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slt4kavanagh · 11 days ago

Note

hello queen

this has been in my head all week and i know you would do it justice🙏

but what about Gibsie x shy!reader

like she rarely talks except to Gibsie and her close friends (can be the core 10) and outsiders wonder how they’re together because they’re so different but it works because the reader loves listening and not talking and Gibs loves talking and does the talking for them

and Gibs always knows what she wants without her having to say it out loud if she’s in a very large space where she’s not comfortable talking

i hope this makes sense and thank you queen if you write this🙏🙏

enough words for both of us

pairing: gerard gibson x fem!reader

tw: none !

a/n: mb it took a little while, lowkey have zero energy and shit tons of school work but hoping it’s up to ur standards

masterlist !

you don’t talk much. not to most people, anyway.

some think it’s nerves. others think it’s pride. but it’s neither, really. you just like the quiet. like watching more than speaking. like listening and really hearing—the kind of silence that stretches warm between people who understand each other without needing noise to fill the gaps.

and then there’s him.

gibsie.

you don’t remember the first time he made you laugh out loud, but you remember how he’d grinned like he’d won a trophy for it.

“there it is,” he’d said, eyes crinkling, “sweetest fuckin’ sound i’ve ever heard.”

he was loud. all big limbs and messy hair and words that never seemed to stop coming. he had this way of talking like the world was too slow for him, like he had a million things to say and only one lifetime to get through them.

and somehow, somehow, he chose to give most of those words to you.

“my girl doesn’t talk much,” he tells people with that proud, crooked grin, like he’s letting them in on something rare and beautiful. “but tha’s alright. i’ve got enough mouth for the both of us.”

and god, does he.

he talks for you when rooms feel too big and your throat feels too small. he orders your drinks at parties and knows just how you like your chips, and when someone asks you a question you’re not ready to answer, he just throws an arm around your shoulder and answers for you—never speaking over you, just for you, like he’s your translator in a world too fast and loud.

“she’s not bein’ rude,” he said once at a house party when some boy scoffed at your silence. “she just doesn’t waste her voice on eejits.”

you hadn’t said a word that night, but you’d kissed his cheek and he’d flushed from his ears to his collar.

he always knows. even when you don’t say anything.

like that time in the cafeteria when it got too noisy and the lights felt like they were buzzing in your head—he caught the shift in your eyes, that tight little line in your jaw, and suddenly you were outside, sitting on the steps with his hoodie around your shoulders and his voice a soft lull in your ear.

“you alright, pet?” he asked, fingers brushing yours. “bit too loud in there, yeah? i’ve got you.”

he always has you.

people don’t get it. they see the way he throws his arms around you in crowded hallways, the way you press your face into his chest instead of saying hello. they hear him chatter on about your day like he wasyou. and they don’t understand it.

but they don’t need to. because you do. and he does.

you let him be loud. he lets you be quiet.

and in between all the noise and stillness, there’s you and him, and it just works.

he gets it before anyone else even starts to.

you’re not just quiet. you’re careful—with your words, your space, your people. the kind of girl who watches the whole room before picking a seat. who knows everyone’s name but rarely speaks yours aloud. the kind who’d rather listen than risk saying the wrong thing, because the wrong thing’s lived in your head before and echoed too long after.

gibsie figured it out early on.

you don’t like loud rooms unless you’re near the exit. don’t like surprises unless they come from him. and you really don’t like being spoken over—not because you want the spotlight, but because people never get it right when they try to fill in the blanks for you.

except him.

he gets it right every single time.

like when the teacher calls on you in front of the whole class and your throat locks up around the words. before you can even try, he leans back in his seat with that easy charm and goes, “ah miss, go handy on her, yeah? she’s not the public speakin’ type—savin’ that lovely voice for me.”

the class laughs. the teacher sighs. and you breathe again.

later, when it’s just the two of you, you nudge your knee against his under the table and murmur, “thank you.”

he looks over, like he wasn’t expecting it, but he softens immediately. “always, baby.”

or when someone—usually a friend of a friend, or someone new—tries to be cute and make a comment about how you “never talk” or how you “let him do all the thinking for you.”

he’s across the room before you can blink, one hand braced on the back of your chair, the other flung out in the air like he’s about to give a TED Talk on why your quietness is his religion.

“she listens more in five minutes than you have your whole life, lad,”he says, voice still warm but edged just enough to bite. “and trust me, when she speaks, i shut up. so maybe you should try doin’ the same.”

you don’t say a word right away. not because you can’t. but because he’s already said it all.

but later, after the crowd thins and he’s walking you to your locker, your voice comes quiet and sure.

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“’course i did,” he says, not missing a beat. “you think i’m lettin’ some gobshite talk down to my girl? never happening.”

you smile then—small, but warm. “you talk a lot.”

“and you love it,” he teases.

you look up at him, eyes soft. “i do.”

he’s done for.

you’re sitting outside on the back steps one day, lunch in your lap, his hoodie slung over your knees. the noise inside is too much again, and he’s not saying anything either, just tossing grapes in the air and trying (badly) to catch them with his mouth.

he misses one and it bounces off his cheek. you laugh—really laugh, shoulders shaking, head tilted back—and he freezes.

just stares at you like you’ve cracked open the sky.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, hand over his chest. “you’ve gotta warn me before you hit me with that smile. nearly dropped dead on the spot.”

you roll your eyes, still grinning. “then stop being so dramatic.”

he blinks. “was that sass? was that sass outta your mouth? ohhh, you’re in trouble now.”

you laugh again, quieter this time, and don’t pull away when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth like it’s a secret.

“i love you quiet,” he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear. “but fuck, do i love when you laugh.”

you don’t say anything right away.

but then your voice slips out soft as a secret, just for him.

“i love you loud.”

he swears under his breath and pulls you in like he’s never letting go.

#boys of tommen #gerard gibson #taming 7 #healing 7 #chloe walsh #slt4kavanagh

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bloodwrittenletters · 4 months ago

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hi lovies, long time no seeeee, anyways, I'm not sick anymore!!! and currently working on a third part of the percy x mortal!reader fic which I desperately need to find a name for and while I cook that up i thought of showing y'all my drafts and you guys can pick which one will be getting published first (between today and tomorrow deepening on how this goes) there's a couple i don't have on tumblr (they were hand written) so I'll name them and you people let me know if you want it 💕💕 im also working on a request sooooo yeah! just thought this would be good to hold you guys over as I work my mastermind privately ^.^

1. kiss me harder — as you can seeeee, some percy loving a hades girl, this is kinda "but daddy I love him!" vibes???? like a tiny bit of that and some forbidden trope sort of thing it, ALSO it's very fluffy even with the slight nsfw (the making out part basically lolsies) like it's just percy jackson being himself (a lover boy 100% NAWT fake) 😋😋

2. fall in love — michael townsend the absolute lover of lovers and my babyyyyy, if you don't know who he is he's from The Naturals series and he's basically the best ever, this fic has a lot of humor (because he's funny as frick 😋😋😋) and it's very fluffy too (ps: where the michael lovers at?????)

3. puppy eyes — i don't know if y'all know but ive been recently getting into boys of tommen and i loveeeeeee joey, and gerard (aka gibsie) and johnny obvsss, im about 8 chapters deep with binding 13 butttttttt i just needed to do this, also because like Michael there's not a lot of content of this man in tumblr so i decided i would make it myself 😽😽 it's reader being captivated by Johnny's precious eyes and him being flustered about it (he loves his girl sooooo muchhhh)

4. heaven in your lips — my OLDEST fic. literally, it has been sitting in my drafts since I started on tumblr. it has percy and fem!reader being bestie with TONS of tension, percy smokes (which idk how I feel about bc i know in my soul he wouldn't do that but it's for the fic sooo..) and he blows cherry flavored smoke in reader's mouth 😛😛😛 very wes bennett of him ifykwim and if you guys do think this would be something you wanna read i had an idea of making a part two where percy and reader confess and all, also fyi this needs A LOT of fixing, like as you can tell it doesn't have my usual format because it IS ACCIENT

5. i heard you calling, i see you walking — jason todd x fem!reader headcanons, like the most adorable childhood friends to lovers and i might make this a blurb??? dunno yet

6. i wolf you — jason grace x fem!reader au where they are married and jason goes out to get groceries and comes back to their new Rome apartment with a baby wolf, and he says "he followed me here and then he got tired so he just looked at me and I picked him up and came here... he's basically my son!!!!!!!!! can we keep him?" and.... i haven't decided if reader caves in but it's a cute blurb

7. picking daisies — wes bennet x fem!reader woooooo!!! wes takes reader to a picnic date and starts making her crown flowers and just kisses her and kisses her and kisses her and then tells her something like "i love you more than the flowers love the soil" or something like that so cutesy and poetic in a silly way

y'all let me know which one you would rather have first!!!!

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slt4kavanagh · 10 days ago

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hiii I love your fics !! could you consider making one abt Johnny x gibsies little sister!reader where she’s off limits ?? Idm what you do with it, just some fluff like that :)

off limits

pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader

tw: none (i hope)

a/n: lowkey fuck with this but lowkey hate it? if anyone has requests pls send them through today cause im lowkey on the grind rn

the italics in the middle part is gibsie’s thoughts !!

masterlist !

every person in cork knows two things.

one: johnny kavanagh is a mouthy little bollocks who somehow still manages to get away with everything — whether it’s charm, talent, or just sheer good luck, no one really knows.

and two: gerard gibson’s little sister is off limits.

doesn’t matter how fit she is. doesn’t matter if she’s sweet as anything, always smiling and saying thank you and helping old teachers carry their books. if you look at her sideways, gibsie will end your bloodline.

he’s mad about her, really — in that overbearing, dramatic way only an older brother could be. loud threats, constant hovering, scaring off lads just by breathing too loud near her. it’s not even verbal anymore — it’s instinct. animal. survival.

which is exactly why johnny should’ve kept his distance.

and for a while, he tried.

he’s always been a bit of a flirt, sure. had his fair share of girls, mostly older — the ones who liked the cocky smile and didn’t ask for much more. he never stayed long. never cared enough to.

except… this is different.

she’s different.

always has been.

and maybe it started small. glances that lingered longer than they should. inside jokes at the dinner table. soft laughs from the backseat of gibsie’s car.

but somewhere along the way, it turned real.

like, sickeningly real.

he can’t look at her without his chest aching. can’t hear her laugh without getting all warm and stupid. he talks less when she’s around — which is mental, because johnny kavanagh never shuts up.

and the worst part? everyone knows.

the whole fuckin’ town’s got a bet going, probably. every single one of the lads can see it — the way he goes soft when she’s around, the way he lights up when she says his name, the way he doesn’t flirt back when she teases him.

even gibsie knows.

he just… refuses to acknowledge it.

“johnny?” he’d said once, loud as hell in the locker room, “fall in love? fuck off. he’s more likely to elope with a bottle of lynx africa.”

johnny hadn’t said anything.

he just shoved his boots on and stared at the floor — thinking about her. always thinking about her.

and now here he is. sitting on the worn-down couch in the gibson living room, watching her braid her hair out of her face like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

she’s got a book in her lap and bare feet curled under her, and he’s trying very hard not to stare at her thighs.

“you alright there?” she asks, not even looking up.

“huh?” he blinks.

“you’re staring.”

he smirks automatically — out of habit, really. “hard not to when you’re that pretty.”

she raises a brow. “you’re full of shite.”

“never said i wasn’t.”

she laughs — soft and real — and fuck, he’s done for.

he looks away, pretending to stretch his arm behind the couch, like he’s casual. like his pulse isn’t slamming in his ears.

from the kitchen, gibsie shouts, “you better not be talking shite to my sister, kavanagh!”

johnny sighs. “he’s such a headcase.”

“i heard that!”

you grin, completely unbothered, and go back to your book.

and johnny just sits there.

desperate. hopeless. smitten out of his fucking mind.

the only person in cork who doesn’t know it?

you.

⸻

it starts with the way johnny looks at you.

not in the usual way lads do — that obvious, mouth-open, half-horny way most fellas look at a girl they fancy.

nah.

it’s worse.

johnny watches you like he’s waiting to make sure you’re alright. like he can hear the beat of your heart across a room and needs to know it’s steady. like you hung the moon and he’s terrified to reach for it.

and gibsie doesn’t like it.

not one feckin’ bit.

it’s not that he thinks johnny’s a bad lad — he’s not. he’s his best friend. his brother. he’s loyal and solid and smarter than he lets on.

but still.

gibsie’s known johnny since they were in nappies. he’s seen the trail of women left in his wake — older ones, bored ones, ones who liked the way he could charm the pants off anyone without trying.

johnny’s always had girls, but he’s never cared for any of them.

and now he’s sitting at the gibson dinner table, quiet for the third meal in a row, passing you the mashed potatoes like it’s some grand romantic gesture, smiling like he’s just seen god.

and that’s when it hits gibs.

oh, bollocks. he’s in love with her.

gibsie watches the two of you all week. becomes obsessed, really.

he sees the way you always look at johnny before you laugh. how you bring him a towel after practice. how johnny holds his temper better when you’re around, doesn’t rise to the usual shite, just sits there and watches you.

he’s a mess.

a quiet one. dangerous. real.

and it gets worse when johnny starts helping around the house. just little things — taking the bins out without being asked, offering to fix the dodgy leg on the kitchen chair, picking your favourite crisps from the shop without even saying a word.

“what the fuck are you playing at?” gibsie asks one night, cornering johnny by the shed out back. cigarette hanging from his lips, arms crossed.

johnny blinks. “what?”

“don’t be thick. you know what. you’re actin’ weird.”

johnny shrugs, too calm. “i’m always weird according to you.”

“not like this,” gibs snaps. “you’re all… gentle. and helpful. and you keep lookin’ at her like she’s made of stars or somethin’. it’s disgusting.”

johnny laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “she doesn’t even know.”

gibs stares. “you’re serious.”

he shrugs again — quieter this time. “i’m tryin’ not to be.”

and that’s when gibsie properly panics. because shit. he was hoping it was just a phase. some harmless pining, a bit of tension, maybe one day it’d fizzle out and they’d both move on.

but now?

johnny’s in love.

johnny fucking kavanagh. who’s never been serious about a girl in his life. who could have anyone. who never sticks around long enough to give a shite.

and he’s looking at gibsie’s little sister like she’s the end of the road.

like there’s no one else.

and the worst part?

he’s not even mad.

he just feels sick.

because deep down, he knows — johnny would never hurt her.

and that’s what scares him most.

gibs never says anything out loud.

he just… starts noticing things.

little ones, at first.

like how you and johnny talk without really talking — passing things between you without needing full sentences. inside jokes. eye contact. the sort of quiet understanding that takes years to build and somehow bloomed between you two in silence.

then it’s the way johnny looks for you in a crowd. how he knows where you are in any room, every single time. how his shoulders only relax when you’re close.

how you gravitate toward him now, not your brother.

and that does something to gibs.

makes his chest feel weird. full and hollow at the same time.

he tries to play it off — calls johnny a “fucking sap” behind his back, rolls his eyes when you steal his hoodie again and wear it for three days straight — but the truth is, he’s watching.

and what he sees?

he sees johnny holding open the car door for you. sees you curled up on the couch with your head on his shoulder, fast asleep while he doesn’t move a muscle for two hours just so you don’t wake up.

he sees johnny walk you to class. carry your bag when your shoulder hurts. stand behind you at parties, not hovering, but just there — like a quiet shield.

and he sees the way you smile at him.

like you trust him with your life.

and that’s when gibs starts to back off.

not in a big, dramatic way. no speeches. no warnings.

just… slowly.

he stops hovering so much. doesn’t bark at johnny every time he so much as stands next to you. doesn’t flinch when he catches you both laughing in the backseat, heads close, knees touching.

he starts trusting it.

because for all the shit he gives johnny — all the chaos and teasing and stupid jabs — he knows the lad’s heart.

and for once, it’s not in his trousers.

it’s in his chest. beating hard. steady. every rhythm thudding for you.

and maybe that’s enough.

still, gibs can’t help himself sometimes.

like when you and johnny are sitting too close at dinner, whispering about something dumb and trying not to laugh. or when johnny shows up with your favourite chocolate bar and gibs just sighs and says, “you’re gonna be the death of me, both of you.”

but even then, he doesn’t move.

he just watches.

quiet now.

like he’s realising the best way to protect you isn’t standing in front of you anymore.

it’s stepping aside.

⸻

you don’t even realise how close you’ve gotten.

not really.

it’s not like anything’s changed — johnny’s still johnny. still all crooked smirks and lazy confidence, still calling you “sweetheart” just to see you roll your eyes. still soft, though. in the quiet moments. in the way he always waits for you to finish your sentence, even when you’re not sure how it ends.

you’ve always been close — it’s never felt weird.

but now?

it feels like you’ve crossed some invisible line without noticing.

it’s the way he tugs your ponytail when you pass him in the hallway, fingers brushing the back of your neck like he needs to touch you. it’s the way he always knows what you’re about to say before you say it.

it’s the way you find yourself leaning into him like he’s home.

and then one night — just an ordinary thursday, gibs upstairs yelling at a rugby match on the telly — it happens.

you and johnny are sat on the floor of the living room, knees touching. the tv’s on, but you’re not watching it. you’re both sharing a packet of crisps. he’s telling you some story about a substitute teacher who accidentally assigned the wrong homework, and you’re laughing, but you’re not really listening.

you’re watching his mouth.

you don’t even realise you’re staring until he goes quiet.

“what?” you ask, smiling.

he looks at you for a second — really looks at you — and says, soft and simple, “you’re killin’ me.”

your smile falters. “what?”

johnny leans back on his elbows, jaw clenched like he’s biting back every single word he’s ever wanted to say. then he huffs a breath and shakes his head.

“you’ve no idea, do ya?”

your brow furrows. “about what?”

he scoffs — not at you. at himself. at how pathetic he feels right now.

“you,” he says. “you and me. christ, it’s been months. i’ve tried everything short of writing your name in the sky and you’re still lookin’ at me like i’m just your brother’s idiot best friend.”

you blink.

he shrugs, like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just carve open his ribs and hand you his heart.

“i’m in love with you,” he adds, like it’s that easy. like it hasn’t been eating him alive every day. “been in love with you. probably always will be.”

you’re silent.

he tries to play it off, reaching for another crisp like he didn’t just unravel in front of you. “it’s fine, by the way. i’m not— not expecting anything. just figured i should say it before i burst into flames or somethin’.”

you stare at him.

then — quiet as anything — you whisper, “i thought you were just being nice.”

johnny laughs. loud. disbelieving. leans back and looks at the ceiling like he’s praying for strength.

“jesus christ, i’ve been pining after you like a feckin’ schoolgirl and you thought i was being nice?”

“you’re nice to everyone.”

“not like this!” he gestures wildly between you.

you’re staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted, like maybe you just misheard him.

“so what then, you’re in love with me?” you ask, voice small but searching for reassurance in his previous words.

johnny scoffs — tired, soft, like he’s been carrying it around for too long.

“yeah,” he says. “head over heels. completely fucked.”

you don’t say anything, and that silence makes him start pacing.

“i’ve been tryin’ to keep my distance. out of respect or whatever,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, “but i swear to god, i’m losin’ it, y/n. i’ve never felt like this before — not with bella, not with anyone. and i’m tryin’ to be good about it, i am, but—”

he stops, looks at you, eyes burning.

“i don’t care what gibs thinks.”

you blink. “what?”

“i don’t care.” his voice is firmer now, lower. “i’ve cared for months. tiptoed around you. held my tongue. did everything right. but i’m not gonna keep pretending like i don’t want you just because he’ll throw a fit. i’d go through hell for that lad, but if it comes down to him or you?” he swallows hard. “it’s you. every time.”

you’re still frozen, heart thudding too loud to hear the tv anymore. he steps closer, tone softer now, like he’s afraid he’s gone too far.

“i’m sorry,” he says, “but it’s not just a crush. it’s not some fling. i needyou to know that. i’ve never felt like this in my life, and i’m not gonna lose the one good thing i’ve ever wanted ‘cause i was too scared to be honest about it.”

his voice cracks then, barely a whisper.

“i don’t care if it pisses him off. i care about you.”

your mouth opens but no words come out — just breath. shaky, unsteady. you feel like you’ve been dropped from a great height, like your chest can’t hold all this.

“johnny,” you whisper.

he just looks at you, waiting, every inch of him trembling like he’s bracing for the worst.

and then you kiss him.

and it’s done.

because you don’t care either — not anymore.

⸻

bonus ? (only cause i lowkey hate it)

gibs knows before he even opens the door.

it’s too quiet downstairs. and then too not quiet — like someone tried to stifle a laugh and accidentally made it worse. like the kind of hush that doesn’t come from silence, but from closeness.

he rounds the corner with a frown and nearly turns right back around.

you’re on the couch, legs slung over johnny’s lap, his hand curled protectively over your knee like it’s his. like he’s always known it was his.

and you — you look like you’ve never felt safer.

“oh, for feck’s sake,” gibs mutters.

johnny freezes. his hand lifts like it’s been caught doing something illegal. your face flushes immediately, all wide eyes and half-guilty smiles.

gibs stares at him.

johnny stares back.

and there it is — that moment. the one they’ve been building toward for months. the one gibs has been dreading.

“you serious?” gibs says, voice flat.

johnny clears his throat. “yeah.”

gibs narrows his eyes. “like… serious serious?”

“yeah.”

you open your mouth, but gibs holds a hand up, eyes still locked on johnny.

“you better be sure,” he says. “because she’s not some fling, mate. this isn’t like all your other shite. this is my sister.”

johnny doesn’t flinch.

“i know,” he says quietly. “that’s why i waited.”

something in gibs’ chest tugs.

“i tried,” johnny goes on, voice lower now. “i really did. to stay back. to respect you. but… i’m in love with her. and i’m not gonna pretend i’m not anymore.”

you glance at gibs, nervous, like you’re expecting a fight.

but all he does is sigh.

deep. long. tired.

“you’re a gobshite,” he mutters.

johnny gives him a half-smile. “i know.”

gibs looks at you then — really looks at you. and what he sees makes something tight inside him loosen.

you’re happy.

like, actually happy.

he hasn’t seen you this soft since… well. maybe ever.

he swallows the lump in his throat.

“if you break her heart,” he says, “i’ll break your face.”

johnny grins. “wouldn’t expect anything less.”

gibs rolls his eyes, mumbling under his breath as he heads for the stairs, “fuckin’ disgusting, the both of yeh.”

but halfway up, he pauses.

calls back without turning around—

“you treat her right, yeah?”

johnny’s answer comes without hesitation.

“always.”

and gibs doesn’t say it, but he believes him.

because for all his faults, johnny kavanagh’s never lied about something that mattered.

and the way he looks at you?

that matters.

#boys of tommen #johnny kavanagh #binding 13 #keeping 13 #chloe walsh #slt4kavanagh

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slt4kavanagh · 2 days ago

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gibs with "who did this to you" trope would heal me💔

the bruise beneath the smile

pairing: gerard gibson x fem!reader

tw: bruising?

a/n: pushing through requests also thank you for 100 followers?

masterlist !

the first time gibsie notices something’s off, it’s not ’cause you say anything.

it’s ’cause you don’t.

you’re quieter than usual, head ducked down as you wander through the corridor at tommen. normally, you’re one of the only ones who can go toe-to-toe with him—always snappin’ back with the smart mouth and dry humour that has him grinnin’ like an eejit. but today?

you breeze right past him like he’s invisible.

and okay, maybe he’s bein’ dramatic. he is known for it. but still—you don’t just blank him like that. not without reason.

so when you keep walkin’, barely sparin’ him a glance, he frowns and calls out, “oi, y/n!”

you glance up sharp, like he startled you. there’s this flicker in your face—like you were about to crack a smile, maybe—but then it disappears, and you’re back to lookin’ tired and… small. he hates that word for you. but it fits.

“alright?” you say, casual as anything.

he eyes you. your hoodie’s zipped to your chin, and you’re clutchin’ your bag strap like it’s all that’s keepin’ you upright.

“what’s with the face?” he asks.

“what face?”

“that one. the ‘i hate everyone and if ya talk to me, i’ll bite your head off’ face.”

you let out a weak laugh, and it sounds wrong. flat. like someone drained the colour out of it.

“grand, so,” you mutter. “just tired.”

liar.

he doesn’t call you on it, though. not yet. not in the middle of a corridor full of nosy eejits.

instead, he bumps his shoulder gently against yours. “if you need me, yeah? i’m around.”

you nod, and it’s barely a nod at all.

⸻

lunchtime rolls around, and you’re not at the usual table.

gibsie clocks it right away. you’re not chattin’ with claire, not chirpin’ back at johnny, not even pilin’ chips onto your tray like normal. he scans the whole canteen and finally spots you—tucked away at one of the corner booths like you’re tryna disappear.

his tray is abandoned. johnny calls after him, but gibsie’s already on the move.

“you hidin’ from me?” he grins as he drops into the seat across from you.

you flinch.

he notices. jesus, he notices everything.

“y/n?” he says, quieter now.

you glance up, eyes dartin’. “not hidin’. just fancied some quiet, that’s all.”

“you? quiet?” he teases, but his heart’s not in it. not when you’re sittin’ there all curled in on yourself. “what’s goin’ on with ya?”

“told you. just tired.”

“ah, come off it,” he says, brows drawin’ in. “you’ve said three words all day and one of ’em was a lie.”

you sigh, pressin’ your sleeves down over your hands. his stomach dips.

“what happened?” he asks again, this time softer.

“nothin’,” you murmur.

his jaw clenches. he’s not buyin’ it.

but he doesn’t force it. not here, not now.

⸻

after school, he’s waitin’ for you.

you see him from a distance, standin’ on the steps like he’s meant to be there. like you should be walkin’ with him, no question. you try to walk past—quiet, quick—but he catches up easily.

“gimme five minutes,” he says. “walk me halfway, yeah?”

you eye him. “you live the opposite way.”

he shrugs. “i like detours.”

you stare a second longer, then sigh. “alright.”

he smiles, but it’s faint. not his usual, not the one that lights up his whole gob.

you don’t talk much on the walk. he doesn’t push. you’ve always been a little stubborn, and he knows if he comes on too strong, you’ll just clam up.

but then you stop.

you’re standin’ at the bend before your estate, and you hesitate. gibsie watches the way your feet falter, the way your fingers tug at your sleeves.

and then your hoodie shifts.

just a bit.

just enough.

his stomach drops.

a bruise. purple and yellow and fresh. sittin’ ugly on your collarbone, peekin’ out from where the zip slipped down.

he freezes.

your hand flies up to tug the hoodie tighter, but it’s too late. he’s seen.

“who did that to ya?” he asks, voice low and deadly calm.

you go still. wide-eyed. “it’s—”

“don’t say it’s nothin’.”

you close your mouth. swallow hard.

“you don’t have to worry about it, gibs. i’ve handled worse.”

he swears under his breath, runs a hand through his hair, paces back a step like the fury might choke him if he stands still.

“worse? worse?” he repeats, and his accent’s thick now, snappin’ with heat. “jesus christ, y/n.”

you flinch again. his heart breaks.

“just… don’t make it a big thing,” you whisper. “please.”

he stares at you. and then his voice drops to almost nothin’.

“you think i can see that and not make it a big thing?”

you say nothin’.

he steps back in close, softer this time. his hands hover, not touchin’ you yet, not unless you give him the nod.

“look, i’m not gonna force it outta ya,” he says. “but when you’re ready to tell me, i’m here. and whoever did that—whoever laid a fuckin’ fingeron you—is gonna regret it. swear on my life.”

you blink quick, like you’re holdin’ back tears.

he opens his arms.

doesn’t say anything else.

just offers.

and when you step into him—when you let yourself fold into that big chest of his, arms wrapping around your back—he pulls you in like you’re somethin’ precious. somethin’ worth protectin’.

and you are.

even if you’ve forgotten it.

he hasn’t.

⸻

your room’s quiet—too quiet.

you’re sittin’ on the edge of your bed, fingers tangled in the hem of your hoodie, knees pulled up like a shield. gibsie’s across from you in the little swivel chair you use for studyin’, but he’s not studyin’ anything now. he’s watchin’ you.

waitin’.

not rushin’.

he’s been here a good twenty minutes, hadn’t said much since you let him in, just hovered around the edges of your silence like he knew if he pushed too hard, you’d lock the whole thing away again.

“you alright if i stay a bit?” he asked earlier.

you nodded, even though you weren’t sure. but you didn’t want him gone. not yet.

and now you’re here. in the thick of it.

you finally look up. his eyes catch yours instantly—blue, intense, locked in.

“you still wanna know what happened?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he nods. once. slow. “if you’re ready.”

you swallow.

“it was… ronan,” you say, and the name tastes sour in your mouth. “he showed up outside the shop last night. said he just wanted to talk.”

gibsie doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens. you see it. he already doesn’t like where this is goin’.

“i told him to leave. told him it was done. that he had no right to keep followin’ me ‘round like this.”

“he touched you?” gibsie asks, voice low and raw.

you nod, ashamed. “grabbed my wrist. yanked me back when i tried to walk away. started shoutin’—accusin’ me of makin’ him out to be the bad guy. said i ruined him.”

gibsie’s hands curl into fists in his lap.

“he shoved me. hard. into the wall behind the bins. i hit my shoulder and fell… think that’s when i got the bruise.”

he stands up so fast the chair tips a little behind him. his face is thunder.

“that fuckin’ prick,” he spits. “that absolute scumbag—”

“gibs—”

“no. no, y/n. he put hands on you? shoved you? are ya hearin’ yourself? that’s not just messin’ around. that’s not heat of the moment shite. that’s—”

he stops himself, lookin’ at you properly now. you’re shakin’. barely holdin’ it together. his fury melts the second he sees it.

“jesus, sorry,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “i’m not shoutin’ at you. i swear. i’m just…”

he crouches in front of you, hands reaching for your knees but waitin’ for the nod.

you give it.

he wraps his fingers gently around your leg, rubbin’ slow circles into the denim of your jeans.

“i’m just angry someone could do that to ya. someone who had the fuckin’ cheek to pretend he cared about you.”

you stare at your lap. “he used to be nice. he just… got worse over time.”

“nah. people don’t get worse. they show who they really are,” he says, voice steady. “and he showed you, yeah? he showed you what a coward he is.”

your throat wobbles. “i didn’t even tell anyone. not ’til you saw.”

“well, now i know. and you’re not dealin’ with it on your own anymore.”

you blink fast. one tear slips out. he catches it with his thumb like it was always meant to land in his hand.

“you don’t have to be brave with me, y/n,” he says. “you don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt. or that you’re fine. you can be a wreck. i’ll still sit here with you.”

your breath hitches. your hands finally let go of your hoodie, reaching for him, like you’re done holdin’ yourself together and just want someone to hold you instead.

he slides up beside you on the bed without a word, arms wrapping around you, pulling you right into his chest. his chin rests on the top of your head. his hoodie smells like soap and aftershave and something warm and familiar.

you sit there for ages like that. him murmurin’ nothin’ words—you’re grand, i’ve got ya, no one’s hurtin’ you again, not on my fuckin’ watch—and his fingers strokin’ through your hair until the tremblin’ in your shoulders stops.

you don’t realise when you fall asleep, tucked into his side like you finally found some peace.

but gibsie doesn’t sleep.

not yet.

he waits until your breathing evens out, until you’re safely knocked out under the weight of everything you’d been carryin’, and only then—onlythen—does he slowly ease himself up off your bed.

he leans down, presses a soft kiss to your hair, and whispers, “i’ll be back in a bit.”

then he grabs his coat, pulls up his hood, and walks out into the night.

his fists are clenched.

ronan’s name is already a curse on his tongue.

and tomorrow?

he won’t be showin’ his face in cork for a long, long time.

#boys of tommen #gerard gibson #taming 7 #healing 7 #chloe walsh #slt4kavanagh

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slt4kavanagh · 6 months ago

Text

the things we can’t have

pairing: hughie biggs x fem!reader

tw: none !

a/n: in honour of my best friend who’s currently going through and obsession @claire-robinson58

been a fucking while cause I had camp and exams but im back

(this edit had us screaming without the s) https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSjGrqfNx/)

masterlist !

The first time it happened, I told myself it was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. One I’d never repeat.

But then Hughie Biggs showed up outside my house at two in the morning, drenched from the rain, his curls plastered to his forehead, and I let him in. I always let him in.

“I can’t stay away,” he said that night, standing in the dim light of my kitchen, his voice trembling. “I’ve tried, Y/N. God, I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like I might fall apart if I didn’t hold on tightly enough. “You have to, Hughie. This… whatever this is, it’s wrong. She loves you.”

He flinched like I’d slapped him, his jaw tightening as he looked away. “I know she does,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And I hate myself for this. For hurting her. For dragging you into it.”

“Then stop,” I begged, tears burning the back of my throat. “Stop coming to me. Stop making promises you can’t keep.”

But we both knew he wouldn’t.

That night, like every other, ended the same way. His hands in my hair, his lips against mine, our hearts breaking in silence.

The next day at school, I avoided him. I avoided her. Katie Wilmot, with her bright eyes and infectious laugh. She didn’t deserve this—any of it. She didn’t deserve a boyfriend who kissed another girl in the shadows or a best friend who couldn’t tell her the truth.

“You okay?” Gibsie asked, nudging me as we passed through the corridors.

I forced a smile. “Fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. Not when I saw them together later that afternoon. Hughie had his arm slung around Katie’s shoulders, her head resting against him as they walked toward the pitch. He was laughing at something she said, his face lit up like he didn’t have a care in the world.

I turned away before they could see me, my chest tightening painfully. This was what he was supposed to look like—with her. Not with me.

The fourth time Hughie showed up at my house, I didn’t open the door right away. I stood there, staring at the handle, willing myself to turn him away. But then he knocked again, and I broke, just like I always did.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, stepping aside as he walked in, his shoulders slumping with relief.

“I had to see you,” he said, his voice raw. “I needed to know you’re okay.”

I laughed bitterly, wiping at my eyes. “I’m not, Hughie. How could I be? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch you with her every day? To know that no matter what you say to me, you still go home to her?”

His face crumpled, and for a moment, I thought he might cry. “I hate this, Y/N. I hate myself for putting you through it. But I…” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I love you. I swear to God, I love you.”

My breath caught, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut. “Don’t say that,” I whispered. “Not when you’re still with her.”

“I’m trying,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m trying to figure it out. But I—”

“But what, Hughie?” I snapped, my anger finally bubbling to the surface. “You’re scared? You don’t want to hurt her? Newsflash: you already are. You’re hurting all of us!”

He stepped closer, his eyes pleading. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You can’t lose something you never had,” I said, my voice trembling.

Silence hung heavy between us, the weight of everything unsaid suffocating.

“I’ll end it with her,” he whispered finally. “I’ll tell her the truth.”

“You won’t,” I said, my heart breaking all over again. “You won’t, because you’re too scared to lose the perfect image everyone has of you.”

His lips parted as if he wanted to argue, but no words came out.

“Please, Hughie,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Let me go. Let me move on before this destroys me.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop me as I walked away, leaving him standing alone in the kitchen.

But when I closed the door behind me, I heard him whisper, “I’m already destroyed.”

#boys of tommen #hughie Biggs #claiming 10 #releasing 10 #chloe walsh #slt4kavanagh

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slt4kavanagh · 6 months ago

Text

lacy pt.1

pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader

tw: none !

a/n: this one made me cry, based on the song lacy by olivia

masterlist ! pt2

Johnny Kavanagh was my best friend. We’d been inseparable for as long as I could remember, navigating the chaos of school together with our tight-knit group: Gibsie, Feely, Hughie, Johnny, and me. It was easy, comfortable—until Shannon Lynch came along.

Shannon was beautiful in a way that couldn’t be described without sounding clichéd. Her beauty was effortless, like she was born to be admired. But it wasn’t just her looks; it was her aura, her kindness, her gentle nature. Everyone loved her.

Including Johnny.

The first time I noticed the shift, we were at the pitch after one of Johnny’s matches. The boys were hyped up, still buzzing with adrenaline, but Johnny’s focus wasn’t on the team—it was on her.

Shannon stood by the sidelines, a small smile playing on her lips as she clapped along with the crowd. She wasn’t loud or boisterous like Gibsie or me. She didn’t need to be.

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Johnny said, nudging me with his shoulder.

I forced a smile, trying to ignore the pang in my chest. “Yeah. She is.”

I wanted to hate her. I really did.

But Shannon made it impossible. She wasn’t mean or stuck up or any of the things I wished she could be. She was kind—too kind. She always had a soft word for everyone, remembered the little things, and went out of her way to make people feel included.

She was everything I wasn’t.

“Y/N, you coming out tonight?” Gibsie asked one afternoon, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

“I’m not sure,” I said, glancing at Johnny.

He was across the room, laughing with Shannon about something I couldn’t hear.

“You should come,” Gibsie said, his voice unusually soft. “It’s not the same without you.”

I gave him a weak smile. “I’ll think about it.”

I ended up going, mostly because Feely and Hughie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The pub was packed, the air thick with chatter and the smell of spilled beer. Our group claimed a corner booth, laughing and teasing each other like always. But even in the chaos, I couldn’t stop noticing how Johnny’s attention drifted to Shannon, how his laughter softened when she spoke.

“Earth to Y/N,” Hughie said, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, forcing myself to focus on the conversation.

But no matter how hard I tried, my gaze kept finding its way back to Johnny and Shannon.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Shannon asked one evening, her voice tinged with concern.

I blinked, startled to find her standing beside me in the library.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, plastering on a smile.

She didn’t look convinced. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’ve just been busy,” I lied.

Shannon hesitated, then nodded. “Well, if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

Her kindness was suffocating.

The breaking point came at one of Johnny’s matches.

The stands were packed, the crowd roaring as the game heated up. Our group sat together as always, cheering and shouting encouragement. But my heart wasn’t in it.

Johnny played like a man possessed, his focus sharp and unyielding. When the final whistle blew and their team emerged victorious, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Shannon was the first to greet him, her arms wrapping around his neck as he lifted her off the ground.

It was like watching my heart shatter in real time.

That night, I found myself sitting on the pitch long after everyone else had left. The stars were bright above me, the cool night air biting at my skin.

“Y/N?”

I turned to see Johnny jogging toward me, concern etched across his face.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, sitting beside me.

“Just needed some air,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

He frowned. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m your best friend.”

I swallowed hard, the words burning in my throat. I’m your best friend, but I’ll never be what she is to you.

“It’s nothing,” I said again, forcing a smile.

Johnny didn’t push, but I could see the worry in his eyes. He didn’t understand. How could he?

I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him that I was in love with him, that watching him fall for Shannon was breaking me.

Instead, I stayed silent, letting the distance between us grow.

Shannon wasn’t the villain of this story. She wasn’t cruel or manipulative. She didn’t steal Johnny away from me.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Because no matter how much I loved him, he didn’t love me. Not the way he loved her.

And I had to accept that.

The next time I saw Johnny with Shannon, they were laughing together in the hallway, their heads bent close.

I forced myself to smile, even as my heart ached.

Because I loved Johnny Kavanagh, and all I wanted was for him to be happy.

Even if it wasn’t with me.

#johnny kavanagh #boys of tommen #binding 13 #keeping 13 #chloe walsh #slt4kavanagh

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