covered with swirling smoke outside, the table is different too, rickety, fragile, and there is only one chair. Francis waits. His own personal purgatory, to be stranded in his ship. He took no pleasure in leaving her the first time around, he will not abandon her now.

He settles in, the aching in his body is almost calming to him now. Francis waits. One of the shadows begins to take on sharper edges, tall and lean, the darkness hinting at navy blue, and brass buttons glinting as he steps into focus.

“Francis. Francis.” the voice is urgent.

“James.” Francis breathes in, almost silently, his eyes dart nervously up to his face, and he exhales, his brow relaxing. “James.”

James Fitzjames smiles, his crooked front teeth appearing briefly, Francis’ eyes flicking over his face. James’ cheeks are fuller than the last time he was here, this is Fitzjames from the beginning of the expedition, bright and flashy and one hundred times less irritating now Francis truly knows the man. Francis lets his eyes roam over the solid breadth of the other man, the uniform tailored beautifully, his hair curled, soft and shining, his boots polished.

The room shudders. As if the ice has continued to consume them, the table rattles and the figures in the fog flash darker. Francis grips the arms of his chair as pain rushes through him, his left wrist, his right shoulder, slicing into his flesh. He screws his face up, eyes closed as he shouts in agony.

Aglooka opens his eyes breathing heavily. The tent is dark except for a pale glow at the entrance, the northern lights wild as usual. It’s late, he should sleep more, they move further south tomorrow. His eyes drift closed.

Francis opens his eyes to find Fitzjames seated across from him, gesturing and clearly in the middle of a story.

“The size of a cherry!”

“James!” Francis interrupts, it doesn’t stop James’ story, he hasn’t managed to before either. He thinks it’s an odd short of punishment, he can stay here, uncomfortable, but grateful to hear James’ strong voice again. Sometimes he is allowed to speak to James though, to hold a conversation, the payment his subconscious extracts can be inventive though. He lets James’ story wash over him, wishes he could go back, start again, maybe he could learn politics from James like this, and speak some sense into Franklin, save them all. The room shudders again, a roar coming from beyond the warmth of the room, Francis focuses on James again and the room stills.

“The size of a cherry!”

Francis sighs as James has started his story again, a section of time doomed to repeat and repeat, until when Francis is not sure. He could almost parrot it word for word now, such a common occurrence it has become. James gestures to where he was shot, and Francis’ eyes follow, intimately familiar with those wounds as he is. James’ uniform melts, dissolves in the same way the scurvy took apart their old wounds, bleeding off of his chest until the shots are visible, raw and bloody and rotten. Francis stands so abruptly, pushing away from the table which creaks under the strain and tilts violently. James starts his story again. His face greys under Francis wide eyed stare, the weight falls off him, his ribs protruding, his eyes bleeding, hair thinning, blood around his teeth when he grins rakishly.

Before Francis can so much as blink, James is standing in front of him, mouth dropped open wide as blood drips from his dark mouth, a fetid smell assaulting Francis. He feels tears creep down his face, his shoulder and arm beginning to bother him again. He starts to speak but is interrupted by a ghastly inhuman shriek from James. It pours out of the darkness of his mouth, reverberates around the wardroom, the fog turning entirely black as the figures circle them.

Francis stumbles and falls backwards, Aglooka wakes up to daylight creeping into the tent. He wishes he hadn’t.

#ouch #the terror #francis crozier #james fitzjames #fitzier #the terror fanfic

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justporo · 1 year ago

Text

To always meet again

Astarion - being as sneaky as the rogue he is - presents you wíth a present. Probably the best you could have imagined.

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: Written for the "Found Family" prompt of the BG3 Winter Holiday challenge and I'm putting it also down for "Ornaments". Alright folks, we're closing out the Winter Challenge with some big happy feelings! Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate and also lovely, peaceful days to everyone else!

Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav (You) Warnings: none Wordcount: 2,2k ~~~

Astarion finally decided you’d had enough of a break and led you back home. Your former gloominess you found to your own surprise had subsided. The vampire really had figured out quite well, what might drag you out of a bad mood.

This time it had been taking you on a stroll through the snowy city and just blabbering away while you had eyed the massive snow drifts at the side of the roads, wondering if maybe throwing yourself in one would make your thoughts and anxiety stop racing.

But of course Astarion had noticed and stopped you. With a firm hold around your shoulders he had dragged you away from an especially tall heap of snow and mumbled something about how he hoped you’d know to behave like someone above the age of five.

That had annoyed you and made you pout. And after a while his grip on your shoulders had loosened again because he had believed you'd come to your senses - fool!

You had fallen a few steps behind while the vampire had kept rambling while still trying to distract you from your worries.

When he had been busy rattling off all the reasons why he thought you were incredible and why you shouldn’t worry as much, he’d realised that you weren’t beside him anymore. WIth searching eyes he’d turned around: “Love? Please don’t tell me you’re trying to drown yourself in snow - I’m not dragg-” The rest of the sentence had been interrupted by a snowball smacking the vampire straight in the face.

He had hissed at you angrily while you had simply cackled - which had made Astarion even more angry. Almost too quick for you to see had he then grabbed some snow himself and fired back with impeccable aim.

What had followed had been a fierce snowball fight with lots of laughter and teasing mockery - up until Astarion had grabbed you and dragged you down with him into a huge pile of snow, making you screech and then laugh. You had gotten what you had wanted after all.

Still laughing had you gotten up again and started to make your way home while trying to shake the snow off your clothes and out of your hair. Your face had become a lively pink colour and Astarion had gleamed with admiration and love.

But now as you stood at the steps to your front door you felt some of the worries and anxiety creep back up again. You felt a bit of weight settle uncomfortably in your chest again and you hesitated going up the steps as Astarion was already up and unlocking the door.

When your partner realised that you’d been hesitating he turned around to observe you standing there like a statue and biting your lip because the negative thoughts were already getting the better of you once more.

“My love, we’re not even back inside and all my hard work to cheer you up was already laid to waste? Look, I’m still covered in snow even!” Astarion pouted and stopped halfway through unlocking the door.

He was trying to lighten the mood but when you only looked at him with a pained expression the mocking glint in his red eyes softened.

He stepped down the couple of steps until he was on eye level with you again. His smile was genuine now.

“Darling, I promise you won’t have to worry”, he said softly and cupped your cheek that was tinted a light pink from the cold. Astarion’s thumb wandered over your cheek repeatedly, brushing your worries away one by one, while he looked at you with incredible gentleness in his eyes. It was one of those looks that had the power to make your heart stutter for a moment.

The vampire leaned forward, lightly lifting your face up to his and planted a quick kiss on your lips. And immediately when he broke away you grabbed his hand still cupping your face and then made to stand on your tiptoes again to steal a second kiss - this one longer and quickly becoming something chasing the cold from the weather away.

After a while Astarion withdrew while he was clearing his throat - was he flustered?

The vampire’s eyes flicked from yours to behind you and then quickly back to you. A nonchalant grin was already on his lips again.

But you smelled that something was going on. Your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. You threw a glance over your shoulder but nothing was there - just your tall living room window with some ice creeping up its corners.

Or wait - you could see some light from the fireplace. That definitely hadn’t been lit when you had left. Had Gale started a fire?

Something was definitely fishy - and you weren’t particularly fond of it.

You turned back around and stared at Astarion judgmentally while putting your hands on your hips.

The vampire immediately became defensive: “What? What have I done now?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll preemptively let you know: I’m not up for jesting tonight, Astarion.”

Your partner snorted in offence and mirrored your pose while he pouted: “Why must you always be so judgemental, my heart? You didn’t get that from me, did you?” You saw the grin dragging up one corner of his mouth despite his offended tone.

With a quick step forward Astarion planted another small kiss onto the top of your nose - immediately you remembered a moment some weeks ago, when the first snow had fallen. The smile that now found its way onto your lips was inevitable as you were reminded of how you’d kissed a snow flake off the annoyed vampire’s nose.

“Everything will be quite alright, my love”, Astarion promised you with a big grin right then and there. And then with a wink turned fleet-footedly to take the few steps back up to the front door again. With a hand lightly placed on your back he pushed you along.

Astarion flung the door open wide and pushed you inside in a manner you found a bit overly dramatic - you were quite capable of walking back inside yourself.

And you were ready to tell your vampire as much when you realised there were people standing in your hallway - and quite a lot too.

“Uhm”, you helplessly made and took in the scene.

Before you stood each and every one of your companions - all beaming brightly at you. Well except maybe for Lae’zel who was wearing her perpetual snarl - but even that seemed softened right now as she looked at you.

All of them were here, cramped into the hallway up to the archway to the living room. You had turned into a statue once more, only capable of staring at all of your friends in surprise.

“Hey soldier”, Karlach said with an impossibly broad grin and then she simply stepped forward and enveloped you into an almost bone crushing hug, that lifted you straight off your feet. “I missed you so much!” the tiefling exclaimed while she pressed you against her own body.

You could barely breathe and were almost sure you heard her sniffle while she buried her face in your hair and softly swayed you from side to side, but you couldn’t be happier. Your heart was swelling with warmth and love as simultaneously all worry that had consumed so much of your energy today up until now was driven out of it.

When she set you down again the floodgates had been opened. Almost all of them took their turns wrapping you in their arms while Astarion closed the front door behind you and quickly helped you out of your cloak.

The smug grin on his face you noticed out of the corner of your eye before you got wrapped in another crushing hug by Halsin immediately told you that he had something to do with all of this. But for the moment you were busy happily greeting all of your friends.

Only when everyone had greeted you and the entryway of your cosy home was buzzing with chatter and laughter did you turn around to Astarion who in an uncommon manner for him had taken a step back and was just watching you and the others with a content smile.

“So, what’s your involvement in all of this?”, you asked your vampire while raising an eyebrow questioningly at him.

Immediately, Astarion started an overly dramatic act, behaving much more like you were used to again.

“Who? Me?” he asked and elegantly but with exaggeration placed his hand on his chest as if he was being accused of a dire crime.

You cocked your head at him.

Astarion simply shrugged as he began to grin again.

“I was just - you know me, darling - very convincing”, your partner replied while his grin became almost a bit predatory.

“Convincing, yes,” Lae’zel took up the conversation. You threw a glance at her over your shoulder and saw how she had narrowed her eyes at Astarion while the others around her were mostly busy with idle chatter.

“He threatened to gut us if we’d dare to not show up here for this ridiculous holiday festivity”, the githyanki hissed.

“Oh, Lae’zel, you’re so bitter. Don’t say it wasn’t an invitation after your own liking”, Astarion exclaimed cheerfully as he stepped up to you and put an arm around you. The githyanki just gave him another death stare while the vampire kept up his unfaltering smile.

“You also kept us waiting long enough”, Shadowheart chimed in with pursed lips. “And then on top of that you also made us watch you make out on the front steps,” she continued and you saw how her eyebrow jumped up in annoyance.

Your eyes widened and a blush crept onto your face as you realised that that must have been what (or rather whom) Astarion had seen when you had kissed on the front steps. The cleric just shrugged at your reaction and you saw that she was suppressing a laugh.

“Yeah, gods be damned, get a room, right?”, Karlach barged into the conversation and started laughing immediately while you felt your face grow even hotter. It had been a while since you and Astarion had been called out by your companions about your lovey-dovey behaviour. And obviously you weren’t used to it anymore.

“I’ll happily remind you, Karlach, that all of these are our rooms and you are merely guests here”, Astarion retorted while he wrapped his arm firmer around you and pressed a quick kiss to your lips and then - before you could even react - slapped your butt. Which earned him another howling fit of laughter from Karlach and some sensible chuckles all around while Shadowheart and Lae’zel looked ready to throw up.

Still in his embrace you felt how your face must’ve become even redder. You turned to Astarion, ready to wipe his smug grin off his face. But he swiftly stepped out of your reach.

“Apropos, guests, my love,” he began and quickly brought some distance in between you two.

“Don’t you want to invite our guests to sit down for dinner”, Astarion quickly continued and motioned towards your living room with an outstretched arm.

You were trying to protest - nothing was prepared there yet.

But when you stepped over your words died on your lips.

The living room looked like a winter paradise. Small mage lights were dancing all around the room making it sparkle. Holly, mistletoes and even whole fir branches seemed to have sprouted from the walls and the ceiling. And when you stepped into what you had thought was your living room you were irritated by the crunching noise that your footsteps made. Looking down you realised that the floor was covered in a layer of snow - even though you were inside. You could barely believe it.

The whole room looked almost like it had been teleported to a wintery forest. Only the furniture and the tall living room window with a view of the outside were reminders that you were still inside.

Your mouth fell open in disbelief. And then you took in the centre piece: in the middle of the room stood a huge banquet table decked with space for everyone, all the dishes you and Gale had prepared and lots more of wintery decor and candelabra that threw their warm light onto everything.

It looked magical and you immediately knew you had a certain wizard to thank for that - and of course your vampire who had made sure that everything would turn out perfectly.

The others who seemingly had already taken in the wondrously decorated room came swarming around you then, taking up spots at the table.

When Gale passed you, you shortly grabbed and squeezed his hand in passing to thank him. He winked back at you kind of awkwardly before he went to sit down.

For a moment you stood there and took in the scene while Astarion stood beside you, looping his arm around your waist once more.

All of your friends here, laughing, talking while the love of your life was by your side. This was absolutely the best of all possible outcomes. Your chest swelled with happiness and your eyes with tears as you took it in a moment longer before you turned to your soulmate who was softly and adoringly smiling at you.

“Thank you,” you whispered so silently it was almost inaudible.

“No,” Astarion whispered back and leaned in close, touching his forehead to yours, “thank you for everything that brought all of us here.”

And to that you had nothing more to add.

Tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @darlingxdragon

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danosrosegarden · 1 year ago

Note

How does Dano's Rose Garden Pierre stim on his lover? (for Valentine's fluffiness)

anyone else but you - pierre bezukhov x gn!reader headcanons ₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

{valentine's requests: one ♡}

{contains: descriptions of anxiety paired with some sweet fluff. <3}

♡ Pierre's got a chronic ache sizzling in the round curve of his jaw and a constant wave of curdled dread sloshing back and forth in his gut. When you've taken beating after beating from everybody and everything around you, you begin to fear stepping out into the light and being seen.

♡ You're working hard on trying to pick apart those thick walls he's built up around himself as he's aged. You're diligently waiting for him to show you his true self: a wildly funny and intelligent man with powerful opinions and gobs of plans and dreams hatching in his brain. You've stolen small glimpses of him before, but each time he catches his voice rising up too loudly or hears his laugh echoing too fiercely, he shuts himself down.

♡ The truth is, his heart is blackened with worry. He's plagued with anxiety, haunted by the fear that one day, he will just be too much for you and you'll be gone. He can't afford to lose somebody like you...somebody who keeps up with his unbridled rambles and challenges his views. Somebody who sees the untamed jumble he is and holds it gently, loves it dearly. You. He can't afford to lose you.

♡ You can feel the deep, blanketed worry radiating off of him when you attend parties together. He'll hold your hand under the table and nod along to whoever's speaking, his trembling fingers playing along with yours. They trace around your fingertips, they rub against your skin. You feel his fingers snake from your hand to your thigh, where he drums them against your skin, playing piano on your leg. You watch his legs bounce and his tongue wet his lips over and over again, and you just wish he'd stop...stop worrying about his place in society, stop doubting his value. To you, he is all you see. He is the black, starry tarp spread across the backs of your eyes when they flutter shut before you drift away into rest. He's the soft, cloudy dreamscape that sparkles around you when you finally fall into sleep. There could never be anyone else but him.

♡ Pierre's got work to do, for sure. Maybe he'll never be fully comfortable or fearless in front of crowds that only see him as childish brute, careless oaf. But he's at least got you to calm his raging storm. You help quell his screeching nerves just by sitting next to him and allowing his hand to squeeze your thigh or play with the rings on your fingers. You're there, and that's enough.

#eli's writing #danonation #paul dano #pierre bezukhov #bbc war and peace #pierre bezukhov x reader #pierre bezukhov x you #pierre bezukhov x y/n #valentine's requests 24

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wormdebut · 2 years ago

Note

Hello! How about 21 for your Spotify wrapped? 👯

HI! I am so fucking sorry this took me forever. This one was a massive challenge for me because 21 on my Spotify Wrapped is Counting Worms by Knocked Loose. For any of you that know, Counting Worms is thirteen words long so I had to process how I wanted to handle this. (And work fucking sucks and I'm exhausted as hell but that's beside the point.) I hope you enjoy this. I actually love it a lot more than I thought I would. 🖤

----

'I wrote a song about getting better, it's a feeling I don't remember'

Steve stares at the words on the page, looking up to cock an eyebrow at Eddie, "What comes next?"

Eddie stifles a laugh. "Nothing does, Stevie. That's it."

Steve scrunches his nose, confused. "Thats--the song? That like ten words."

Eddie grabs the paper from him and smiles down at it. "It's thirteen words, big boy. And its--sometimes it's not about the amount of words. It's about feeling something."

Steve tries not to blush. Big boy certainly did a number on him. He would never fucking admit that--but, it is what it is.

He shakes he his head, to try and clear his thoughts, "Sure."

Steve watches as Eddie's smile widens, eyes crinkling in the corners. Christ.

"Did you?" Steve asks.

"Did I what?" Eddie questions.

"Did you ever get better?"

Eddie's smile softens then. "I'm working on it."

----

Steve always knew he was something--something not straight. He just didn't really have a word for it, and he tried not to dwell on it. Didn't get caught with drifting eyes in locker rooms, made sure Tommy wouldn't tell a soul about what they got up to. He didn't. Tommy might be an asshole but he wouldn't out himself or Steve…

Anyway, Steve always knew. He always knew and he had told Robin a few months after Starcourt. She helped him find the words for it. Bisexual. So Steve knew what he was, but he was fine ending up with a woman. That's just what he always figured would happen

But Eddie? Eddie changed everything.

Robin had told him just to fucking talk to him. She said that he was being a hypocrite because he had helped her get her shit together enough to talk to Vickie after everything and it had worked out--at least for a bit--but that's beside the point. The point is Robin had asked Vickie out and Steve just stared at Eddie talking, at Eddie playing D&D with kids, at Eddie writing music. He just watched.

He was scared because Eddie? Eddie was loud and confident and interesting and important.

Steve was just…Steve.

What would he even say?

----

It'd been a few months since Steve had found the song. Thirteen words.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

'It's about feeling something.'

He still hadn't said anything to Eddie, but he needed to…Well, he wanted to.

There's only a couple of days left until the kids have winter break, and Steve is expecting them to invade his home as per usual so he has been cleanly all fucking day listening to Abba and thinking about Eddie Munson's stupid fucking hands.

He was feeling impulsive--he could talk to Eddie--he could. Eddie had said it wasn't about the amount of things he had to say it just had to mean something…right?

Steve grumbles out a sigh before stomping over to the phone. He dials out the number--has it memorized by now. It's late, he listens to the line trilling as the clock turns. 10:12 pm.

"Thanks for calling the bat cave." Eddie rambles off.

"Yeah, hi batman. It's Steve."

Eddie laughs over the line. "Stevie! To what do I owe the late night call?"

Steve steels himself. "Listen, I--can I come over?"

"Uh--yeah? Are you okay?" Eddie asks and Steve shakes his head, not that Eddie can see it anyway.

"I'm--I just--I'll be over in a few." Steve breathes. He can do this. It's fine.

"Okay, S. Just be safe--alright?"

Steve mumbles out an affirmative before hanging up and grabbing his keys.

----

He only paces outside of Eddie's door for a minute or two before he knocks lightly. Eddie is quick to answer, looking ridiculously hot for a man wearing worn out sweats and one of a thousand old band tees. He looks worried and Steve feels bad about that but--he's just gotta--

"Can we go to your room?" Steve asks and Eddie lets out a shocked laugh before nodding and heading back through the apartment. Steve follows behind.

He stands frozen in the bedroom doorway, watches as Eddie sits on the edge of his bed with head cocked to the side.

"What's going on Stevie? Was it the nightmares again because--"

Steve shakes his head, and swallows before just--going for it.

"Look--I've been--running so many things through my head. I've written speeches and songs--which is sort of your thing. So, I stopped that. But--I have thought over and over again about how to say what I need to say.

And you--you told me 'it's not about the amount of words, it's about feeling something.

And when I look at you? I feel everything--

And I just--I just needed you to know."

Eddie blinks up at Steve, eyes wide. Great. Steve fucking scared him. Awesome this is great. This was a really fucking awesome idea Steve. Nice--

"That was a lot more than thirteen words, sweetheart." Eddie smirks at him and Steve feels his heart stutter at the name.

Steve breathes, "Yeah well--did I fuck everything up?"

Eddie moves from his bed then, quick to meet Steve in the doorway. Steve is quiet. He watches as Eddie's eyes move from Steve's own, down to his lips and back up again.

Eddie brings a hand up to cup his cheek and Steve can't help the soft noise that escapes his throat. The other man swipes his thumb over Steve's cheekbone. "No Stevie, I really don't think you did. I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

Steve can't do anything other than nod.

----

#steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie blurb #steddie ficlet #yall this one was TUFF #Worm Spotify Series #I AM STILL ALIVE--but I'm barely breathin #have u ever run a business in the middle of chrimas cause ten this is year ten and im TIRED #anyway thats enough of that #Don't think that I didn't want to include the ARF ARF in here #but unfortunatley there is no puppy play featured--this time #worm brain #hellfiredemon

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ohmaswife · 2 years ago

Text

‘WANTED U’

Tokita Ohma x Reader

Summary: After enjoying a much needed movie night, you think about how lucky you are to have Ohma, and he does the same with you.

Warnings: fluff! established relationship, scars

Word count: ~1k

A/N: ugh i hope i did this request justice! i’ve been having such a love hate moment with my writing abilities but im hoping this came out at least a lil decent! this is indeed inspired by the song ‘WANTED U’ by Joji and u are required to listen while reading c:

also shamelessly plugging my ‘kazuo yamashita said so’ series yeaaAAA!! as always lmk what y’all think i’d love to hear from u <3

Masterlist

I've been missing a long time, to know I had to move

Your eyes shoot open hearing the ending credit music blare through your TV’s speakers, cursing the producers for being complete assholes and ruining your ear drums. The names of the actresses and actors are a blur as they scroll boringly down the screen. You rub your eyes and stretch your legs as best you can, hearing the satisfying pops in your joints while your body slowly adjusts to being awake once again.

You find the TV remote next to Ohma’s shoulder, thankful it wouldn’t take much effort to stop the aggravating sound. Aggressively pressing the ‘power off’ button, silence fills the room as your ears settle back on the steady heartbeat of your lover, and you appreciate the pitter patter of the muscle working diligently to keep him alive.

You’re laying on top of the long unconscious Ohma who had fallen asleep just about halfway through the movie. You knew he wouldn’t be interested in it but it was one you had grown up watching with your friends and you insisted he had to see it. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea since it sounded so cheesy, but seeing the smile that illuminated your face while asking him to watch it and hearing you ramble about the memories that surrounded it, he couldn’t help but agree.

You doubt he remembers the plot of the movie, but you really do appreciate his effort.

And now here you are, comfortably on top of a softly snoring Ohma on one of the most peaceful nights the two of you have experienced in a long time. Room filled with quiet while the lingering smell of the takeout you two ordered drifts in the air.

His right arm is wrapped securely around your waist, hand resting on your lower back while his left hand rests on his chest, clutching your hand that rests within his tightly.

You release your grip momentarily to admire the grasp of his that holds your own so closely, eyes tracing each delicate vein and incriminating line that runs up and down his hand. Battle-worn, literally. You look at his overworked fists, knuckles scarred from the countless challenges he was mercilessly forced to take upon himself. You didn’t even know how to explain to him that you wouldn’t let him face anything alone again, he’s stuck with you.

You recognize where the most recent cuts and scars are from, but the rest you doubt you’ll ever know. You bring his hand next to your lips, rubbing his fingers against them while thankful you’re lucky enough to hold his hand at all and allowing yourself to succumb to the literal and figurative hold Ohma has on you.

I've been waiting my whole life, to know I wanted you

Ohma’s hands are heavy. Not only with weight but the baggage that's intertwined within them. Each mark represents him getting hurt in some way, experiencing pain. He had to spar with not only others but himself. Each callous showing the repeated stress he’s been put through, muscles and bones silently begging to properly repair.

Gently kissing each scar you desperately try in vain to repair all the pain he’s felt, to bandage the aches that spread from within him with just the touch of your lips. You only wish you could help carry his weight, hold his overburdened heart and strained body as he takes a true moment for himself to rest.

Everyday you rack your brain for another way to help him. If you could you would breathe for him. Let each punch and blow strike your body if only it meant Ohma was spared. You would give every fiber to mend his body back together, mold it back even if he pushed it to his limits because that’s what he deserved.

Kissing each of his fingertips, you put as much love as you can muster into each kiss, only hoping it’ll convey your love for him.

Are you feeling me slowly? You can take your fucking time

Ohma had woken up long ago to the feeling of his fingers flexing. Bending and being caressed, stretched then followed by the feeling of your gentle kisses. Even with how long you two had been together it was still such a foreign touch on certain levels. Not one to be scared of, but one that was thrilling. Hypnotizing. It always left him wanting more no matter how much he got. Although, that didn’t mean he always knew how to handle it.

He didn't want you to know the truth. How insecure he was, how much he doubted himself around you. He never doubted himself in fights. He knew what to do. But a relationship? It was something he never fathomed, he never knew he’d need it so bad. And for a while he stayed away from you because of it.

He didn’t know how to ask for your affection. How to ask for your soft hands to graze against his even if it was just an accident. How to ask for your fingertips to ghost across his skin to the point it gave him goosebumps. How to ask for your gentle lips to mend his many wounds. How to ask for your tender heart to reach inside and heal every broken part of him.

He didn’t deserve it, he knew that. But when Ohma wanted something he was determined to get it. He wanted it, and he wanted you. He never knew something could fuel his life more than fighting. Something else to keep him going, something else to long and dream for, a reason for being here for more than just survival.

He remembers the first time your body ever touched his. A moment he treasures, a moment that’s engrained in him. It was in the elevator on the way up to Mr. Nogi’s office. You entered the elevator with the most adoring smile he’d ever seen. Nobody was as striking as you, nobody deserved his gaze more than you. You were reaching across him to press the illuminated button, miscalculating the step of your new high heel shoes you stumbled into him, grasping onto his arm when you realized you weren’t as steady on the ground as you had thought.

Out of politeness you reached for his hand after he helped you back to your feet, grasping it gently in your palms as you profusely stuttered your apology, eyes darting around the floor as a flustered expression washed over your face.

You let go of his hand as soon as the elevator reached Mr. Nogi’s floor, scurrying out of the elevator as quickly as possible while realizing you just embarrassed yourself in front of the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, but he was utterly captivated.

He had never experienced a touch like yours, it was a good touch. He’d never felt a good touch.

And he had wanted it, again and again.

“You woke me up.” Ohma finally mutters, feeling your lips drag perhaps a little too enticingly across his fingertips.

You can’t help but giggle at the mixture of both annoyance and amusement in his voice, sprinkling loving kisses over the entirety of his hand.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, turning your face to muffle your giddiness in his chest.

“What’re you thinking about?” he mumbles, slowly rubbing your back.

Heart overflowing with love, you tell him the truth.

“You.”

“Hmm.” Ohma sighs contently.

“Me too.”

And I promise I won't lie, we'll make it out alive

A/N: hi this is trash im so sorry!!!! i have another fluff idea that i hope turns out better that this wwAAAHGHH me sincerest apologee 😭 and if y’all had a movie ya thought of pls lmk im so curious lmao i first thought of the barbie movies ((incredible films)) but what did u think of? c:

#kengan ashura #kengan ashura x reader #tokita ohma #tokita ohma x reader #ohma tokita #ohma tokita x reader

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elliebyrrdwrites · 4 months ago

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ITS MY TUMBLRVERSARY

Apparently, I have been on tumblr for a year, which means that I have been in the fandom as a writer for a year. So yay. I think this would be a good time to put a snippet of a dreomione fic I am writing for the HP Monster March Mash as a way to celebrate! I should say that this is subject to minor changes, as it is yet to be edited!

Title: The Hunger

Theo Nott/Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy

---

Hermione ran her hands down the arms of the leather chair, seeming to luxuriate in the smooth, cool texture. She was sitting across from where Theo and Draco sat on the couch that matched.

“Granger,” Draco leaned his elbows onto his knees, watching her closely.

Theo leaned into his corner of the couch. He rested his elbow onto the leather arm as his index finger played with a lock of hair that rested against his temple, remembering the texture of Hermione’s curls between his fingers.

“Malfoy.” Her voice was soft, though still jagged.

“You remember who I am.” He lifted a brow and glanced at Theo. Draco was remembering Theo Nott Sr. who had no recollection of his life prior to being raised from the dead. Regardless, his father was still vile. Still better off dead.

“I remember everything.” She tilted her head as if she were listening to something from far away.

“Do you remember what you were doing last night?”

Hermione’s gaze was hooded as shifted it onto Theo. “I was in Theo’s bed.” And then bit her lip.

Draco turned to lift a questioning brow at him. “She was scared.” Theo huffed and rolled his eyes. “It’s not what you think.” When Draco’s eyebrow lifted even higher, Theo scraped out an offended sigh. “We only slept!”

But it could have evolved.

Draco merely pressed his lips together and lifted, clearly unwilling to believe him before he turned back to Hermione. “Before that. Before coming here.” He gestured to the room around them, referring to the castle at large.

“I remember lift rides in tortured silence.”

“What?” Draco’s eyebrows pinched together.

Hermione’s hand went between her legs. “Steam from a cauldron.” Her thighs pressed together, trapping her hand just below the hem of her dress. Her eyes shifted to Theo. “Dark corners in the library, quiet lips, loud eyes.”

“Granger -“ Draco sighed.

But she kept going. “Hand on my back, breath on my neck. Late nights. Hand in my knickers. Grey eyes, brown hair.” Her chest began to rise and fall with her rapid deep breaths. Her eyes kept shifting between them both. “Watchful eyes. Complex mind. Quick feet.” Her thighs began to rub together, her fingers dipping under her dress, just barely.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Lonely nights. Not that, this. Bad Hermione.” She panted and licked her lips. “Too much skin. Longer robes.” Her hand drifted higher up her thigh, disappearing completely under her dress. “Smile. Stop slouching.”

Both wizards watched her with rapt attention, unable to piece together a single coherent thought as she kept rambling.

“Waiting. Always waiting.” Hermione’s thighs began to open, assumingly to accommodate her hand as it reached further into her dress. “Stand up straight. Not enough skin. Motherhood. Dead plants. Rotten milk.” She added with a moan. “Sugar. We need more sugar.” Her hand disappeared beneath her dress and her hips jerked before she threw her head back with a loud, dragged out moan. Theo imagined the tips of her fingers brushing a lazy, tender stripe up her center, over cotton underwear.

Draco jerked back, apparently coming to his senses. “Granger!” His eyes were big and bright, his cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink.

Hermione froze. Her hand, her thighs. Her breath. For just a moment, she went completely still. Before a slow, taunting smile pulled at her lips as her eyes slowly opened. Theo could have sworn that there was something challenging in her gleeful gaze as she grinned at Draco with her pink gums under pink lips against a row of gleaming white teeth.

“Are you taking the piss?” Draco sputtered as she withdrew her hand.

Instead of answering, she looked at Theo and batted her big eyes at him. “I’m hungry.” With another look at Draco, she stood up and left them, making her way to the kitchen just as a thought flitted over to him, stemming from Hermione’s retreating form. Only it was less of a thought and more of a series of moments flashing through his mind. Maybe they were dreams.

Theo saw Draco, pressed into the corner of a ministry lift. His arms crossed over his chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, collar open at the throat. Bright grey eyes trying to solve a riddle. A sense of loss and longing overwhelming the senses like the bitter taste of grapefruit stuck in the back of his throat.

“Is she mental?” Draco snapped at Theo, pulling him back to the present, as he watched her skip down the hall.

Theo tilted his head and looked over at Draco and grinned. “She looks happy.”

Draco glanced down at his lap and frowned. “Unfortunately, so do I.”

Theo couldn’t help but agree as he adjusted the waistband of his trousers. “And hungry.”

Draco snorted and reached into his blazer for another cigarette.

---

#dramione #fanfic #dramione fanfic #hermione granger #draco malfoy #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #dramione fanfiction #dramione ship #dramione fan fiction #theomione #theo nott #theo x hermione #hermione is unhinged

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noodleblade · 2 years ago

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Double Edged

Summary:

“It’s been a long time,” Ratchet murmured, his smile still there but softer, “I’m happy to see you here, finally finding your way.” Deadlock wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or scream.

Or, Drift's mtmte origins with Deadlock's cyberverse fate.

AO3 Link

“Aw, scrap,” Hot Rod said as he came to a complete stop in the middle of the hall, helm sweeping left and right. “‘Think I took us down the wrong hall. They really gotta color code this place.” The speedster turned, rubbing the center of his crest sheepishly. “Sorry, Drift, let me just check the map real quick and...”

Deadlock bit down the snarl building in his intake and gave Hot Rod a congenial smile instead, crossing his arms behind his back to hide his tightly clenched fists.

“No worries,” he said, keeping his voice level, pleasant, and absent of the absolute infuriating rage in being made to follow this clueless, imbecile Autobot . He bottled that rage and locked it deep in his chassis, burrowed in his spark, where he always kept it. “Take your time.”

It would not do anyone good to lose it now. Not him, not Megatron and not his mission. Hot Rod was not worth it. Not yet .

Deadlock could withstand the torment of this idiot for the sake of his mission. Infiltrating and spying on the Autobots was far too important to lose his cool over the annoying speedster. He would have to tolerate it and swallow his annoyance. It seemed as though Optimus Prime had insisted on Hot Rod showing Drift around and helping him get acquainted with the assembled crew. Deadlock had hoped it would be Bumblebee. He was equally as stupid and idiotic as Hot Rod, but rather than a misplaced sense of self-importance, Bumblebee was just gratingly friendly. It was marginally more tolerable.

“Okay!” the flamed speedster exclaimed, spoiler perked up high as he clapped his hands together. “I think I figured it out. Wheeljack’s lab should be to the left and the second right.”

No, it is not .

Deadlock swallowed down the correction and, in dismay, followed as Hot Rod continued to lead them down the wrong path, further prolonging this torturous excursion.

He walked a half-step behind, humming in faux interest as Hot Rod rambled aimlessly, pointing out random rooms and features of the Arc as they took the long way to Wheeljack’s lab.

Of course, Deadlock already knew all this information. Soundwave had given him a detailed schematic of the entire ship and each of its levels from the ventilation systems, down to the internal wiring. Deadlock had dedicated himself to memorizing every square micron of it, wasting away cycles prior to his infiltration to catalog every possible detail of importance. He could navigate the entire ship blind, if challenged.

Little did he know, the true challenge would be keeping his glossa pinned down as Hot Rod continuously takes every wrong turn. What was worse was that he doesn’t even seem to realize, too caught up in his blathering about…well, Deadlock wasn’t sure. He had tuned out the annoying Autobot at the beginning of the tour, only keeping his audials online for keywords like end, finished, over.

“So, that about wraps it up.” Another marked key phrase. “Any questions?” Hot Rod grinned at Deadlock with relaxed ease, leaning against the wall almost as if he was trying to strike a pose. Deadlock was not impressed.

“No.” He hoped keeping his answers short and clipped would dissuade further conversation with the pesky Autobot.

“Cool, cool. I think that was everything. And all we have left is medbay. Medics were able to fit you in for a quick check up.”

“Check up?” Deadlock asked, hackles raised as he watched the flashy racer give him a questioning look.

“Well, yeah? We all got to do it. Decepticons not big on overall health?” Hot Rod teased lightly.

Deadlock almost laughed. Almost. He held back the urge and gave Hot Rod a small, defensive shrug. “Not a lot of medics to begin with.” And the medics they did have had no right to call themselves medical professionals . He was thankful that his time with the Decepticons had left him fairly unscathed. Any injuries he had he took care of privately. He’d seen Shockwave’s work with Shadow Striker and didn’t relish the idea of a similar fate. He’d rather have himself offlined.

Hot Rod at least had the decency to wince, dropping his smile for something more stricken.

“Ah right. Well, it should go pretty quick. It’s just an intake so unless you got anything hiding under the plating, Ratchet will be done with you in less than twenty kliks.”

Deadlock froze, brakes hard locking without him even thinking. His engine stalled, optics blown wide.

“Ratchet?” There was a slight quiver to his voice.

That name wasn’t on the intel reports. That name wasn’t on the crew manifest. That name wasn’t on any document he had received in his mission file. Soundwave wasn’t sloppy . A complete afthole, yes , but missing this information? Deadlock felt acid crawling up his intake as panic seared through his lines.

“Yeah, he’s our chief medic. ‘Decided to join at the last minute so it's been a bit of a mess around here,” Hot Rod waved off, still walking ahead without realizing Deadlock had stopped at all. “Big ol’ crankshaft but he knows what he’s doing. He’s put everyone on this ship back together at least three times over so what he lacks in personality he makes up for it there I guess.”

Hot Rod turned, blinking as he saw Deadlock still rooted in his spot fifteen paces back.

“Oh, I guess you’ve heard about Ratch before? I can guarantee whatever the Decepticon reports say about him are over-exaggerated. He’s much more boring than that.”

That…that wasn’t it. Not by a long shot. But Deadlock took the blessed out and gave a shaky nod of his helm. He didn’t trust himself to speak, afraid of what would come out if he opened his mouth.

“Well, come on,” Hot Rod waved him along. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get it over with.” As Deadlock fell into step with him, Hot Rod dropped his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but I get a little lightheaded whenever Ratchet takes out the needles.”

Needles were the least of his worries. Comically so. Deadlock had no fear of any medicinal treatment he may receive, but rather who was administering it.

The walk to the medbay was horrifically short. Like a cruel curse, somehow Hot Rod took the shortest, simplest route. It was as if fate wanted to test Deadlock, to jeopardize his mission, his faith, his spark.

All that time, all that energy. Deadlock had spent weeks agonizing over his mission. He had perfected everything down to the finest detail. He’d spent grueling cycles studying and memorizing every bit of intel he could grab his hands on. (He knew how Prowl liked his energon and spent a whole cycle learning about meteor surfing just in case Hot Rod brought it up.) He had gotten repainted, stripping back the accented black for shiny, bright white. It felt almost…foreign to be back to his default factory paint after so many years without it. It was crisp, clean, stark in a way it had never been when he had lived on the streets of the Dead End.

He even adopted his old name. Drift . That had been…challenging. There was still the knee jerk response to bare his teeth and snap whenever anyone addressed him as such. He had gone through so much effort to rebuild himself, to shed off the tainted and stained plating of his past to go right back to it.

But it was temporary. It was for his mission. He had been chosen . Hand selected and deemed the best choice by Megatron himself. Not Starscream, not Shockwave, not even Soundwave. Deadlock was the mech to earn Megatron’s complete and utter trust with this mission and he’d be damned if he did not execute it to absolute perfection.

Even if he meant he’d have to face the ghost of his past. Even if it meant he’d have to see-

Deadlock took a steadying breath as Hot Rod came to a stop.

“And here we are,” Hot Rod gestured to a set of heavy, white doors. “We’ll be in and out in no time.”

He gave Deadlock no time to speak as he palmed the entry.

The doors to the medbay opened, blasting with them a cool gust of air. Hot Rod waltzed in before the doors were even fully opened. Willing himself to get this over with, Deadlock followed quickly behind, optics immediately scanning the room for red and white and-

“Hot Rod, I told you not to barge in here while I’m working.”

He sounded the same. Still gruff, still bitter, still masking affection under a frown. Deadlock felt his spark drop as he saw the medic turn away from his console to glare down at Hot Rod, only to spot Deadlock instead.

“Is that any way to speak in front of your new patient? At least try to make a good impression,” Hot Rod faux gasped, servo over his spark. “Here I was being nice and escorting Drift to his appointment and-”

“Save it,” Ratchet cut him off with a short hand gesture. “We both know you’ve been talking off the poor mech’s audial for the past several breems. Go. I’ll send him your way once our check up is done.”

Hot Rod gave Ratchet a big grin before spinning on his pede. He clapped Deadlock on the shoulder on his way out. “Don’t let Hatchet scare ya. He’s not that mean. All bark, not bite. I’ll meet you in the mess hall. ‘Think you remember the way.”

Deadlock found his vocalizer unwilling to cooperate and settled for a nod of his helm.

He turned to watch Hot Rod go, the flashy speedster transforming as soon as he crossed the threshold and bolted off with an obnoxious rev of his engine.

Behind him, Ratchet tutted. “Whatever you do here, don’t follow Hot Rod’s example unless you want to be on Optimus and Prowl’s list.”

His vocalizer still refused to online, stunted by being alone with Ratchet for the first time in…so long. Deadlock gave another quick nod and Ratchet snorted. It was an ugly sound, but Deadlock found himself repeating it in his helm as Ratchet waved him forward.

“‘Going to start with your measurements and a general scan. Stand here and don’t move around too much.”

Deadlock moved automatically. His limbs felt stiff, like they would lock up again at any moment, but he managed to make his way across the medbay to stand on the small raised platform Ratchet directed him to.

“Keep your arms by your sides while the scan is in process. You’ll feel a slight tickling sensation.”

Bright white light cascaded down his frame. Deadlock kept rigidly still. He could feel the tickling sensation Ratchet mentioned but it was nothing. He had been forced to withstand far more painful and cruel torment without so much as a flinch. Ratchet seemed to notice this and gave a small appraising hum. That made Deadlock shiver, the sound rolling down his plating.

“You can step off now,” Ratchet waved him forward, shutting off the scan.

He held his hand out and Deadlock stared. When he didn’t take it, Ratchet simply let his servo drop as he moved to grab the datapad anchored to the scanner.

Deadlock quietly moved, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He stared at Ratchet, unsure what else to do. Silence was usually his friend, it's how he managed to keep himself safe in the midst of the Decepticon’s constant infighting. Here, it only served to exaggerate the quiet of the room. It made him feel twitchy.

He wondered if it was as uncomfortable for Ratchet as it was for him. That would be assuming Ratchet even recognized him. It didn’t even hit him until that moment there was a chance Ratchet wouldn’t even recognize him.

It was not a surprising revelation but it was disquieting nevertheless.

“Have a seat, Drift.”

The same instinct to correct the name was surprisingly absent.

Deadlock sat on the medslab, servos anchored to his knees as he watched Ratchet comb through the readings of the scan. His optics drifted across the screen, denta pinching his glossa as he poured all his focus onto his work. It was so simple and yet so mesmerizing, Deadlock didn’t realize he was staring until Ratchet looked up and made eye contact with him.

Deadlock thought maybe now recognition would finally make its way to Ratchet’s face. But the medic’s gaze was as neutral as it always had been. Ratchet turned back to his datapad.

A…confusing mixture of disappointment and sorrow curled at the base of Deadlock’s throat.

He…doesn’t remember me.

That should be a good thing. It would make his mission easier, it would make everything easier. But it…hurt. Deadlock was surprised to feel it. The stabbing pain in his chest hurt so much he brought up a hand to rub at it, looking down and away from Ratchet. It took away the sharp sting in his spark, but the ache was still there.

He should be happy Drift was forgotten. He had put so much effort in trying to forget it himself. It’s what he had wanted . He had stripped his name, discarded his past, worked to etch himself into something new, and valuable, and special. He’d thrown it all away…except for that one night in Rodion. It was the one thing he couldn’t rid himself of.

He had always known that night had meant everything to him and was just…passing words for a tired, charitable medic. But Drift- Deadlock had always wondered if maybe, just maybe, it had stuck with Ratchet.

Evidently not.

Deadlock kept his helm bowed as Ratchet finished reading his scan. A sharp click of the datapad being set down clued him that Ratchet was done. There shouldn’t be anything on that scan. Shockwave had given him a tormentingly thorough examination before they sent him on his mission. The scan then had been clean; there shouldn’t be anything. All he wanted was to be dismissed so he could find his quarters and hide out for the rest of the cycle. The real work could begin tomorrow, the real mission could start then. He just needed a moment to lick his wounds and-

“So,” Ratchet spoke, his voice absent of the gruff bite he had given to Hot Rod, “still have that cable kink in the knee. ‘Thought you would have gotten that sorted out when you got your armor refitted.”

Deadlock snapped his helm up as he met Ratchet’s amused face. The medic let out a low chuckle, his smile crooked in a way Deadlock wanted to trace with his fingers over and over and over again.

“Hi Drift,” Ratchet said, his name spoken with a warmth Deadlock hadn’t heard in years. It was spoken with remembrance, fondness.

“You…remember?”

“I’m not that old, don’t let Hot Rod convince you otherwise.” Ratchet rolled his optics before they settled back on Deadlock, kind in the same way they had been all those years ago. “Of course, I remember.”

The pain in Deadlock’s chest melted away. This was where the disappointment and bitterness should step in. This was where the worry that his mission would go sideways should sink in. And yet, he felt light, lighter than he had been in so many years.

“I,” Deadlock hesitated, his words low and quiet, “I remember you too.”

Ratchet let out a small snort as he set a palm on Deadlock’s shoulder. In that moment, all Deadlock could see was a Ratchet from before, holding Drift in the same spot, in the same way.

“It’s been a long time,” Ratchet murmured, his smile still there but softer, “I’m happy to see you here, finally finding your way.”

Deadlock wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or scream. He had found his way. He finally had found a place for himself, respected and loved and it has nothing to do with this ruse . Megatron trusted him and handpicked him for this position that no one else could ever think to achieve. He had found his way! He had! Ratchet would one day see the scope of that and…

Ratchet gave him a pat on the knee to signal he could get up. A small, warm smile was on the medic’s face as if he were genuinely happy to have Drift here. Deadlock stood on wobbly knees, his center of gravity off-centered despite being in top notch health. If Ratchet noticed, he didn’t say anything. He simply put a warm hand on the Deadlock’s back to steady him.

“Thanks,” Deadlock muttered, unable to look at Ratchet and his too kind, undeserved smile.

Ratchet won’t be smiling like that when he learns the truth. He won’t be offering Deadlock any warmth, any kindness. Deadlock…was not sure what that would look like. He’d never thought to picture Ratchet angry or upset or horrified. Any time the images tried to appear, he forced them away, choosing instead to think about distant worlds far, far away from the reality in which he would lose Ratchet’s trust. He didn’t want to know what it would look like.

He knew he shouldn’t even care. He knew his mission was to destroy the autobots and any friendships made here were false.

He couldn’t deny the small part of himself that wanted to live in his bubble a little longer. That wanted to live in a pocket of space where he and Ratchet weren’t on opposite sides and…well he wasn’t even sure what they could do.

Talk?

Deadlock had imagined it countless times, curled in his bunk in the Decepticon barracks running through the simulations of just meeting Ratchet again. His simulations were always tenuous and painful. Ratchet’s disappointment was scathing even in the realm of fantasy. Only a few times had the simulations been positive, when Deadlock tried to imagine a universe where they could just talk.

Where Ratchet would smile at him and be proud of him and see the potential he had seen in Drift all those years ago in the shady clinic in the Dead End come to fruition. To see that Ratchet had been right, had seen him and understood his potential when no one else could. That they could talk and talk and talk and maybe Ratchet would laugh at one of his jokes and maybe Ratchet would tell him stories of before the war. And maybe Ratchet would admit that he had thought of Dri-Deadlock too. The words wouldn’t be too dissimilar to the ones he had said just now. And then Deadlock could smile back at him and mean it when he said-

“Me too,” Deadlock spoke to the floor, his mouth moving without his permission. Ratchet rubbed his thumb across the base of Deadlock’s neck. He shuttered his optics to memorize the touch before adding, “I’m happy to be here. To see you.”

It wasn’t even a lie, despite the guilt that curled around the base of his intake, threatening to make him purge.

He left as soon as the nausea passed. He threw away the urge to even attempt thinking of an outcome that didn’t end with Ratchet’s disappointment.

It’s been a long time.

Deadlock struggled to clear his vents as the acid waste washed over him, Hot Rod’s digits digging into his plating and dragging him down down down. His intake was crushed; he scratched and clawed at Hot Rod’s arms to no avail.

Hot Rod was dying, and he was taking Deadlock with him. This was the end. And what an end it was.

Deadlock fought weakly against Hot Rod, desperately grasping for something . He couldn’t die here. He couldn’t die now . He had so much to do, so much he never got to do. So much he failed to do.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. How things were supposed to end. How a nothing leaker from the Dead End became…a nothing Decepticon…in the acid wastes beneath Autobot scum. A nothing. A failure. A disgrace.

No one would weep for him.

Not Megatron or any other Decepticon. Certainly not any Autobot. No one would mourn the loss of a failure, of a traitor. No one would care, no matter what name they called him. Deadlock or Drift, discarded and forgotten. Just like before. Just like always.

Not even Ratchet would mourn. Why would he? Deadlock had only ever disappointed him, only ever hurt him, only ever lied even when he was trying not to. He would not deserve Ratchet’s sympathies. He wouldn’t even deserve his pity.

But as the acid stripped away his paint, peeling away the white then the black and then the white again, Deadlock still hoped that maybe Ratchet would feel saddened by his death. Not as a failure, not as a traitor, but as that lost mech he had met all those years ago, brains fried out on circuit boosters and looking for someone to save him.

No one was going to save him now. Not Ratchet, not the Decepticons, not some misplaced divinity. No one.

I’m happy to see you here,

Are you still happy, Ratchet? What does that feel like? Why can I never feel that?

Deadlock had hoped once, long long ago, that he would be able to.

In Dead End it had been Gasket that brought him comfort and the closest thing to happiness. They shared each other’s warmth as they whispered together into the night. They talked about the future, stupid dreams and made-up realities that could never be. Gasket wanted to find a planet with no one on it, where he could be alone and safe and free. At the time, it had been easy enough to copy that dream.

Ratchet had given him hope- not just hope, but trust, and faith, and belief that he could be more. That Drift could be more. That he was special, that he deserved more than what the world and society had spat at him. He didn’t have to follow the will of others, but make his own. Make his own future, his own dreams, his own happiness. It was the first time anyone had looked him in the eyes and seen more than a dirty little syphonist.

He had thought about those words ever since. He thought about them every cycle, whispering them in the dark, tracing his fingers where Ratchet had rested his hand. It still felt warm and Drift knew that was what happiness had to feel like.

The Decepticons didn’t do happiness. It hadn’t taken Dri- Deadlock long to put that together. But that was okay; power and security were close enough that it didn’t matter. He wasn’t starving. He wasn’t aching. He wasn’t fighting just to find a place to recharge. He had a home and responsibility. He was trusted and valued and praised and-

He was not happy with the Autobots. It was all fake, manufactured, false. Every stupid joke of Hot Rod’s Deadlock laughed at while shaking his helm fondly . Every nod of approval from Perceptor or pat on the back from Grimlock or weary smile from Arcee. It was all lies, all of it.

And Ratchet. Those…those were lies too…

Every brief passing from the medic, always taking a moment- nothing more than a few nanokliks -to say hello, to give Drift a small smile and ask him Have you settled in well? Keeping out of trouble? Heard you took a tumble, want me to check out that knee joint?

Every meeting, Deadlock shuffled as close as he could dare, to stand side by side as they listened to Optimus or Prowl or whoever . It never mattered. Deadlock would record everything for Megatron, but his focus was always on the medic. So close, yet still thousands and thousands of leagues away.

Every quiet morning cycle, when Deadlock would get up early just for a chance, a quiet chance, to refuel with Ratchet, exchange pleasantries and smiles. Rarely did they speak beyond that. Deadlock wasn’t sure what they could talk about but he wanted it. He wanted it so bad it made his spark hurt and his teeth ache. He wanted Ratchet to see him, to hear him, to understand him. Like he had back then. But asking for more was unwise. Expecting anything would only make his betrayal more painful.

None of these moments were truly noteworthy, but each one was categorically recorded, replayed in the deep, dark of the recharge cycle as he ignored the twisting pain in his chest that reminded him this wasn’t real. None of this got to be real. Soon enough it would all turn to ash and destruction, soon enough Drift would be dead once again and Deadlock would be watching every single Autobot burn, burn, burn.

finally finding your way.

Was this how it was supposed to turn out? Was this his destiny? How was choking on acid any better than rusting to death in Dead End while he fried his brains out.

Deadlock felt his arms lock up as his energy seeped away, acid corroding his lines and making him immobile. How was this fair? How was this just? How…how come there was no happy end for him?

Deadlock let his optics shutter close, refusing Hot Rod’s face to be the last thing he saw.

Instead, he drew up memories: the bright lights of a medslab in Rodion, with a gruff medic telling him to keep living, to keep going, that he was special .

He let his processor, in its delirium, take him back to familiar dreams and fantasies. Long ago, he had stopped co-opting Gasket’s dreams. In truth, they never fit him anyway. He never wanted to be alone. Safety, freedom and happiness meant nothing to him if he didn’t have anyone with him. In forming his own dream, it had been so easy, so simple, to put others around him.

Those faces changed all the time, but Ratchet’s was always there. Sometimes he even felt bold enough to put Ratchet beside him, standing together as equals. In his dreams, it was okay to reach across the distance. In his dreams, he never had to think this was impossible.

In his dreams, they were together, far away from Cybertron and the war and the pain and the suffering. Far away, in a spaceship not too dissimilar to the arc, charted for the unknown with no factions, no fighting, no war. Ratchet was always there, by his side, in the quiet way the medic always was in his off hours.

In his dreams, Ratchet still called him Drift and there was no bitter sting in hearing it. In his dreams, they just sat together.

And maybe, if he was lucky, they could talk.

#dratchet #drift #ratchet #cyberverse #transformers #macadam #my fics

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chaoticbeanz · 9 months ago

Text

Hellfire’s Girl 3

Summary- Peaches makes some new discoveries.

Pairing- Eddie Munson x Fem!oc

Warnings-(if I have left any out please let me know) friends to lovers, slow burn, she/her pronouns, cursing, mainly nickname will be used, weed mention and usage,

Word Count- Almost 2k

Notes- There will be straying from the storyline. Also sorry Eddie will be in the next part I promise.

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

~Lena~

It felt like I was seeing the world through a different lense every time. Smoke filled my lungs with every hit I took. Mind turning to mush. Thoughts crashing together. Body relaxing and just enjoying the company. I couldn’t stop the smile creeping on my face. Gareth took notice.

”Whatcha thinking about Peaches?”

“Everything and nothing. I’m glad I found a smoking buddy. I was afraid I’d be alone all the time since I moved. Not that I don’t mind being alone. Gotta have space sometimes, you know?”

Jesus I’m rambling. Shut up!

“My best friend was my buddy.” My smile became sad at the thought of them. I missed them so much. Sure we talked on the phone, but it wasn’t the same as hanging out together. “You would like them. We have similar tastes, though I’d argue she’s a bit more girly than me.”

”Well, can’t wait to meet her eventually. Who knows? Might fall in love.” Gareth raises his eyebrows and I could help but giggle.

”You can try but she plays for the same team if you catch my drift.” I took a sip of my drink to avoid cotton mouth.

I can see his eyes widen like it clicked and he nods in understanding. “Do you?”

I choked. I wasn’t expecting that question so soon.

Gareth patted my back to help me, “I’m sorry. That was personal. You don’t have to answer that.”

Once I regained my composure, I reassured him. “No no, it’s okay. It just caught me off guard. I, uh, I play both sides.”

“Hey, that’s cool. I don’t judge. I think one of Eddie’s other friends likes girls too. You should meet her.”

I giggled, “Trying to set me up, Gareth?”

He playfully scoffs, “Ha, you wish.” then passed the joint back to me.

I must admit as soon as he mentioned Eddie, my mind went astray. Gareth did say he was a fellow stoner. I wonder what he’s like when he’s high? Does he mellow out or get more amped up? How many rounds can he go? And I’m not just talking about smoking. What do his lips taste like?

I had not realized how deep in thought I was until lungs began yelling at me. It felt like they were on fire. Like a tiny dragon had set them ablaze. A coughing fit erupted as I passed the joint back to Gareth. He took it from me laughing as I scrambled for my drink to ease the pain.

I shoved his arm, “Fuck you! I’d like to see you take a big hit and not almost die!” My voice raspy as I still try to recover.

Gareth took that as a challenge.

I watched him inhale, his chest puffing out and the joint burning fiercely.

A few seconds pass by right before he has his own coughing fit. Immediately regretting his choice. He shoves the joint back to me. Now it was my turn to laugh, cackle even.

Between my laughing and his coughing, the music that was playing from inside my room was being drowned out.

Wiping the tears from our eyes for different reasons. I hand him his drink to ease his suffering.

“I didn’t mean for you to actually do it, you lightweight!”

Gareth looked at me like he was busted, “What gave it away?”

I took another hit then blew the smoke in his direction. “When I asked if you had a spot and you hesitated.” He rubbed the back of his neck looking embarrassed. “Stoners always have a spot. With or without company. I wouldn’t have thought less of you if you didn’t want to.”

”No no no, you’re right. I am a lightweight and to be more honest, you're way cooler than all of us combined Peaches.”

I couldn’t help the blush that spread across my cheeks. “Oh shut up! I just met you guys and you’re totally cool!” I offer the roach to him but he declines. Signaling that he has tapped out. I respect it and place it on the table in my room to remind myself to place it with the others that are for emergency use.

“I mean I don’t know how you guys can get any better?”

~3rd person~

This was it! His chance, his opportunity to be a wingman for his best friend. Gareth wasn’t an idiot. He saw the way Eddie looked at you and you him. There was something there.

“We’re a band.” He tells her seemingly nonchalant. But inside he's nervous.

Peaches snaps her head to him, her expression unreadable. “Are you serious?”

“Yeeeaahh. Me, Eddie, Jeff and Doug.” Gareth rubs the back of his neck nervously. Doubting that his plan wasn’t going to work. “Are we still cool?”

”Are you shitting me?!? That’s fucking awesome! I’m friends with a band?! That’s the best brag I could ever have!”

Gareth let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

Peaches on the other hand couldn’t catch a breath.

“What’s your band name? Do you guys perform? Do you have music recorded? Can I hear it please? Are you guitar or drums? I’m leaning more to drums but that could just be me.”

”Peaches! Breath!” He grabbed her by the shoulders.

She was stunned for a moment then let out a giggle. “I’m sorry.”

Gareth chuckled and let go of her. “It’s okay. We’re called Corroded Coffin. Sometimes we do at a place called the Hideout. I think I may have a copy that we did and yes you can listen to it. You’re right, I play drums. Doug is bass. Both Jeff and Eddie are guitar though Eddie is lead and vocals.”

”Wow! This is so exciting! I will now be your number one fan!” Peaches couldn’t help but be giddy about it all. Her new friends were amazing. There was however one last mystery. “Wait, if your band is Corroded Coffin? Then what’s Hellfire Club?” She pointed towards the t- shirt Gareth as well as all the other boys were wearing.

”Oh. Uh, you don’t need to worry about that Peach. It’s nothing.” Gareth tried to deflect.

”That’s not fair Gare! You all have the same shirt. It has to mean something! Is it because I’m a girl?”

He could hear the sadness showing in her voice. But he was afraid you’d make fun of them. “No, it’s not because you're a girl. It’s just… you’re gonna think it’s stupid or weird. Or that we’re…”

”Freaks?” She finished. “Listen, I already told Eddie that if not conforming to society brands you a freak? Then count me as one.”

Hearing that from Peaches just solidifies for him that she isn’t like everyone else in this god forsaken town.

She can see the hesitation in his eyes, “You don’t have to tell if you-“

”It’s our D&D club!” Gareth blurted out with closed eyes. Too afraid to see her reaction.

When the silence became too much he slowly opened his eyes to see Peaches with her mouth wide open in shock. There’s no way she heard that correctly.

“As in Dungeons and Dragons?”

Gareth rubs the back of his neck nervously nodding. What he didn’t anticipate was Peaches punching his arm in excitement which nearly caused him to fall off the roof.

She reached out to steady him, “ I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to hit you that hard! Are you okay?!”

“Yeah I’m good.” Gareth chuckled. “So I take it, you know the game?”

”I’ve never played but I know some kids I went to school with did. I always wanted to play but found it so intimidating so I kept chickening out.”

”Seriously?! Can you get any cooler!?”

“I could say the same about you guys!”

They both shared a laugh then continued talking about anything and everything. Before they knew it the sky began to grow dark and a pair of headlights made their way up the driveway.

“That would be my mother. Would you like to stay for dinner?” Peaches stands and climbs through her window back into her room. Gareth follows suit.

”I appreciate the offer but I should head home to my folks.”

”That’s okay. I figured I would ask first before my mom does.”

Peaches then grabs their trash and tosses it in the bin. Her eyes catch the roach laying on the table. She takes and puts it away with the rest that she has saved.

As both Gareth and Peaches make their way downstairs, she hears her mothers voice. “Lena! Is your friend staying for dinner?”

Peaches winks at Gareth as if to say “told ya”.

They stand in the archway of the kitchen, “Mom, this is Gareth. Gareth, my mother.” Peaches introduces. “And no. I’m taking him home so I’ll be back.”

“Oh okay. It was nice meeting you sweetie. Drive safe Lena.”

“It was nice to meet you too.” Gareth waves then follows Peaches.

“Remember, drive safe Lena.” Gareth teases as they get in the car.

“Shut up! Now it sounds weird when you guys use my actual name.” Peaches shoves him playfully. To her it didn't sound right for the boys to say her name. She was now Peaches to them, even if in just a short amount of time that they’ve known each other. Although her mind wasn’t objecting to the idea of Eddie saying her name. He might be the only exception.

The drive was filled with more conversation and music playing. It wasn’t long until Peaches pulled up to the curb of Gareth’s house. “Thanks for the ride Peaches.”

Before she could think, Peaches pulled Gareth into a tight hug, “Thank you.”

“What for?”, he questioned.

“Everything.”, she pulled away, “Becoming my friend, introducing me to the boys, hanging out with me; I was so worried I wouldn’t find people I actually wanted to be around.”

”Well, now you can’t get rid of us.”

Peaches laughs, “That’s fine with me. And don’t worry, I won't tell the boys that you told me about Corroded Coffin and Hellfire. I could tell you wanted to keep them a secret.”

Little did she know, Gareth wasn’t planning on telling the boys that she knew either. He wanted to keep the game going.

“I knew I could trust you Peaches. See ya at school.”

Gareth exits the car, gives one last wave then heads into his house.

Peaches makes her way back home, eats dinner with her parents, finishes up some homework, and climbs into bed. The whole day replays in her mind. A smile never leaves until her eyes grow heavy and sleep takes over.

Meanwhile on the other side of town, a certain someone had trouble falling asleep.

Eddie was tossing and turning, his thoughts running rampant. Did Peaches like Gareth? What did they talk about? What did they do? Did he even have a shot to begin with? What did her room look like? Okay, that’s weird. Eddie shook his head trying to purge the thoughts. The little green monster was still festering and out for blood. Why does he get to spend time with her?

“I’ll just have a little chat with him tomorrow. Yeah that sounds good.”

Eddie took one last pull from his joint to calm him before closing his eyes and hoping that dreamland would be in his favor.

Tagged: @luv4peterba1lard @arlxt06 @midnyghtsolstice

Thank you for reading!

If you would like to be tagged or share your thoughts please leave a comment. It is always appreciated.

More Eddie in part 4 I swear!

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